Rogue Passion

by Sionna Fox

  “Maybe.”

  “And if they don’t, if it gets uncomfortable, then we can both look for new jobs and see who gets one first that’s nearby.”

  He liked this plan. They’d make this work, no matter what. “I want to keep working with you. I love working with you.”

  “I love working with you, too. Hell, we can decide neither of us wants to stay here. We could start a consulting firm together. A company to help other private schools do the same kind of work we’ve been doing at Huntington.”

  The options were endless. They would find a way. They’d work together if they wanted, work separately if they wanted, but most importantly, be together.

  He remembered something he’d heard that day but had been too excited about their date to tell her before their work day ended. “I heard a rumor that the students are planning a walk out.”

  She sat up with widened eyes. “What for?”

  “Protesting gun violence.”

  She clapped her hands and bounced in her seat. “That’s fantastic. Their parents are going to hate it,” she said like it was the best news she’d heard all day.

  “They’ll complain about us wasting their money, allowing them to lose a day of school.”

  “As if learning how to form and activate a protest isn’t more important than anything they’d learn in class in one day. Besides, it’s community building.”

  “Exactly.” He was already envisioning their next action steps. “We can’t make it too easy for them though.”

  “No, they have to learn to fight the obstacles on their own.”

  “But we can help facilitate behind the scenes as much as we can.”

  “Precisely.” She leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his lips. “Ready to eat so we can get to catching up on the being-naked-in-my-bed part?”

  He ran a hand up her thigh. “Let’s take the food along with us. Do the eating and naked part all at once.”

  She tugged on his shirt, pulling him closer. “You’re quite the negotiator.”

  “But I know you’ll refuse. Which is hotter and makes it all the sweeter when I get my way with you and your body later.”

  “Damn right.” She jumped up from the couch, and he chased after her to the kitchen.

  They could work together, they could love together; and no matter what was happening in the outside world around them, they would support each other. Together, they were unbreakable.

  Special thanks to LaQuette and Naima Simone for their generous time and care in helping get this story right!

  Also by Robin Lovett

  Planet of Desire

  Toxic Desire

  * * *

  Dark Series

  Stranger

  Deceiver

  Keeper

  About the Author

  Robin Lovett would spend all her time writing hot, satisfying, emotional romances if she could. When not writing with her cat in her lap, you can find her reading romance, embracing untamable curly hair, or playing in the outdoors with her husband: skiing, camping, and hiking. She’s passionate about sharing her story of recovering from trauma with the help of romance novels, including her latest article in Publishers Weekly “In Recovery With Romance.”

  She can be found mostly on Twitter @LovettRomance but also on Facebook. One of her favorite things is writing extra bonus stories for her email list, which you can join here.

  You can learn about her latest books on her website. She satisfies her fascination with sexy aliens in her sci-fi erotic series, Planet of Desire. Also, her Dark Series is a trilogy of suspenseful, ultra-hot thrillers entitled, Strangers, Deceiver, and Keeper.

  A Safe Place

  Rebecca Vaughn

  When opera student Jonas takes refuge from bullies in a campus record store, he gets more than just a safe place to hide. Within, he discovers Troy, the handsome clerk he’s been crushing on, is none other than the infamous Oak Leaf, whose “Love is Love” street art has been making waves around the school. Troy invites Jonas on an adventurous subversive art installation, where sparks ignite between them as they both question the role of art in the face of oppression.

  1

  It’s a calculated risk, taking the route home from rehearsal that runs along fraternity row. Technically, it should be the safest route, the most trafficked, the brightest lit. Should be safer than the shadowed paths directly through campus along that pitiful excuse for a river. Beautiful walk during the day, little stone bridges, deciduous trees, but it does get kinda lonely as dusk advances. I wouldn’t send my female friends that way.

  My own risks are somewhat different. The dangers aren’t as solitary.

