Rogue Ever After (The Rogue Series Book 7)

by Tamsen Parker

  The Red Moon Cantina was both overwhelming and intimidating. The bar was packed wall-to-wall with people far cooler than I could ever hope to be. Tinny disco music and colorful lights bounced through the air, which smelled like stale smoke and layers of spilled beer. I’d never been big on nightclubs. Had never even been to one, in fact. In college, I’d been too focused on studying and soccer to go to many parties, then after graduating, I mostly hung out with my boyfriend Brody and his obnoxious Polo-wearing friends. Sometimes we went to bar trivia nights, but mostly it was backyard barbeques and extremely dull house parties. At least for the few months I’d dated Lisa during grad school, we went out and did things. Granted, she was so outdoorsy that dates usually meant weekend-long backpacking hikes through Ohiopyle or double-digit mileage runs. Still, I’d been devastated when she got a job in DC. I’d spent most of the summer missing her. Now, I was alone, with only my dog and Ayanna for company. Well, those two and endless stacks of mindless grading.

  “You clean up nice.” Joey squeezed in next to me at the bar where I’d been standing and staring into space, instead of trying to flag down the heavily tattooed bartender.

  I glanced down at the outfit Ayanna had selected for me and sighed with relief. Thankfully my best friend was an actual fashionable person who knew how to dress for nights like this. I’d been ready to settle for jeans and a sweater, but Aya had cocked an eyebrow and pulled a long-forgotten olive-green turtleneck dress out of my closet. I never wore it to school because it was so tight and short, but she insisted it would make my butt look great. Honestly, she was kind of right.

  “Thanks,” I replied belatedly as I took in Joey’s gray sweats, Jordans, and navy T-shirt. Maybe I was overdressed? “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you, though. You’re so polite.” He grinned and the flashing lights reflected off his very white teeth. “Ruth’s babysitting my beer at the other bar. Come, join us. It’s way quieter back there, and the bartender isn’t too busy flirting with cute twinks to take an order.”

  Joey was right. The back room, while tiny and crowded, was significantly quieter than the dance floor and main bar. The distant bass rhythm thudded through the walls, but most of the noise came from the small group of teachers clustered around two high-top tables pushed together. I spotted Ruth immediately, hunched over the table, scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad. Most school days, Ruth wore almost the same thing: fitted pants and a workwear button-down. Seeing her in shredded black jeans, combat boots, and a white T-shirt revealing the tattoos spiraling up her arms…if my heart rate increased any more, I would likely be in tachycardia territory.

  As though lifted by strong magnetic force, Ruth’s brown eyes, glistening in the low light, locked with mine. My body vibrated with awareness. Ruth capped her pen and cut through the crowd to greet Joey and me.

  “Sorry I’m kind of late. Practice went over, then my roommate made us dinner.” And it took me eons to do my hair because I wanted to look nice for you.

  “No need to apologize.” Ruth’s voice was a little hoarse. My throat constricted as Ruth’s gaze flicked over my body. She swallowed hard. Then hastily she gestured to the table where everyone was still loudly talking over each other. “Everyone was just pissing and moaning anyway. We haven’t gotten any planning done yet. Because someone”—she shot Joey a very teacher-ish look—“suggested we plan our fucking labor strike at a goddamn nightclub.”

  After darting to the bar to get myself the cheapest, lightest beer on tap, I found my colleagues embroiled in a heated debate about the terms of our strike. Unsurprisingly the white male teachers present, a young hipster music teacher and the very philosophical civics teacher, were vocally concerned with money, insisting we ask for a 5 percent pay increase. Ruth and Gloria Nukulu argued we should settle for 3 percent and focus our demands on changing district policy to emphasize restorative justice, allow teachers greater control over their own curriculum, and increase services for low-income students. As our action plan took shape, Joey jotted down notes, looking more serious than I’d ever seen him. I stayed silent. I’d barely been in the district for three months, and my teaching experience was miniscule: a youth education internship with Planned Parenthood after college and five months of student teaching at a mostly white suburban high school. My opinion didn’t really matter.

