Rescued By Rogue (Sons of Ruin: Tucson Chapter #2)

1. Rogue

ROGUE

The blonde's name is either Candy or Mandy, and honestly, it doesn't matter.

She's draped against my side at the bar, running her fingernails up my arm, telling me about her roommate drama like I give a shit. I nod at the right moments. I smile when she laughs. I let my hand rest on her hip just possessive enough to keep her interested.

This is easy. This is what I'm good at.

"You're not even listening," she pouts, but there's no heat in it. She doesn't actually care if I'm listening. She cares that I'm looking at her like she's the only woman in the room.

So I do.

"I'm hanging on every word, sweetheart." I let my fingers trail along her jaw, grazing her neck. "Tell me more about the dishes in the sink."

She giggles and swats my chest. "You're terrible."

"The worst," I agree. "Ask anyone."

Her friend appears — darker hair, tighter dress, the kind of smile that says she's wondering if I've got a brother. I give her the grin that usually works and watch it land exactly the way it always does.

"This is Jessie," Candy-or-Mandy says. "Jessie, this is—"

"Rogue." I extend my hand, and Jessie takes it, holding on a beat too long. "Pleasure."

"The pleasure's mine." She's not subtle about looking me over. "Mandy said you were cute, but she undersold it."

Mandy. Good to know.

"I like your friend," I tell Mandy, pulling her a little closer. "She's got good taste."

They both laugh, and I play the moment perfectly — attentive to Mandy, charming to Jessie, making them both feel like they're winning something. It's a dance I've done a thousand times. Keep it light. Keep it fun. Keep it shallow enough that no one notices there's nothing underneath.

Across the room, King's watching me with that look he gets — the one that says he sees right through the bullshit. I raise my beer in his direction. He shakes his head and turns back to Demi, pulling her closer against his side.

Three months married and they still can't keep their hands off each other.

I look away before I can figure out why that sits wrong in my chest.

"So," Mandy purrs, walking her fingers up my chest, "what are you doing later?"

"Later?"

"After this." She bites her lip. Practiced. Effective on most men. "Jessie's got work early, but I was thinking we could—"

"Rain check." I ease her off my arm, gentle but final. "Club business."

Her face falls, but she recovers fast. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

I leave them at the bar and head for the back hallway, grabbing my jacket off the hook by the door. Ghost is leaning against the wall near the exit, arms crossed, watching me approach with those too-quiet eyes.

"Leaving early," he observes. Not a question.

"Need some air. Thought I'd take a ride."

"Want company?"

"Nah." I shrug on my jacket. "I'll be back in a few hours."

He nods once, not pushing. That's Ghost — he sees everything, says almost nothing, and never asks the questions you don't want to answer. It's why I like him.

The cool night air hits me as I step outside, and I take a breath deep enough to feel it in my chest. The sounds of the clubhouse fade behind me — music, laughter, the low rumble of conversation.

I should've stayed. Would've, most nights.

I pull out my phone, checking the time. No real destination in mind — just the road and the quiet and the kind of solitude you can't find in a crowded clubhouse.

Time to clear my head.

I swing onto my bike and sit there for a moment, not starting the engine. The clubhouse glows behind me, warm and loud and full of people who'd take a bullet for me.

And I'd take one for them. Every single one.

But there's a difference between brotherhood and intimacy. Between people who'd die for you and people who actually know you. The club knows Rogue — the VP, the charmer, the guy who can talk his way into or out of anything. They know the surface.

The rest stays buried.

I kick the engine to life and pull out of the lot, leaving the noise behind.

The desert opens up once you get past the city, all scrub brush and sky and the kind of silence that gets inside you. I've always liked it out here. Nothing to perform for. No one to charm.

Just you and everything you're not thinking about.

I'm not thinking about Kate. Not thinking about how I spent eight months in a combat zone, counting down the days until I could get home to her, while she was fucking some guy from her gym.

Eight months of satellite calls and care packages and promises about the future, and none of it meant a damn thing to her.

The worst part isn't that she did it. The worst part is that I didn't see it coming.

Not one sign. Not one slip. I read people for a living — read enemies, read threats, read the difference between a civilian and a combatant in a split second.

And I missed what was happening in my own goddamn relationship.

The thoughts come anyway, the way they always do when I'm alone and there's nothing to distract me.

Kate's voice on the phone, tinny through the satellite connection. I found the most beautiful centerpieces, babe. White roses with these little silver accents. You're going to love them.

Me, exhausted and filthy on a base in Afghanistan, smiling because she sounded so happy. Whatever you want. I trust you.

I miss you so much. Six more months, right? Then you're home and we can finally—

The memory splinters. I don't let myself finish it.

She was fucking someone else the whole time. The whole goddamn time. Picking out centerpieces and booking venues and talking about our future while she was spreading her legs for some guy she met at her gym.

I didn't know, I told King once, drunk enough to be honest. I'm supposed to read people. That's my thing. And I didn't fucking know.

He didn't say anything. Just poured me another drink and let me sit with it.

The worst part wasn't the betrayal. The worst part was realizing I'd been performing too — so busy being the charming fiancé, the devoted soldier counting down the days, that I never stopped to look at what was actually happening. I saw what I wanted to see.

Never again.

She's engaged now. I saw it online last month — couldn't tell you why I looked, but I did. Some investment banker in Connecticut. Big wedding. Destination venue.

Good for her.

Mostly.

The gas station appears on my right — one of those run-down places that looks like it hasn't been updated since the '80s. I pull in because my tank's getting low.

That's when I see her.