  When Alicia asks me to walk her home along the other route, I agree, although her place is not far from the Musical Arts Center, and to get to my place after, I’ll have to then go the length of campus past all those fucking frat houses. I’m bone weary, and I know I’m not really up to defending my honor if some douchebag homophobic frat boys get a good look at me and decide I look too gay for their taste and they’re offended.

  Rehearsal was tough, grueling, and I’m pretty wrung out. It’s been hard these past few months to find the spark inside me, the right…emotion. Hard to let the feelings come through when I sing. It had happened again, that look in the director’s eyes when he put a hand on my shoulder to explain something, then hastily took it away. You won’t report me, will you? A joke. A chorus of snickers. A couple of sympathetic looks, but mostly me just standing there burning up, laughing too, even though I don’t find it funny at all. The same kind of thing as what happened that summer, really, but minus the sexual come on. These jokes say fall in line. Stop making trouble.

  For now, I’m in the performance, and in an important role, but somehow, sometimes, I don’t quite feel like a part of the cast. I’m not embraced, I’m not trusted, but that goes both ways. I guess that’s what happens when you do the right thing, but it’s not what anyone wants to hear.

  I can still feel it though, all the way from July even though it’s spring now. That first “accidental” brush of fingers on my ass. My silence taken as tacit approval for a more thorough groping.

  Nope. I shouldn’t go there. Not tonight. Not until I get home. Lock it down.

  Before rehearsal I’d planned on stopping through Velocity, the record store, but now I don’t know. I feel empty. Gloomy. I don’t need any more music, I just like it in there. It’s a place that feels good. Feels safe. And that one clerk. Good God. Is it embarrassing that I go out of my way to cross paths with him? Probably. No. Yes, it is. I’m old enough to drink, I should be old enough—mature enough—not to have stupid crushes. Still, somehow a day with a glimpse of him is a better kind of day.

  Get it together, Jonas. Go home and get some rest.

  I need to stay focused. It’s only a few blocks.

  I tense when a carful of the very guys I’m worried about starts pacing me a few long blocks left before I’m anywhere near home. As an opera singer, my body is my instrument. So, yeah, I take care of it with a fierce dedication, the right food, the right exercise. Can’t afford damage. Everything, everything affects the voice, the performance. If I break my leg or my arm, it’ll fuck it all up, much less someone hurting my jaw, my face. Not surprising then that I get nervous being outnumbered by bunch of drunk dudes with bad ideas.

  I ignore the burgundy SUV creeping along beside me as long as I can, focusing instead on the posters that paper the wooden barrier around the university’s latest reno project. Alternating graphics that speak volumes with an economy of lines. Love is love is love. I wish everyone could see it as the profound truth I do, even though I know they don’t. I still adore whoever does those posters.

  Traffic starts backing up behind the SUV and I hear the buzz of a window rolling down. I brace myself for the series of homophobic slurs that ejaculate from the car. Trying to seem casual, I pick up my pace but they roll forward too. Shit. I can run, and I’m stronger than I look but who’s going to win wh
en it’s four on one? It’s late enough that most of the classroom buildings are deserted, no help there if these dudes are really determined, but I know if I can get to the stoplight at Indiana Ave, there are restaurants and shops, and Velocity, of course.

  I can practically smell the alcohol from the car’s open window. I adjust my backpack so it’s secure on my back and look over.

  “Can’t hear us?” slurs one guy, his whole upper body hanging out of the car. His eyes are menacing, but also blank, in the way of someone performing a duty maybe they don’t even understand. “Being gay make you deaf too?”

  The car resounds with laughter, half nervous, half nasty. They slow to a complete stop and I can hear them egging each other on to take the next step. The thunk of the doors unlocking hits me like a slap.

  Fuck. It’s on. I take off at a run, jack rabbiting across corners and green spaces. I’m pretty fast, and I’ve got stamina for hours. I’m pretty sure I can outrun them on foot, but they have a car, and I don’t count on anyone intervening, even in a public place. Only one more block. The light ahead switches to red. That’ll stop the car. I scan the intersection and take a chance, sprinting across before cross-traffic can get rolling. Hooking a right, I book it down the street. Behind me, I hear them shouting from the corner and shudder at the threats. Assholes.