  “What do you think, Mia?” Ruth offered a small, encouraging smile.

  “Oh, um. I mean, I agree with you and Gloria. But obviously I don’t have a lot to compare to, so…” I was hyperaware of everyone looking at me.

  “Sure. But you’ve been a hell of a lot braver than most of us this year in terms of pushing back on the scripted curriculum, and I know that it hasn’t been pleasant for you. Do you feel like these demands do enough to protect teachers’ interests?”

  I didn’t understand how Ruth did it. How she managed to set me at ease and boost my confidence with a handful of words. But I knew I wanted her to keep doing it. I knew I wanted to give that back to her in turn.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, those packets are garbage, to be perfectly frank. The students aren’t grasping the content. And biology is actually fun!” Joey coughed something that sounded like no, it isn’t next to me but I forged ahead. “Biology was what got me into science. It was kind of my hook for STEM. It’s absurd that it’s being presented in this rote, soulless way. And I know we probably all feel that way about our individual subjects. Our students deserve to get that passion.” I realized I was nearly shouting. Ruth was grinning at me now. Instead of lowering my voice, I raised it just a little more. “We deserve to do our jobs.”

  A few teachers whooped, and Joey slammed his notebook shut with an over-the-top dramatic flourish. “All right. Enough with planning the educational revolution. Let’s dance.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes and tried to say something about putting together an official document for tomorrow morning, but she was drowned out by one very tipsy drama teacher calling for shots. Since I did not mix well with hard alcohol and planned to get to school extra early the next day, I retreated to the edge of the dance floor.

  Mesmerized by the moving bodies and shifting lights, I nodded my head and nursed my beer. A few of my colleagues were surprisingly good dancers, moving with the rhythm in a way I could never hope to replicate. How I managed to control myself so effectively on the soccer field but moved like a broken marionette on the dance floor was a biological mystery.

  A warm hand on my shoulder snapped me out of my mental deep-dive into the functions of the cerebellum.

  Amusement twitched up the corners of Ruth’s full lips. She moved close enough that she didn’t need to shout. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

  “Neurophysiology,” I said before I could stop myself. Really sexy talk for the dance floor there, Mia.

  “Of course.” Ruth chuckled. “Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to dance. But if you’re too busy being a total nerd…”

  “Oh, okay, says the woman with a Chaucer quote in her email signature.”

  “Fair.” Ruth fiddled with her leather bracelet and looked down at the floor. “So, dancing though?”

  Desire twisted sharp then swelled in my stomach. Ruth’s hands on me, our hips brushing, bodies close.

  I nodded my head furiously and beamed. “Please.”

  5

  Ruth

  Mia moved like water. To the first few cheesy, synth-heavy songs, her motions were stilted, like a river breaking over rocks. She kept her distance and tossed her head back in self-conscious laughter. I didn’t want to push, get too close, or make her uncomfortable. But I couldn’t stop looking at the creamy expanse of her neck and the way her hair gleamed in the flashing rosy light. Then the music shifted and slowed. She stepped closer. Mia’s movements smoothed out, flowed with mine. Her shampoo and perfume, the familiar floral smell I’d grown to associate with morning chats in my office or walking out into the evening air, bloomed around me. Our eyes locked. My hands
dropped to her hips as her breasts pressed against mine. The dance floor throbbed around us, the push-pull tide of bodies sealing us together. I could feel her heated skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

  “Ruth.” Mia’s voice was barely audible.

  Desire rushed through me as I bent closer to listen. All I wanted was to trace my lips along her cheeks, her throat, her lips. To find out for sure if her skin was as petal-soft as it looked.

  “I really like you. A lot.” I felt her words as much as I heard them.

