Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series)

by Adriana Anders

  I said, “But, who is he?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “No, I mean, why do you know about him?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” They all stared at me now.

  I shook my head, clueless and, honestly, more than a little afraid. This all felt bigger than anything I belonged in. I caught the tail end of a look passed between a couple of them and could have sworn one of them shook his head.

  “He’s a financial genius,” someone finally said, his eyes shifting immediately away from mine.

  Was that what got kids up and out nowadays? Someone’s moneymaking prowess? That crushed my soul a little. “What—” I gulped. “What did he do to get you out here? I mean, what did he tell you guys?”

  “Message boards just talked about your campaign. Said it was time to mobilize.”

  “Gave us a link to CaraVan and that printing place where we picked all this stuff up.”

  A kid held up a sheet of paper. “Gave us a script, too.”

  “That’s… Wow,” I whispered, utterly out of words.

  “Yeah.” A couple of them nodded, looking…what was the word? Impressed, maybe? Although that wasn’t quite it.

  “All right.” I had to go see that man. Now. “Thank you, guys. Thank you so much.”

  “Course. Whatever H says, man. He’s the…” Please don’t say God. “…boss.”

  Blindsided and more than a little afraid, I took off running in the direction of Tremont Street to get to the bottom of whatever this was.

  It wasn’t until I arrived, out of breath, in front of Zach Hubler’s house and forced my hands to loosen their tight hold on my ridiculously primitive street signs, that I figured out what the expression on their young faces had been: reverence. A zealous, almost religious reverence for a guy they’d never even met. I couldn’t quite equate that with the man I’d met two days before.

  I TIGHTENED my fist to stop it from trembling and pounded on the door, ignored the wave of déjà vu, and forced myself not to try to figure out what music he was listening to. “Starman,” my brain told me, by David Bowie.

  It stopped again, like last time, and a few seconds later, with a swoosh like a wind before a storm, the door opened and the air pressure on the porch changed.

  He said, “Hi,” and I didn’t even question how he knew it was me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, working hard to catch my breath.

  “Working out.” I refused to look at the way his chest rose and fell with each inhalation.

  “I mean with my campaign. What are you doing with my campaign?”

  “I’m not sure what you m—”

  “Hang on.” I grabbed one of the flyers from the stack the kids had given me. “‘I believe in giving a voice to people who are under-represented,’” I read. “That refresh your memory? I said that to you. It’s not a campaign slogan. I’ve only ever said those words to you.” I stood on his porch, a mess from running here and something else. I was off-kilter and angry at the meddling, a little scared at how those kids had spoken of this man, but also, God, also grateful not to be alone. “Why?” I ended on a whisper. “Why are you helping me?”

  He shook his head for a few beats—deny, deny, deny, was written all over that automatic movement—until something in his face shifted and he decided to give in. I couldn’t quite place his expression. Relief? Defeat?

  “Seemed unfair.”

  I shook my head. “What did?”

  “That family slinging their wholesome perfection around.” He sneered at that description. “And you just doing it on your own.”

  Oh, God. I cringed. I’d never seen it quite that way. “That’s so pathetic.”

  “Is it?” He seemed to be genuinely asking me. “You mean the part about being alone or the part where you truly believe in what you’re doing?”

  “I don’t… I’m not sure.”

  “Because, if you mean being alone.” He waved a hand toward the empty house behind him. “It’s kind of my thing.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “I know.” He sighed, although it looked a little like a laugh. “I’m not great at joking. In person, at least.”

  I blinked at that. Where would you joke, if not in person?

  Horde. The answer came to me with a tingling of my limbs. Just the way the kids had said it with that special kind of awe. What was he? Some kind of online god?

  Jesus, what had I gotten myself into?

  “Would you…” He cleared his throat, looking as awkward as someone that attractive could look. “Would you like a coffee?”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t interrupt your work.” I took a step back.

  “You’re not,” he said, swiping his hands down his front and I finally took in his appearance. Right—working out, he’d said, not working. He was sweaty, his T-shirt plastered to his chest, droplets running from his hairline. I had an urge to wipe one of those away. Or lick it. “I mostly work at night.”

  “What do—” I’m not sure what I planned to ask him. Maybe what he did for a living, before my thoughts veered off into oblivion when he lifted the bottom hem of his shirt and wiped his forehead with it, baring one of those absurd six-pack bellies, traced with a smattering of dark, crisp-looking hair. I gave him a little more space—or maybe that was for me.

  “You want something stronger than coffee? I’ve got beer. Not much else.”

  “Oh, no, I should…” I stopped. I should be out there, walking the streets and knocking on doors. Or, an hour ago, I thought that was the case. Now, however, with an army of people delivering my message, apparently as well as I could, I didn’t have to be anywhere. I should probably thank the man who’d made it all possible. Right?

  “I’d love to,” I heard myself say, pretending it was about the thank you and had nothing to do with the way his body screamed out to me, the way I wanted to understand the reasons a person would appear so solitary. I thought of that army of kids doing his bidding outside. Or maybe not quite as solitary as he seemed.