  Out front of Velocity sits a sandwich board which reads, “We are a safe place. We welcome all.” Damn, did I ever need that now. I skid to a halt and duck inside, getting control of my breathing once I’m out of harm’s way inside the little record shop. I peer back into the night, hoping the dudes will give up. The SUV slows as it rolls by the shop, but doesn’t stop. Leaning my forehead against the cold glass, I sigh heavily and say a prayer to whatever God is the most LGBTQ-friendly.

  “Shit,” I swear. I haven’t had a scare like that in a while.

  “You need help finding something?” a nice baritone says behind me.

  I turn, seeking the source of the lovely voice, aggravated that I’m still breathing harder than I like. “Your sign says ‘we welcome all,’” I comment. “That include homophobic jerkwads?” Jerkwad. Nice one, Jonas. I sound like a complete dork.

  “Well, technically they’re welcome, but not if they’re gonna cause trouble,” he says as I finally catch sight of him, hidden behind stacks of product at the register. Crap. The owner of the voice turns out to be the clerk I have a kinda sorta crush on. All tall and narrow with tattooed arms and a nice smile. He has an eyebrow piercing and short dark hair. Intense eyes. His face is made up of handsome angles. “Do I need to call the cops?”

  I glance out the window. No burgundy SUV in sight. “Hopefully not.”

  “Want a drink of water?”

  “Umm…sure, well, I have a bottle actually, but…thank you.” That is, assuming my water bottle didn’t fall out during my pell-mell dash down the street. I feel like an idiot as I grope around for it and drink thirstily when I finally find it. He watches me swallow, and I feel hot all over. I raise the now-empty bottle in a kind of toast. Jaunty, I hope. I think I’m not shaking anymore.

  Handsome jerks his chin in response and turns his attention back to a stack of vinyl he’s pricing. “I’ve seen you in here before,” he says.

  I feel exposed. I’d hoped that he hadn’t noticed me stopping in and ogling him. But, then again, I suppose if I want to remain anonymous, I shouldn’t have dyed my hair indigo. It’ll be gone soon, washed out or cut off for the production, but it’s been fun while it’s lasted. Sometimes you get tired of being called angelic. Sometimes you need to feel wild and dangerous. Fierce. “Music major,” I say, shrugging. “I’m Jonas.”

  “Troy,” he supplies, giving me a quick once-over. “I see you over in classical. Not our most popular genre, but…cool.”

  “I’m a countertenor…umm…you know, opera,” I explain. I’m not usually tongue-tied, being a performer and all. Usually I’ve got words for days. “And don’t say ‘sing for me’ or I’ll have to kill you.”

  Troy puts his hands up in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “It’s a common request. Gets old.” I like his smile. It’s earnest, genuine somehow. It’s what originally caught my eye, though, of course, I stayed to linger at the pretty cheekbones and toned body. “Sorry. I shouldn’t keep you from your work.”

  That smile again, with a little head shake and a drop of his eyes. He—Troy—has absurdly beautiful eyelashes. Damn. “It’s okay. Hang out as long as you like. I’ll be closing in twenty minutes or so, but you can lock up with me and we can walk out together.” He looks up again, with a shrug of T-shirt-clad shoulders so sharp they’re almost like a hanger. Maybe it’s an adrenaline dump, but the tattooed biceps underneath his sleeves are making me dizzy. Hard and hot. He’s still speaking. “I mean, if you want. I’m not like, asking you out on a date or anything.”

  I’d go. I press my lips together. Is the lovely Troy actually flirting with me? “Do you own this place?”

  Troy rolls his eyes. “Really? Do I look that old to you? I’m a student here. Studio art. But the people who do own it are freaking cool. The safe place sign? Their idea. Glad it worked for you.”

  “Me too.” I set my backpack on the counter. “Is it okay if I leave this here while I browse?”