  “I…I really like you too. A lot. Also.” Fuck. This was not the time to stumble over my words. Despite the undeniable charge that sparked between us in my office this afternoon, I wasn’t sure if Mia liked me in a romantic way. We were friends. Colleagues. And she potentially had a boyfriend, even if she never had actually mentioned him. But even if she was into me… What if things got complicated? What if I got her in trouble? Christensen already had an axe to grind where she was concerned. And he wasn’t a big fan of me either. I reminded myself it was completely okay for teachers to date. Hell, most of the single straight teachers at our school had dated or slept with each other at some point. I’d gotten stuck mediating some pretty awkward situations over the years, but no one had gotten fired. Maybe Mia wasn’t interested in dating? Shit. This was also not the time to let my mind slip down into the dark sea of what-ifs and pointless worries.

  Mia laughed, that same bright sound that pulled me to her when we first met. Her lips grazed my ear. “Did you know you furrow your eyebrows when you’re thinking really hard? I can always tell. It’s pretty hot, to be honest.”

  “Um, yeah, my sister always makes fun of me about that. I mean, the eyebrow thing. Not being hot.” How someone paid to teach literature and writing was so bad at talking, I had absolutely no idea.

  “I really want to kiss you. Would that be okay?” The amused edge had disappeared from Mia’s voice.

  The word yes ignited on every inch of my skin and I nodded. Grabbing her hand, I tugged her into the crowded front bar, away from the eyes of our coworkers. As soon as we’d comfortably situated ourselves in a dark corner, Mia pushed herself closer and her lips brushed mine, soft and dry. A test kiss. I sifted my fingers into her silky hair and brought us deeper together. Mia gasped and her lips parted, her hands sliding up my arms, gripping them tight. She tasted like coconut lip balm and mint gum. The need to feel her skin was too much, and I moved my lips to her cheek, kissing softly, savoring.

  “Ruth,” Mia breathed my name again. It had never sounded so perfect.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” Damn, that sounded like a sleazy come-on. “I mean, like maybe we could grab something to eat.”

  Mia pressed a fast kiss to my lips and took my hand, leading me out into the clear cold.

  Even in the harsh diner light, Mia was beautiful. We talked for hours over slices of too-sweet apple pie and mugs of weak coffee. Mia told me about growing up in West Virginia. About her dad, a small town physician. About her mom’s successful interior design business and sky-high expectations. Her face lit up when she talked about soccer, then fell when she described the knee injury that ended her dream of playing competitively. We talked about politics, about pedagogy, about dogs, about food, about coming out. Mia did an actual spit take at my impression of my Ama’s nonchalant reaction to my tearful revelation at a big family dinner.

  I took a large gulp of my lukewarm coffee. I wanted to ask Mia the question that had been rattling around in my mind for weeks. I thought back to the photo on her desk, Mia cuddled up to a jacked Abercrombie-model looking guy on some picturesque mountaintop. If he was her boyfriend, though, why would she kiss me? Although I’d only known Mia for a few months, I was reasonably certain she wasn’t the cheating type.

  “Ruth?” Mia’s lips twitched with suppressed mirth.

  “Oh sorry. What’s up?” Shit. How long had I been spacing out?

  “You’re doing it again. The eyebrow thing. What’s going on in there?” She reached across the Formica table to brush her fingers over my forehead.

  I sighed, cursing my overactive brain for potentially ruining a perfect night with a woman I’d been crushing on for months. “Okay. I want to ask you something. Sorry if it’s weird…I just…you know what…never mind.”

  Mia rolled her eyes. “You apologize way too much. And you can ask me anything.”

  The words tumbled out in a garbled rush. “Is that guy your boyfriend? The big dude in the picture with you? The one on your desk, I mean? Because I don’t want to—”

  Mia cut me off, dissolving into a fit of laughter so loud a few diners cast amused glances in our direction. Relief flooded through me. Okay, probably not her boyfriend then.

  “You are such a goose. That’s Bryce. My little brother. Do you really think I’d make out with you if I had a boyfriend? Besides, I’ve been trying to flirt with you all dang year. You’re terrible at picking up on my signals.”

  I batted the air between us, trying to play it cool. But really, she couldn’t have eased my mind more if she’d tried. But then she did. Grinning, Mia reached across the table, covering my hands with hers.

