Rogan

by Bex Dane

  "Hey, girl." Blaze lifted his chin to get my attention.

  He offered me the smile of an old friend, even though I'd barely met him. He wore a black tank top which showed a stark tattoo on his left arm, two arrows crossed at an obtuse angle. Unlike Rogan, he hadn't shaved his beard or cut his hair, and he still looked like a rugged warrior from the desert.

  Rogan stopped cleaning his gun and tilted his head to him.

  "Tessa, you remember Blaze. His real name is Gavin Turner."

  "But no one calls me that."

  Rogan nodded at the man across the table from him. "Dirk Legend, known as Diesel."

  "Uh, hey." They didn't see my ridiculous Taylor Swift moment, did they? "I actually don't remember much from that night, but hello, nice to see you again."

  "How're you doing?" Diesel asked. His hair curled over a small bandage on his temple. His voice struck me as deceptively soft for a man I knew was in the middle of explosions and gunfire just a few days ago.

  "I'm doing well, thank you."

  "Boggs treating you okay?"

  "Yes."

  "You look better, Swift," Blaze said.

  "Swift?"

  "Your little song and dance." He wagged his finger in a circle and pointed at me. "Taylor Swift."

  Shoot. I guess they did see me. "Oh. I, uh, love that song."

  I smiled at him and he grinned back. Leaning my elbows on the counter, I watched their hands work with casual intention. "Do you guys clean your guns over breakfast often?"

  Blaze stopped working and looked up at me. "This is my rifle." He pointed to the gun on the table. "This is my gun." He grabbed his crotch. He raised his rifle in the air. "This is for fighting. This is for fun." He gave his dick a squeeze.

  "Oh." I hid my giggle behind my hand.

  Rogan narrowed his eyes at Blaze without lifting his head from his work.

  Blaze ignored the warning in Rogan's glare and bellowed a rich belly laugh.

  Rogan returned to shoving small cloths inside the barrel of his gun, but I could swear his lips twitched and his head shook in laughter.

  ***

  "Later, Swift," Blaze called. Diesel waved behind him as they walked out the door with their guns and supplies in cases slung over their shoulders.

  I turned off the TV and peered up at Rogan. "Do they live close?"

  "Next door."

  "I thought I saw them going in the apartment next to this one."

  "Hmm-mmm."

  "Guns all clean?"

  "Rifles."

  "Right."

  He took a seat next to me on the couch. "What'd you do on that compound when you weren't babysitting, working at the drugstore, or cooking in the kitchen?"

  "I woke up before morning prayers and did my chores in the barn. Most days I'd ride my horse before anyone woke up." And some days Zook joined me.

  "So you worked three jobs and shoveled horse shit?"

  "Everyone helps out. We had an Appaloosa mare named Traveler. Beautiful pearl-white with chestnut spots."

  "Solid horses, Appaloosas."

  "She was sure-footed and fast. I'd ride her through rivers and trails for hours. She never let me down."

  "What else did you do?"

  "I taught the younger kids." I stared at the black flatscreen, remembering my hours in the schoolroom with my sisters and brothers teaching them to read and do arithmetic. I didn't want Milo to find himself in the same position as Zook and some of the other boys who worked construction for my father. "We raised them as a community. It wasn't all bad."

  "You spent your childhood shoveling shit and taking care of kids."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "Young girls should be out doing stupid things."

  "Like what?"

  He crossed one ankle over his knee and wrapped a hand over his calf. "Chasing false hope. Believing in fairy tales."

  "And you don't believe? How old are you?"

  "Thirty-three."

  "Oh yes, old man. Life is miserable, so why try? If you live to be ninety-three, you still have sixty years left, almost a lifetime. Are you going to live those years believing there's no hope?"

  "One day some bastard is gonna get the best of me. Maybe when I stop to rescue a hostage"—he winked at me—"he'll plant one in my back. The way I'm living, I'm not gonna make it to ninety-three."

  "So stop living that way."

  "Not that simple. I've trained my whole life to get where I am—made immeasurable sacrifices. I'm called to be a soldier."