  At his invitation, I shoved my misgivings aside and followed him in.

  CHAPTER 3

  “So, what’ll it be?” He led the way into a big, clean, modern kitchen, where everything seemed to have a home, and opened up a well-stocked fridge. I set my canvassing supplies down in a corner and followed him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Want a beer?” He touched a watch at his wrist and smiled and, like a puppet master, that little tweak of the lips pulled at something inside me. I wanted to make this guy happy, wanted to see how big that smile could get. “Way past beer o’clock.”

  “Sure,” I mumbled. “That sounds good.”

  None of this made sense, especially within me, where everything had gone haywire. I never got worked up about the way a man smiled. And I liked guys who weren’t a challenge. Guys who were safe. Not strange shut-ins with muscles and—

  “My app knows I’m here,” I blurted.

  He stopped twisting open the second beer and turned toward me.

  “Who?”

  Oh, God, this was stupid. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have come back, I should have accepted this man’s interference for the boon it was and ignored the other crazy stuff going on in my brain.

  “My canvassing app. It shows my location.”

  He looked puzzled for a second before his features suddenly cleared. “Oh, you mean in case I’m a psycho killer?”

  “Yes,” I responded on a nervous giggle.

  “Fair enough.” He put down the beer and pulled a phone from his back pocket. “Got someone you trust?”

  “Trust?”

  “Like a friend you can text. Someone who’ll check on you.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  He handed me the phone. “Text them. Tell them you’re with me, give my name and address.”

  “I can use my phone.”

  “This way your friend’ll have my number. Take my picture, too, if you want.”

  I did it a
ll and sent it to my friend, and the assistant principal at my school, Katie. A few seconds later, she replied.

  Whaaaaat? You’re on a date?

  Just visiting him.

  He’s cute.

  This is his phone.

  Right. Have fun. Call if you need a pick up.

  I deleted the exchange and handed him the phone.

  “Thanks.”

  “You bet.”

  I was standing between the kitchen and an adjoining dining room with a simple, Swedish-looking table and chairs, bar stools pushed under the granite counter separating it from the kitchen, and French doors that opened onto a patio with a cast-iron table and four chairs. There was something calming about a place that wasn’t chock full of junk. I should really go through my apartment and take stuff to the consignment shop. I had books everywhere, tchotchkes from the kids at school, framed pictures of my parents and grandparents. The place was a hoarder’s paradise compared to this.

  “It’s nice in here.”

  “Yeah?”

  I realized after a couple of seconds that he was really asking.

  “Yes. It’s sort of super clean, and pretty simple, with lots of natural light.” I made myself see it in a way that I could translate, almost. “The hardwood floor has this darker glow, though, that warms it all up. Along with the sunshine coming in. It keeps it from being too stark.”

  “I can feel sunshine. Walking in and out of it.”

  “Like my cat.”

  “You have a cat?”

  “Che.”

  “As in Guevara?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. My parents named him.”

  “Want to sit?”

  I turned in a circle. “Where?”

  “Patio?”

  “Sure.” Vocalizing everything was odd. I couldn’t nod at the little questions, couldn’t play things off with a shrug. Conversation with this man involved commitment. It was both frightening and refreshing.

  He led the way and held a chair out for me after swiping a few leaves from it. His movements were all so careful and precise. I would almost call it calculated if it didn’t also seem necessary. I closed my eyes for two seconds and nearly tripped on my own shoes.

  “Thank you.” I sank into the chair and he settled in the one nearest me. Having this stranger so close beside me should have felt awkward, but instead was comforting. I fought an urge to tilt my head just a few degrees and set it on that capable looking shoulder.

  Looking for something besides his nearness to focus on, I turned to the yard and noticed with a start that the lawn back here was perfectly manicured. I inhaled a heavenly, sweet, syrupy scent.

  “There’s honeysuckle!” I scanned the back of the yard and spotted it clinging to the far fence.

  “Yeah. Got a ton back there. I know it’s a weed and you’re supposed to pull it, but I just can’t.”

  “It’s pretty, even if it is a weed.” I inhaled deeply. “And that smell.”

  “What makes a weed a weed, anyway?”

  “Right?” I nodded his way, expecting our gazes to connect. Of course, they didn’t and disappointment flashed through me, followed quickly by something different as my attention caught on the soft-looking skin behind his ear. Something new, excitable. Something like discovery.

  I wanted to ask if he’d always been blind, but that seemed way out of line. Too early, too personal. Rude, probably, although if one of my four-year-olds asked, it might be okay.

  Instead, I went with my other burning question. “It’s so neat back here, but your house is a mess out front. Why is that?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yeah. Sticks out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood.”

  “Damn.” He sighed.

  “You do back here yourself?”

  “Yeah. I pay a guy to do the front, paint and all that, too.”

  “Well, he’s not doing his job.”

