Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series)

by Adriana Anders

  But she pulled back, and the expression in her eyes killed him on the spot. This was it, the point of no return. She reached out to touch his temple, and he kissed her fingers.

  She smiled sadly, then turned and walked away.

  He watched her as she moved along the outside of the rink, her bodyguards following behind her. She was gorgeous, resplendent, untouchable. There was a purpose in her step, in her smile. And all of it took her away from him.

  But he had purpose too. He had a flash drive to give to a reporter. He could see the red, white and blue logo of his favorite hockey team from where he stood; apparently towering over everybody in skates had some advantages.

  He reached under his jersey, as if to adjust a pad, and carefully removed the flash drive from its hiding place.

  The reporter he was waiting for stood with her arms crossed as she leaned against the refreshment stand.

  “Offense or defense?” the reporter asked as he came closer.

  “Both. Especially if we’re talking about St Laurent.”

  The reporter nodded, extended her hand, and he gave her the drive.

  As she accepted it, his hands shook and there was relief in his shoulders. It was done. Now, all he could do was wait.

  NINE: LATER

  M ax got the first text after the Twenty-Fifth Amendment had been invoked.

  Tick.

  A simple text, with many possible meanings. The number wasn’t one he knew but Max hoped it was from Caroline.

  He also hoped Caroline had been following the news, following the creative reporters who were enjoying breaking the stories that came out as a result of the leaking notebook.

  The second came after Caroline was granted guardianship of Jessica.

  Tick. Tick.

  Same simple text, and from the same number. It had to be Caroline. It just had to be.

  The third text came after the testimony from the custody hearing helped to put both Former President Crosby and his wife in jail. It was a bit more complicated.

  Boom!

  And then there was an address with a familiar Southern Virginia zip code. Googling it told him that it was on a dead-end street not far from where his parents lived.

  Luckily he’d driven down to Richmond specifically to see his brother, Graham, and his new girlfriend, though his brother privately had dropped an ‘m’ bomb or two, and had almost dragged Max out to the jewelry store in the mall.

  Max had grinned, informed Graham that he should do whatever he wanted. Then Max got back into his car and continued driving south along 95. He was glad he’d caught the highway when it wasn’t under construction or filled to the brim with traffic.

  He drove through the parking lot of a dying strip mall before he arrived. He pulled into a driveway, got out of the car and rang the doorbell.

  Moments, almost seconds later, the door opened. And Caroline was there, a blazing smile on her face.

  “You came,” she said. “You came.”

  He smiled, stepped inside, put his arms around her and kissed her. Kissed her as if the world was still falling apart around them, as if she was the only thing keeping him alive. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

  “I missed you too,” she murmured against his cheek. “And, I bought a black lace bra.”

  He grinned, grabbed her hand and let her lead him inside, to wherever their future might take them.

  He hoped it would be naked.

  ALSO BY STACEY AGDERN

  Contemporary

  “A Home for Chanukah” in Burning Bright

  “Playing Her Game” in Going All In

  “Crossing the Line” in Icing the Puck

  Historical

  “Home” in For Love & Liberty

  Nonfiction

  Fifty Writers on Fifty Shades of Grey

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stacey Agdern is an award winning former bookseller who has reviewed romance novels in multiple formats and given talks about various aspects of the romance genre. She is also a proud romance writer. She’s a proud member of both LIRW and RWA NYC. She lives in New York, not far from her favorite hockey team’s practice facility.

  You can find Stacey online at:

  staceyagdern.wordpress.com

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This story is made possible through : help and memories from Marnie McMahon and Megan Walski; on the ground research from Jenn Passero; encouragement from Frannie Strober Cassano, KK Hendin, and Vivi Parish; plotting and planning help from David Pendrys, Jennifer Gracen, Adriana Anders, Emma Barry, Jane Lee Blair, Ainsley Booth, Dakota Gray, Tamsen Parker, and AJ Cousins; and inspirational assistance from actual social justice warriors Russ Agdern and Marisa Harford, whose hearts are always turned towards the future and whose commitment to the world and each other makes me a proud sister and sister-in-law.

  ‘Hockey For Hope’ is inspired by Sandra Velazquez and the series of scrimmages she organizes under the umbrella called ‘Hockey Fights Hate.’ Max and Klein would never have been as inspired to create a league that gives weekly donations if I hadn’t met Sandra and seen the amazing work she’s done.

  MY DELIGHT IS IN HER

  JANE LEE BLAIR

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  When Leonard West chose the pastorate, his college girlfriend chose a life without him. But not wanting to be a pastor’s wife didn’t mean Kim Jones didn't want to work for the greater good. Now, her resistance work has led her back to Leonard, and they must grapple with their old pain. Can they trust God and each other enough to try again?

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The hero of this story is a pastor, and scripture plays a role in it, but this is not an inspirational romance. These characters curse, drink, and acknowledge they have sex drives (no inspirational line would ever take it!). Faith is vital to these characters, and their spiritual condition matters as much any other part of them, but the point of this story is not to push a religious message. I wrote this story because I wanted to read about characters whose resistance is compelled and sustained by their spiritual life, just like the people of faith in my corner of the world (and Twitter). I hope you enjoy it, cursing and all.