She's standing next to a silver Mercedes, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Designer clothes wrinkled like she's been living in them. Hair pulled back in a messy knot. Expensive sunglasses pushed up on her head, and even from here I can see the circles under her eyes.

She's also staring at the gas pump like she's never seen one before.

I shouldn't get involved. I should fill my tank and get back on the road. But there's something about the way she's standing — shoulders too tight, chin too high, like she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. I know that posture. I've seen it in the mirror.

I pull up to the pump next to hers and swing off my bike.

"Trouble?"

She startles, spinning toward me, and for a second I see real fear flash across her face. Then she clocks the cut, the bike, the whole picture of me.

"I'm fine."

"Uh huh." I lean against the pump, keeping my body language easy. Non-threatening. "You know you have to lift the handle before it'll let you pump, right?"

Her jaw tightens. "I know how gas pumps work."

"Do you? Because you've been standing there for about two minutes looking at it like—"

"I know." She cuts me off, and there's fire underneath the exhaustion. Backbone under the polish. "I just... the card isn't..."

She trails off, and I watch her try to decide how much to tell me. Nothing, probably. I'm a stranger in a leather cut at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. She'd be smart to get in her car and drive away.

But she doesn't.

"The card's being declined," she admits, the confession dragging out of her reluctantly. "It worked yesterday. It worked this morning, actually. I don't understand—"

"Someone cancel it?"

Her face goes pale. Not surprised, exactly. More like confirmation of something she'd been afraid of.

"That's not—he wouldn't—" She stops, presses her lips together. "It's probably just a fraud alert. I'm far from home. The bank probably flagged it."

"Sure." I don't believe it. Neither does she. "So call them. Sort it out."

"I don't have my phone."

"You don't have your phone."

"I left it." Her chin lifts, defiant. "On purpose."

Now that's interesting. Rich girl with an expensive car, driving through the desert without a phone, paying cash until the cards got cut off. This isn't a road trip. This is a escape.

"Who are you running from?" I ask, direct.

"I'm not—"

"Yeah, you are. And whoever it is just made their first move." I nod toward the pump. "Cancelling your cards. That's step one. Makes you desperate. Makes you easier to find when you start looking for help."

She stares at me, and I watch the denial war with the fear. The fear wins.

"My fiancé," she says quietly. "Ex-fiancé. I left him three days ago."

"He hit you?"

"No." She hesitates. "Not exactly. It's complicated."

"It usually is."

"He's just—" She shakes her head. "He has resources. Money. Connections. I thought if I could just get far enough away, he wouldn't bother coming after me. I'm not worth the trouble."

"Sweetheart." I hold her gaze. "You're driving a Mercedes and wearing clothes that cost more than my bike. You're not running from some guy. You're running from money. From power. And people like that don't just let things go."

Her expression flickers. Scared. Angry. Tired. All of it swirling together.

"You don't know anything about it."

"I know trouble when I see it. And you've got trouble written all over you."

Something flickers in her expression. Not quite trust, but the beginning of it. A crack in the wall she's been holding up.

"I should go." She reaches for her door. "I'll find an ATM, or—"

"Wait." I pull out my wallet, grab two hundred in cash, and hold it out to her. "For gas. And food. And whatever else you need."

She stares at the money like it might bite her. "I can't take that."

"Yeah, you can."

"I don't even know you."

"Rogue." I push the bills toward her. "And you are?"

She hesitates. Then: "Bella."

"Nice to meet you, Bella." I nod toward the pump. "Now take the money and fill your tank before—"

A black SUV pulls into the station.

The change in her is immediate — she goes rigid, her breath catching, her whole body tensing like a deer that just heard a branch snap.

"Get behind me," I say, low and calm.

"What?"

"Now."

She moves, and I position myself between her and the SUV, keeping my posture casual even as every instinct goes on high alert. Two men in suits get out. They're not looking at us — yet — but they're scanning the lot like they're searching for something.

Someone.

"Those his people?" I ask.

"I don't know. Maybe. He has security, but I've never seen—" Her voice is shaking. "Oh God. How did they find me so fast?"

"Doesn't matter." I grab her hand. "We're leaving."

"My car—"

"Leave it."

"I can't just—"

"Bella." I turn to face her, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her go quiet.

"Those men are about to spot a silver Mercedes with East Coast plates and start asking questions.

We have about thirty seconds before that happens.

So you can either argue with me about your car, or you can get on my bike and let me get you somewhere safe. "

She looks at the SUV. At the men. At me.

"I don't know you," she whispers.

"No. But you know them. And right now, I'm the better option."

Three seconds. Four. The men are moving toward the Mercedes, one of them pulling out a phone. Then the other one spots us.

"Arabella!"

She flinches like she's been slapped.

"Okay," she breathes. "Okay."

I'm on the bike and kicking it to life before she's finished speaking. She climbs on behind me, her hands gripping my waist, and I can feel her shaking.

"Hold on," I tell her.

And we're gone before anyone can stop us.

The desert swallows us whole as I push the bike hard, putting miles between us and that gas station. She's pressed against my back, her grip tight, her whole body trembling with adrenaline and fear and exhaustion.

I don't know her story. Not really. Don't know what she's running from or how bad it really is. But I know the look of someone who's reached the end of their rope, and I know that whatever's behind her is worse than whatever's ahead.

The clubhouse looms in my mind. King and Demi. The brothers. The questions I don't have answers to yet. What it means to bring this woman — this stranger with her expensive clothes and her terrified eyes — into our world.

It's complicated. It's messy. It's probably a mistake.

But her hands are holding onto me like I'm the only solid thing in her world right now, and I'm not the kind of man who leaves someone stranded when they're running scared.

The rest, I'll figure out later.