  “Knock yourself out. I doubt we’ll have any more customers tonight.” Troy’s voice occasionally slips into that bizarre Indy twang that sounds more hickified than people really are. This is a prejudice I’ve been working hard to break. I mean, you hear that accent and think “farm” but then find out they grew up in suburbia, like me. I’m from the Indiana side of Chicago so I think of myself as sophisticated. It still shocks me when I meet people who sound like that, even when they prove themselves to be as cultured as any of my friends from farther afield. It sure sounds nice rolling off of Troy’s tongue.

  I shuffle from aisle to aisle, flipping vinyl as I go. Velocity is small, but it’s awesome. Stickers, posters, and signs cover every inch of bin space. An organic work of art that changes over time. The song playing overhead is some driving electronica, with those slick drops that, honestly, turn me on in a weird way. With all the training, I feel music in my body.

  Most of my meanderings are, of course, merely an excuse to sneak glances at Troy where he works behind the counter. Occasionally, he catches me, dropping his eyes quickly with that incredible shy smile. Fucking adorable.

  God, I can’t keep up with myself. One minute I’m on the run and fearing for my person, the next flirting with record store employees. I’m hopeless. Or maybe overtired. Or both. I’ve been really focused this year, but also kind of down. Not exactly my best year for socializing or fraternizing. Or, well, anything like that.

  Turning my attention back to the records, I scan a few, not looking for anything in particular. Can’t afford anything anyway, but the vibe is good in here. And the promise of “walking out” with Troy? It takes the sting out of why I’m in there in the first place. I notice the bin in front of me is plastered with more of those rainbow “Love Is Love” stickers, like the posters, only more ubiquitous.

  They’d started popping up everywhere. Awesome little graphics that somehow depict all kinds of love. Men kissing men. Women kissing women. But not stick figures. More than that. It was the essence, but it wasn’t obvious. Sometimes it was just hands being held. I think they’re amazing. Like Banksy or Shepard Fairey, but as far as I know local. Imagine, somebody from here doing those things. Awesome. Signed by a tiny oak leaf made out of the letters OK.

  “I love these,” I say out loud.

  Troy looks up.

  “Love is love,” I explain. “Did you see who did this? It’s a mystery, right? All shadow figures and surgical strikes in the dark of night. The enigmatic OK oak leaf.”

  Hauling a bin of vinyl, Troy heads my direction. He peers over my shoulder, and I turn my head to find myself looking at a beautiful jaw covered in light stubble. He smells nice. Like apples. “Oh that? Yeah, no…
didn’t see him.” He shoves the vinyl somewhere and comes back over, bracing a firm forearm on the bin next to me, his wrist littered with leather bands. Right above the crease of his elbow is a tattoo. One of the little graphics from the sticker. The boys one.

  I flick my eyes over to meet his. “Guess you like them too.”

  2

  We don’t say much as Troy locks up and sets the alarm. We exit through the back, a messy storeroom full of crates of used records, enough to make any music lover salivate. What lies hidden back there, unavailable to the regular joes out front?

  The night air hits with the promise of summer, cool but warmer than it has been, sky still purple with sunset. “Where you headed? I have a car,” Troy says, gesturing to a banged-up Toyota Corolla, the only vehicle in the lot behind the store.

  “It seems almost like a waste, I’m really not far.” I share an ugly old house up on Lincoln, so close it’s hardly worth the teaspoonful of gas it would take to get there. I really want to ride in that car with Troy though.

  He rolls his eyes and just opens the passenger door for me. “Come on. Pretend my car’s a hybrid or something. If it’s that close it’ll take two seconds.”

  How can I refuse? I climb in, jamming my backpack between my feet. It’s an old car, but meticulously clean. No candy wrappers or empty drink containers, thank God. The music is absurdly loud when he turns the car on, and he mutters an apology. It’s good music, though. A song I know has moments that stop my heart. I give myself over to music way too easily.

  He waits until after one of those heart-stopping moments to turn it down, and that is not lost on me. “Countertenor?” he says.“I’m not an opera aficionado by any means, but those are kind of rare, right?”