  She didn’t let go as we walked back to our cars. Her fingers twined with mine, warming me against the biting breeze blowing off the river. Clouds rolled in, obscuring the stars. Everything was shiny with dew. I glanced at my watch. I had to be up for school in five hours. But I didn’t want the night to end. When we got to Mia’s car, I shoved my hands in my pockets, the awkwardness slamming into me like a particularly chilly gust of wind.

  Mia laughed and leaned in to kiss me again. She made this all seem so easy. And really, it was with her. Usually I struggled to initiate intimacy with new people, but with Mia, it was like coming back from a long trip and remembering how much you love being home.

  “You’re so cute.” She kissed the tip of my nose.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wrapped her firm, compact body in my arms, wishing I never had to let her go. “And you’re gorgeous. But we’re both going to look and feel like shit tomorrow if we don’t get some sleep.”

  With a final kiss that should have been fast but turned into a slightly indecent parking lot make-out session, Mia climbed into her car and waved through the window. Only when I watched the red glow of her taillights disappear into the dark, did I turn in the direction of home.

  Over the next few days, I couldn’t get Mia off my mind. I wanted to text her about the NPR science segment I’d listened to on my drive in to school. My students talking about how her biology class was the only fun period of the day inflated me with pride for her. And every time I passed Mia in the hall, I wanted to push her up against the lockers and kiss her breathless.

  I did not, however, have a spare moment for pining and workplace-inappropriate fantasies. Thanks to the excellent interpersonal skills and thoughtfully laid-out arguments provided by the building rep at the fine arts magnet school, it seemed the majority of teachers in the school district would be participating in the strike. We’d decided on a unified set of demands, a walkout date, and an action plan for the future. Unfortunately for me and my stress-induced migraines, the union did not condone our terms. After the recent walkouts in other states they wanted us to keep our heads down and play it safe. No fucking way. Ours would an unsanctioned wildcat strike action. Worse yet, I had somehow become the unofficial contact person for everyone’s questions and concerns, district-wide. I was running on coffee, adrenaline, and the gigantic stockpile of soups and dumplings my mom had stashed in my freezer last time she visited and cooked enough food to feed a family of ten.

  My vision swam as I tried to find the thesis statement in yet another rambling Romeo and Juliet essay that completely ignored the prompt to discuss the role of identity in the play. To be fair to the students, the essay topics suggested by the curriculum were spectacularly awful. The headache frayed my nerves. I realized I had completely forgotten to take a single sip of water all day. Three sharp knocks on my cl
assroom door reverberated through my brain, and I had to bite back a sharp what? as the door creaked open. But when I saw Mia’a shiny tumble of chestnut hair and the gigantic knitted scarf obscuring half her face, I grinned.

  “I thought I saw your car in the parking lot.” Mia shook her head. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Ugh, I’m so behind on grading. Christensen sent me a strongly worded email about my lag time on returning student work. So, yeah, I need to get these essays done.”

  Mia scoffed. “You know we’re walking out tomorrow, right?”

  Massaging my temples, I released the breath I’d been holding. I knew what I was doing. Grade A procrastination. The kind of stalling I lectured my students about every time I assigned a new essay. Pushing down gut-clawing fear of failure in favor of hyperfocusing on a simple, irrelevant task. One look at the dusted baseboards and freshly scrubbed bathtub at my house would reveal a similar truth. I was freaking out about the strike.

  I flopped back in my desk chair and buried my face in my hands. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  Cold, delicate fingers gently pried my hands away. I wanted to lean into Mia’s touch, let her soothe and hold me until everything felt normal again. When I opened my eyes, Mia squatted in front of my chair, face etched with concern. “Of course. You know we are. These policies are hurting the students. There’s no reason school has to be a miserable place to work or learn.”

  Her words eased the hot knot of tension at the base of my neck. “I know. I keep feeling guilty, though. Who knows how long this will take. I don’t want to punish our students, you know?”

  Mia nodded slowly, considering. “I don’t think they’re learning very much now, to be honest. So many kids are getting sent to in-school suspension that they’re missing huge chunks of content regardless.”

  She was right. Unfortunately, admitting it made the fact that we were striking tomorrow very, terrifyingly real.