  "Called? I'm not buying that called stuff anymore. My father felt called to have thirty wives. My whole family believed they'd been called to live a life that caused children to suffer. If your calling hurts people, you need to find another way to answer that call."

  Rogan grunted.

  "You don't need to seek out war zones, battling the worst criminals in this world. Life is what you choose to focus on. Focus on beauty."

  "And ignore war?"

  "Yes. Choose not to dwell on it."

  "I'm not the kind to pretend it's not happening."

  "I have two sisters I'll never see again. I could sit around and grumble about the unfairness, or I can tackle the day in front of me."

  "What happened to them?"

  "Pride and Sin disaffiliated when they returned from their missions. They're supposedly dead to me as I am to them."

  "Pride and Sin?" He shook his head. "How'd they get out?"

  "Someone outside the Brotherhood sponsored them. I don't know who."

  "And you didn't have a sponsor?"

  "No. I don't think my dad would let me go even if I could find someone willing to sponsor me out."

  Rogan nodded.

  "Anyway, lots of horrible things happened to me. My point is, I don't ruminate on the pain, I choose to rise above and enjoy the beauty right in front of me." I raised my hand and motioned to him from head to toe. "Like you, Rogan. You're a beautiful person."

  He rubbed his hand over his head and turned his gaze to the floor. His golden eyes tilted up to me, but he kept his head down. He raised one eyebrow, and pulled his lower lip with his teeth. The raw lust smoldering in his eyes sent a hook careening into my chest. It reeled me in toward him, urging me to lean over and... kiss him. I wanted to tug his shirt off and dig my fingers into his pecs. What would his skin taste like on my lips? Um. Whoa.

  "I took a ruby necklace," I blurted out.

  "What?"

  The deep breath I took barely calmed me, so I rambled. "At the drugstore. We had a countertop display. A shiny red square surrounded by little fake diamonds on a sparkling silver chain. It wasn't expensive, but I couldn't buy it even if I could afford it. Jewelry from the outside wasn't allowed, and red is the color of the devil."

  Lines creased in his forehead.

  "While my manager worked in the stockroom, I slipped the necklace in my pocket. My heart was beating so fast, I thought Satan would appear and strike me down. I never even wore the necklace. I twirled it in my pocket, played with the flat and sharp edges of the stone, pressed it as hard as I could and marveled at its strength. I expected it to heat up and singe a hole in my dress. My manager would see me as a thief. I'd be fired and my father would discipline me."

  My head shook in disbelief.

  "I didn't burst into flames. My soul wasn't damned. I enjoyed my time with that necklace while I had it. I appreciated its beauty, the person who designed it, the workers that created it, my manager for selecting it as an item the people of the town might like to spend their hard earned money on. At the end of my shift, I put it back in the display. But the loss churned in my stomach. I had held precious color in my hands, given it back, and returned to my dreary life at the compound. Before bed, I would dream I wore that necklace in the crook of my neck. Then I cried myself to sleep, praying my father wouldn't sense the sin of my thoughts."

  Rogan turned toward me and pressed one palm into the couch. "Coveting a necklace is not a sin." His voice dropped and became
scratchy. "It's normal to find something attractive and want to own it." He cleared his throat and broke our eye contact. "Besides, holding a necklace in your pocket for a few hours, then putting it back is not stealing, so stop beating yourself up about it."

  He was right. I didn't actually steal it, and I shouldn't feel guilty for admiring it.

  "You want a ruby necklace? Go online and buy yourself one. Clothes, jewelry, school supplies. Get whatever you need."

  "Just order all that online? And what? Have it delivered here?"

  "Sure."

  "I don't... Okay. I'll try."

  "You're sweet."

  "Don't call me sweet." I stood and glared down at him. "Sweet makes me sick. Sweet shackles and gags me till I can't breathe. My mother died trying to keep sweet."

  His head snapped back, and his eyes widened. "Fair enough. No more sweet." He chuckled and turned his gaze to the floor.

  Chapter 7

  I slammed my phone down on the coffee table. "I give up."

  Rogan looked up from his laptop. "On what?"

  "Shopping online. How does anyone choose? I have no idea what size I am or what kind of clothes I even like. And it's all so expensive."