  Zach just shook his head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “His wife got sick after having their baby a while ago, and I don’t want to bother him with it.”

  “Why not find someone else?”

  “He needs the money.”

  “Wait, you pay him?” He didn’t answer. “Who’s the socialist now?”

  “Can’t fire the guy for being down on his luck.”

  “People do it all the time.”

  “I’m not like that.”

  “I can tell.” My belly tightened with something like affection for this man I barely knew. “You helped me.”

  He didn’t respond, although a red flush crept from his neckline to the top of that wide, proud cheekbone.

  “That’s different. Helping you is helping the community.”

  He had me there.

  “Well, I appreciate it. Your help.”

  “I want to see the better candidate win this.” I blushed hard, thankful he couldn’t see it. “You think he’s clean?”

  “Who?”

  “Your opponent. Clint Rylie.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if he’s not? What if he’s crooked?”

  “Rylie’d never get caught.”

  “Why not?”

  “He never does.”

  Zach made a thoughtful hm sound that was muffled when he took a long swig.

  I asked, “You grow up around here?”

  “Yeah. Right here.”

  “What school’d you go to?”

  “Didn’t. I was home schooled by my grandfather.”

  “Oh.”

  After another sip of beer, he set the bottle down with a clunk. “Had very specific ideas about what a boy’s education should look like.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Passed away. A decade ago.”

  “So, it’s just you?”

  “Just me.” After a pause, he smiled. “And the interwebs.”

  It all came back to me again—that fear at the way those kids had reacted, roiling around in my gut along with my unexpected attraction for this man. “Who are you?”

  He stilled, beer bottle halfway to his mouth. “What are you asking?”

  “How’d you have access to those college kids? How did it take you less than two days to do what I haven’t been able to manage in six months?”

  “I’m alone here, but I’m not alone—out there.”

  “I get that, but not every computer-savvy shut-in is able to drum up that level of support. It’s just not possible.”

  “No?”

  “So what do you do? What makes you different?” And why did I feel like so much hinged on this response? I tried to relax my back as I waited for him to answer.

  He took a long pull at his beer and I refused to look at his throat as he swallowed.

  The sound of his bottle settling back on the glass-topped table was overloud and I did a little startled jump.

  “I write code,” he answered.

  I waited for more. “What kind of code?”

  “The kind that tracks and then projects trends in financial markets.”

  “You’re a trader?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “They were so in awe of you.”

  “I invented a few things.”

  “Things?”

  “Systems. I mean, I came up with some systems that made people a lot of money. I also invented this.” He held out his wrist to show me what I’d initially taken for one of those Apple watches. “It’s for blind people. Does everything. Measures topography, tells us if there’s an obstruction in our path. It’ll read text, which isn’t that big of a deal for books, now that audiobooks and text-to-speech programs are so prevalent, but it’ll read signs and stuff, out in the world—like at the grocery store, you know? It’s pretty practical.”

  “Wow. They acted like you were some kind of legend.” I was impressed, but as I took another sip of beer and side-eyed the man sitting next to me, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I was missing a big piece of the story. “So, should I
call you Horde?”

  “No.” The man who’d been easygoing and safe just moments before tensed up. “Don’t… You shouldn’t use that name.”

  I swallowed hard. “Okay.”

  “You know what? I shouldn’t have done what I did. I knew it could out me.” There were unspoken words there. I wished I knew what they were. “You probably shouldn’t be here.”

  Um. Wow. I blinked and tried to ignore the sudden tightness in my gut.

  What the hell?

  I considered leaving since he seemed to want that, but then I took in the way his hand clenched that empty bottle, the way his big, round shoulders collapsed just a little, with that handsome face pulled in tight, all of him suspended.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  I settled deeper into my chair with a sigh, remembering his exact words. I probably shouldn’t be here, he’d said, and, for some reason I couldn’t explain, that probably was more than enough to sustain me.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  He didn’t relax right away. His jaw still had that hard look when he asked, “Why not?”

  “I like you.”

  “Is it because of my appearance?” He cleared his throat. “Because that’s not something I can relate to, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I do the lawn back here because nobody bugs me. Out front,” he lifted his chin to indicate his house and, beyond it, his overgrown yard. “I get visitors.”

  “Visitors?”

  “There’s one right now. A neighbor. She bakes me cookies and stuff, drops ’em off and…”

  I waited. When he didn’t go on, I prompted. “And what?”

  “At first, I thought she was one of those people who feels sorry for me. Because I’m blind. I get a lot of those. But this woman, she gets close.”

  I blinked. “Like, sexual harassment close?”

  “She’s interested. That’s all. She wears this perfume and it’s…” He coughed, picked up his beer to find it empty and stood. “You want another?”

  “Sure.” I placed mine in his waiting hand. After what he’d just told me, it felt wrong to wish our fingers would touch—just a little. Just to see.

  I watched him walk inside, his movements spare and graceful, his steps precise, and wondered just what insanity had gone on while he tried to mow his own damn lawn.