  To all the folks aghast at what their church has shown itself to be, and especially to those who are speaking up and out, and more importantly, listening to the voices too long ignored.

  And to my pastor husband, who gives me hope every day that the church can be different.

  CHAPTER 1

  Saturday

  Springtime in our Nation’s Capital

  “I ’m just saying, Reverend Leonard, you should think about getting yourself a wife soon! ‘It is not good that the man should be alone.’ Genesis 2 and 18. And it’s even worse for a pastor to be alone.”

  The venerable lady, dressed in church lady casual of a deep pink velour sweat suit, hoisted herself out of the chair across from his desk. “Now, I left some casseroles for you in the church kitchen refrigerator. You take them home and eat one tonight and freeze the rest for later. And make sure you keep praying for my grandson, you hear?”

  She walked to the door and paused in the threshold. She pointed at him, a pink fingernail reflecting the light. “I know you think I’m just an interfering old lady, but I just want what’s best for you and your future and for the church. God bless you, reverend.”

  As she walked away, Leonard West, Master of Divinity but oh so human, let out a huge sigh. “I don’t even like casseroles,” he muttered. His hand automatically went to adjust his clerical collar.

  He started pacing around his study. His congregants at Mt. Zion Presbyterian loved him a lot, and he knew he should be thankful—not every young pastor had it so easy—but all that love made it very hard to tell them to fuck off, or any polite variation thereof.

  He made two more circuits before he shook himself and stopped. If he made a track in the carpet, someone would notice and ask questions. Sure, he could probably tell them he was walking and praying, but eventually the restlessness caused by t
he relentless observations and recommendations about his marital estate would be revealed by the threadbare track in the carpet. He’d lived with it for years now, and he wasn’t going to spill his guts just to save the carpet. Some days that thorn in his side barely pricked him, but other times—and usually with the sweetest people involved—it got rammed in and twisted. He was gonna bleed out if he didn't move around and get it back where it belonged.

  He grabbed his phone, locked his office, and headed for the door. Technically he was supposed to use the small door to the side street, but today he busted out of the broad double doors with the stairs almost down to the street. He was in khakis and a clergy shirt—not the best option for a walk in the muggy day, but he had to find peace in motion. The church’s neighborhood in Washington wasn’t where the sight lines were spectacular, and it wasn’t where the policy-makers lived, but he’d walked every street, even had some routes with specific playlists. Today he went left out the doors to lose himself in the busyness of the area’s main street.

  Since he’d taken the call to be the preacher at Mt. Zion Church, he was getting gently nudged about his relationship status every few months. They’d taken a risk hiring a young pastor; he may have weasel-worded his way around their concerns that marriage would bring more maturity during the hiring process. But, lo, they had not forgotten.

  So sue him, the woman in his life was his mom, back home in small-town Virginia. Even single, he was still pastoring the crap out of this church. He’d counseled folks through marriage crises, held hands with mourning mothers, prayed young couples through financial insecurities. And he was doing his best to lead his congregation through the turmoil produced by the election and the actions of the current presidential administration.

  But apparently Leonard still wasn’t enough without a wife.

  He walked past the Ethiopian restaurant, the Jamaican restaurant and lounge, the Salvadoran restaurant, the barbershop and the Spanish language church before he verbalized his inner rant. “Who needs to start a family in the midst of all of this anyway? When one dumb tweet could send the world into chaos—could send this block into chaos? And on a clergy salary too?”

  But it was good to not be alone. In spite of himself, he started to think through the single women he knew. Too many tattoos, that girl from home had—it’s not like she’d be the first lady at a Pentecostal store-front church. He didn’t feel like dating anyone from his current church. Weird dynamics there. The women from his seminary class certainly wouldn’t be interested in a position of pastor’s wife when they were qualified to be ministers themselves. Or maybe he was the problem, that he couldn’t see himself as both lover and co-worker.

  But her… the thought of her shimmered on the edge of his consciousness. He really tried hard not to think about it. But she arrowed into his thoughts with the force of a nuclear bomb.

  Seven years ago, he’d been destined for great things in the church. Everyone promised it. Maybe even moderator of General Assembly one day, or pastor of a megachurch. And she…she’d rejected that yoke. She had plans for her life and they didn’t include having advice and censure (“and honor!” he’d yelled) from every parishioner.

  “I want my life to be my own. Not yours, not the church’s. Let me tell you again what my aunt’s life was like as a First Lady.” He was very sorry for her aunt, but did she really think he was like her ex-uncle?

  He’d already been accepted into divinity school. His home church had scrimped and saved to pay most of the costs for him. He had an internship with a downtown church lined up. His life wasn’t his own. So he’d accepted her decision…eventually.

  It turned out that “It won’t be that bad,” “you look good in white,” “I promise I’m not your cheating abusive ex-uncle,” not to mention “I love you and want live my life with you” weren’t ultimately convincing arguments against the weight of convictions formed in childhood.