  Rogan stared at me for a moment before picking up his phone and swiping the screen.

  "Dallas, calling in a favor. T needs shoes, clothes, stuff for school."

  Oh my gosh, Rogan's generosity knew no limits.

  "Remind her, discreet." He paused. "Just taking precautions. Thank you."

  He hung up and looked at me. "Mrs. Monroe's coming to take you shopping tomorrow at eleven a.m."

  "Mrs. Monroe?"

  He slipped his phone into his pocket. "Dallas's wife. This is your chance to practice your public story. You came out here to go to school. You're starting at Siege on Monday. She isn't aware Dallas Monroe provided you with cash, a truck, and ID."

  "Okay." I hated to lie to people I'd just met, but lying and keeping quiet were second nature after growing up fearing outsiders and appeasing my father. I could do it if it protected Rogan and prevented my father from finding me.

  "And she thinks I'm retired military. Do not even allude to me and my team being in Afghanistan—best to avoid discussing me at all."

  "What about Blaze and Diesel?"

  "She doesn't know them, but to everyone else Blaze is a fireman. Diesel is a cop."

  "Okay." Why did he keep such elaborate secrets from his friends? "What if I mess this up?"

  "You'll be fine. If she figures out you're lying, it's not critical, but it means you need to work harder on putting up appearances."

  "Okay."

  "And don't worry about the price. Dallas pays generously. Just get what you want."

  "Did you work for him?"

  "Yeah."

  I looked around at his sparsely furnished apartment. Nothing in his place appeared to be new or expensive. He glanced at me and walked away.

  ***

  I came out of the shower and heard music from the living room. I opened the bathroom door and found Rogan sitting on the edge of the couch hunched over an acoustic guitar. The silver beads of his dog tag chain circled his neck and dipped behind the guitar at his chest. His bare shoulders shined in the light from the lamp. The tattoo on his right arm was an elaborate letter E.

  Takoda slept near his feet as his fingers strummed a mellow song with a sad, thoughtful lyric. I leaned against the door jamb and absorbed the notes, as if I could learn more about Rogan if I just knew the words to the song. How could this rough and tumble man who was forged from stone play such a tender melody without breaking the strings?

  Without looking up or moving, he stopped playing. The vibrations of his last notes dissipated in the room.

  "Don't stop. It's beautiful. What is it?"

  "Pearl Jam. Look it up." He set the guitar down next to him on the couch and stared at it. I couldn't help checking out his bare chest. Stark, jet-black stars and stripes decorated his pecs.

  "I didn't know you play." I took a step closer to the couch.

  "I don't."

  "I just heard you."

  "I don't play. Not anymore. It was a way to pass time on base."

  I rested my hip on the arm of the couch. He turned his head with a tilt of his chin and perused my body from the bottom up. My legs were shaved and smooth. I was wearing a white T-shirt but no shorts.

  His eyes stopped on my chest. My hair had made a wet spot near my boobs, and my tee had become see-through. My nipples poked the fabric. Darn. I should've worn a bra.

  "Got towels for your hair."

  I crossed my arms over my chest, causing my shirt to hitch up. His gaze cut to my thighs, and his eyebrows scrunched. My hips had filled out, and the underwear we'd purchased that first night had grown tight. The tingling I felt earlier when he looked at me returned. Rogan and I were no longer rescuer and freed captive. Somehow we'd become man and woman.

  Oh gosh, what was I thinking? I barely knew Rogan. He'd told me nothing about himself, and yet his eyes claimed my body like it belonged to him. I belonged to no one for the first time in my life. Before anything more developed between us, he'd have to divulge some of his secrets.

  "Why were you in Afghanistan the day you rescued me?"

  His back stiffened and his face hardened into steel. "That's classified."

  "Why? Did you know I was being held hostage?"

  "No. I knew those men had a history of taking American women hostage. I knew you were in grave danger the second I saw you. Don't talk about it to anyone, hear me?"

  "I won't—"

  "And don't ask any more fucking questions." His voice went from controlled to harsh. "We need to get you your own place."