  There it went: four years of inseparability at college; hours and days of conversations; eons and eons of restraint so he would have a good testimony as a pastor. And now, these semi-annual nudges, reminding him again that she’d rejected life with him and the work to which he felt God was calling him.

  He walked past row houses and sandwich shops and off-brand computer repair places. He walked and he cussed and he prayed. “Jesus, I can't keep doing this. These old ladies are fucking killing me. I chose you. I fucking choose you over everything. Why does it have to hurt so much? I'm no Mother Theresa. I don’t think I can do a lifetime dark night of the soul.”

  As the angry words, half-whispered, half-yelled in his head, came to an end, he realized there was a protest group at the intersection he’d reached. The group was racially mixed and the signs, some of them very clever, pertained to every issue. There were ones about health care, LGBTQ rights, women’s rights, Black Lives Matter, and some for the Park Service. His favorite was the one with a blue bird covered by a red slash that read, Get the FUCK off Twitter, Prez.

  The triangular median was almost full of people. Given the current administration and its consistently foolish decisions, a protest wasn't a surprise, but Leonard looked around, puzzled. The northeast neighborhood where the church was located wasn’t one where people with power usually congregated.

  A short older white woman whose T-shirt had a cat wearing a pink hat on it saw him (or at least his clerical collar) and gestured.

  He walked from the edge of the median to meet her at the center. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Father, will you pray for us?”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m just a reverend, but if you’re sure those folks with the angry materialist science sign won’t mind, I’d be happy to. Anything in particular?”

  “Pray that the world doesn’t end. That we don’t die in a nuclear apocalypse. For hope for the future. For perseverance and persistence. That the fucking evangelicals would read their fucking Bibles.” She bit out that last sentence with particular vehemence.

  “Okay then. Yes, ma’am.” Leonard suppressed a smile. Her ardor was impressive.

  He put his arm out tentatively and she nodded, so he pulled her in for a side-hug while he bowed his head over them.

  “Jesus, we believe, help our unbelief. Have mercy on us, sinners all. We cannot see the way clearly, Jesus, but you are the King of kings, the Lord of lords, the Prince of peace. We pray for your peace in our hearts, in our country, between our country and the rest of the world. We pray that you empower us in this struggle, that you would liberate those in oppression, that you would free our country from its worship of the idols of white supremacy and consumerism. We pray that you would keep us, Jesus, we pray you would make us feel like you love us. Just a little.

  “And I pray for these folks right here, right now, that you would comfort and protect them, that you would help them to persevere, and they would see the fruit of their labor. We pray all these things in your precious name, Jesus, Amen.”

  When he opened his eyes, she was wiping her glasses on the edge of her t-shirt. “Thank you, reverend.”

  “Well, you’re very welcome, ma’am. But do you mind if I ask you, why y’all are protesting here? I’m pretty sure most people in our neighborhood agree with almost everything you’re saying, and very few of them have the ability to affect policy.”

  “We’re roving protestors. We want to make sure everybody in the District sees our signs and hears our message. Maybe it will help people feel less alone or think about what they can do in their own neighborhood, or get their friends with voting representatives to call on their behalf. In fact, at almost every place we’ve stopped, people have joined us.”

  Leonard raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Wow! Excellent. I’ve got to keep moving but—” He held his hands up half in blessing. “—God be with you all.”

  “Wait, Pastor—where is your church located?”

  “Oh, it’s Mt. Zion Presbyterian, just up the street there by a liquor store. If anyone wants to come worship with us
, you’re welcome at any time. The service starts at 10:30 tomorrow.”

  He waded through the protesters to reach the crosswalk. He kept looking at their signs—did all of these folks really want the prayers of a Christian pastor?—when he saw an achingly familiar face. Familiar, and just as shocked as he was.

  Kim.

  He knew the exact shade of the brown irises, the exact angle of the eyelashes’ curl. Her hair was covered with a scarf, but he knew every curl pattern and variation in it, and yes, the sign she was carrying was the one he’d liked the best, ripping on the president’s social media habit.

  What was the correct procedure here? When you meet the woman who’d crippled your life, did you wave? He raised his hand chest high in an awkward gesture of recognition before she blenched and turned away.

  His heartbeat roared in his ears. He felt rooted but unmoored, like a dumb tree stuck in the ocean. Someone stumbled against him, and he remembered he needed to keep moving, to go somewhere and find a buoy.

  He barely managed to cross the street. His hands shook—and it took him a few tries to hit the button for the next crosswalk.

  When she took a job with the previous administration’s Department of Labor, he’d heard. He had even been around one of their few mutual friend’s angry tirades when they’d learned that she’d requested to stay on during the turnover. After that, he was certainly surprised to see her protesting in his neighborhood.

  The District was small, and when Mt. Zion had extended their call, he’d weighed her presence in the city before he accepted. He assumed she’d live in the NoVa suburbs and commute in, while he’d live in the District, and it’d all be fine. He looked down at his still trembling fingers. It was definitely not fine.