  My heart plunged into the pit of a bottomless well. He wanted me to leave now? I was just settling into life in the outside world. I'd enjoyed the time we'd spent together and our conversations. And despite my efforts to keep Rogan at a distance, I'd developed a crush on him and fooled myself into thinking he might like me in return. But he considered me a nuisance, a charity case he couldn't wait to get off his hands. I didn't fit into his life at all.

  "I'll start looking for a place tomorrow."

  I walked into my room and leaned against the closed door. The crash of mangled guitar strings striking the wall resounded through the apartment. Followed by the dull thud of wood hitting the floor. I flinched, cupping a hand over my mouth.

  ***

  The next morning, I hid in my room and got ready for my shopping trip. I couldn't face Rogan after our tense discussion and guitar smashing last night. A message beeped on my phone.

  R: Playlist for you

  I clicked on the link and it took me to a Spotify playlist titled "Beyond Taylor Swift."

  The first song was the Pearl Jam one he'd played last night. "Better Man." The singer had the sexiest voice I'd ever heard. I scrolled through the list. Some artists I'd heard of like The Doors, but lots I hadn't like Zac Brown Band and Dusty Springfield. I sat down on the bed to listen, but Rogan's knock on the bedroom door startled me.

  "Mrs. Monroe's here to take you shopping."

  "I'll be right there."

  My hands shook as I tucked my hair behind my ears again. No braid for me today. Meeting my boss's wife and going on a real shopping trip might be commonplace for other girls, but for me, it was monumental.

  As I made my way to the living room, Rogan opened the door wide and a curvy brunette walked straight toward me. A second woman with long, red hair lingered in the doorway by Rogan. He glanced at her but didn't change his stern expression. She took a deep breath and joined her friend next to me.

  A bulky man stood outside the door instead of coming inside. He turned sideways, clasping one wrist with the other hand. His jeans stretched tight on his legs as he widened his stance and pulled his shoulders back. Rogan gave him a slight nod and closed the door.

  "Tessa, this is Mrs. Monroe," he pointed to the brunette, "and Tori."

  Tori looked bac
k at Rogan, and he met her gaze. I could not read a darn thing on their faces, but some understanding passed between them.

  "Oh please. I'm Cyan. Nice to meet you." She embraced me and brushed her cheek against mine. Her vanilla perfume tickled my nose. "So, I hear you're new to Boston and looking for a bargain?"

  I nodded because even if Rogan said not to worry, I needed to be careful how I spent the money.

  "Have you been to Burlington Mall yet?"

  "No."

  "Oh, girl. You gotta go to the promised land. Do you need shoes? Please say you need shoes."

  "I need shoes."

  She clapped her hands. "Excellent." She took my arm in hers.

  I picked up the purse Brock brought for me and followed my new friends out the door.

  "Later, Rogan." Cyan waved over her shoulder.

  "Uh, bye," I said as the man outside trailed behind us down the corridor.

  "That's Lux. Don't worry about him. He's the quiet type." She spoke casually like all women in Boston had a burly guard follow them when they go shopping.

  ***

  Fast moving escalator teeth nipped at my ankles, and sleek floors squeaked under my sneakers as I scurried behind Cyan and Tori, who were clearly in their element and felt no need to slow down to admire a flower arrangement or window display. These two women were on a mission and knew where to go and exactly how to ignore distractions. Somehow Lux managed to keep up with our mad dashes from store to store.

  At the first store we entered, I held up a sparkly T-shirt with gems appliqued into fun swirls and scrolls. "I like this one," I said to Cyan.

  Her eyes bugged out. "Oh, you like the diamanté? Me too! A girl's gotta bring her own sparkles sometimes, liven up boring everyday old life!"

  Once Cyan realized I liked sparkles, she picked me the perfect pair of skinny jeans with rhinestones in fancy designs covering the pockets and trailing down the legs.

  "These fit. Size seven. But those fit too and they're size six," I said to Cyan, holding up two pairs of jeans.

  "Don't you hate how sizing isn't consistent?"

  "Mmm-hmm." I had no idea sizes weren't consistent, but I guess I was right about the internet being confusing. If the sizes were different, I'd have to try them on. I encountered the same dilemma with the shoes. My feet fit snugly in a six and a half or had more room in a size seven.