Rogue Nights (The Rogue Series Book 6)

by Talia Hibbert

  No, it wasn’t okay. Living in constant fear and anger at the injustice we were subjected to by our own society was not okay. Neither was the staggering sense of relief when shown the bare minimum of generosity. Why should I be so grateful to have come across a police officer with some goddamn decency? Why couldn’t I expect that of every police officer on the force?

  She handed me a napkin from her purse and a bottle of water to rinse out my mouth. “Mami, switch places with me for a second. I need to check the damn brake light.”

  I stepped over the ugly mess I’d made and steadied myself as my head spun from the sudden movement. Mami took my place while I hobbled to the back of the car. Fucking hell—my right brake light was out.

  “He was right.” When did the light go out? Surely someone from the garage would have said something if they saw it.

  “I don’t think you should drive,” Mami said as we got back into our seats. She was probably right, but it wasn’t like she could drive either.

  “I’ll be fine. We’re not too far from home.” My hands were still shaking as I eased the car onto the road again, staying well below the speed limit.

  By the time we got back to the house, I’d made up my mind. We were both silent as we hauled groceries from the trunk into the house, and then I helped Mami put everything away. My phone buzzed on the counter as we finished.

  “It’s Aless.” In fact, it was a picture of her with Derek, smiling faces against a backdrop of hundreds, maybe thousands of people. My heart clenched at the beautiful sight.

  “Is she okay?” Mami came over and peered over my shoulder at the screen.

  “Yeah. Mami?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I think I need to go.”

  She looked up at me, understanding in her eyes. She smiled and pulled me into a hug. “You go.”

  * * *

  “Derek! Where are we?” Aless grabbed my arm with one hand, the other holding up her phone.

  “Uh, at the protest?”

  “No shit.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean, like, where in the city are we? Diego’s coming.”

  “What?”

  “I know, right?” Her eyes glittered with excitement, but then we’d all been pretty hyped up since getting here this morning.

  There was a certain energy in the crowd that hadn’t been at previous events; most of the signage and people were the same, but there was something different about this time. Aless had soaked it all in, making friends with Leon and the rest of the crew, shouting out chants until her voice had grown hoarse. I had to plead with her to stop; Diego would have my head if she lost her voice.

  “He’s really coming?” It seemed impossible after how badly he’d reacted.

  “That’s what he said!” She held up her phone to show me, and sure enough, there was a message from Diego asking where he could find us.

  “We’re almost at Grand Park. Tell him to meet us there.”

  Aless’s thumbs flew across the keyboard, and I stood with her as our crew moved forward. “He’s coming?”

  “He’s coming!” She threaded her arm in mine, and we caught up with the rest of the group.

  Fifteen minutes later, Diego materialized out of the crowd, shoulders tense and eyes darting back and forth. When they landed on Aless, they lit up. “Aless!” He scooped her up in a tight hug, nearly lifting her off the ground.

  Something must have happened to change Diego’s mind about the protest. And from the way he clung to Aless, seemingly reluctant to let her go, it was probably something huge. When he released her, he held her by the shoulders and examined her as if looking for any injuries.

  “D, I’m fine!” Aless grabbed his wrists and tugged until he dropped his hands.

  “Yeah, yeah, you are. Good.”

  Aless frowned at him and shot me a look. Diego followed her gaze and when he saw me, it was like I’d been hit with a tidal wave of emotion—though what emotion, I couldn’t identify. I stood frozen on the spot as he stalked toward me, stopping inches away. He vibrated with more energy than usual, its frequency off from his typical restlessness.

  “I’m sorry for being an asshole about the whole protest thing.” His words were just loud enough for us.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Don’t worry about it.” I mean, we’d have to have a good long talk about his temper if we were still going to be study buddies, but it wasn’t like I didn’t have a temper of my own. “Are you okay?”

  He worked his jaw back and forth and ran a hand through his hair, which looked uncharacteristically tussled. “I don’t know.”

  “What happened?” I reached for him, trailing my fingers down his stomach until they settled on his hip. He rested his arms on my shoulders, and we stepped in to close the space between us.

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” he said with a shake of his head. I wanted to argue, to pry the information out of him, but his eyes were dark with whatever it was that haunted him.

  So instead I smiled and leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips. I had only meant for it to be a quick peck, but Diego didn’t stop there, holding me captive as his tongue slipped into my mouth.

  “Come on, guys, save it for your study dates!” Aless’s complaint filtered through our little cocoon, and it was soon joined by the hollers of the rest of my crew.

  Breaking apart, we found Aless with her arm around Leon’s waist and Leon’s arm draped across her shoulders, both sporting wide smiles. I felt Diego tense at the familiarity between them, and I poked him in the stomach. “Leave it.” I didn’t bother telling him that Leon was bi and the two of them had been getting along really well. “Are you sure you’re okay being here?”

  “Honestly?” Diego cast his gaze around the crowd as if searching for threats. “Not really.”

  I hated the injustice of it, that we had reason to be out here at all. “Hey.” I grabbed his chin and turned his face toward mine. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do this. No one’s going to hold it against you.”

  He shook his head. “I need to do something.”

  “Well, if protests aren’t your thing, there are other, less public ways to fight.”

  Diego blinked like it was all too much for him to process.

  “But since you’re here… might as well protest?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just as long as we don’t get arrested.” The words were ominous, but I thought I detected a touch of irony in his tone.

  I waited until he refocused on me and then put every ounce of sincerity I possessed into my next words. “We won’t.”

  THE END

  Thank You!

  Big thank yous to Rain Merton, my beta reader, and to Madeline Farlow, my editor.

  Even bigger thank yous to you, dear reader, for reading Dare to Dream. I hope you enjoyed it!

  If you’d like to hear about what I’m working on now and when my next book will be available, you can sign up for my newsletter at go.hudsonlin.com/newsletter. For more information about me, check out my website at www.hudsonlin.com.

  I’m on social media, usually posting pictures of cute animals, sometimes discussing diversity representation in media, and occasionally talking about my books. Follow me on Twitter at @hudsonlinwrites or on Facebook at facebook.com/hudsonlinwrites.

  Other Books by Hudson

  Standalone Books

  Inside Darkness

  Three Months to Forever

  Stepping Out in Faith

  Lessons for a Lifetime

  Between the Tension Series

  Between the Push and Pull

  Embracing the Tension

  About the Author

  Hudson was raised by conservative immigrant parents and grew up straddling two cultures with ofttimes conflicting perspectives on life. Instead of conforming to either, she has sought to find a third way that brings together the positive elements of both.

  Having spent much of her life on the outside looking in, Hudson likes to write stories about outsiders who
fight to carve out their place in society, and overcome every challenges to find love and happily ever afters.

  When not engrossed in a story, Hudson knits, drinks tea, and works the 9 to 5 in the beautiful city of Toronto, Canada.

  Sign up for her newsletter at go.hudsonlin.com/newsletter.

  www.hudsonlin.com

  The Coffee Shop Around the Corner

  Shae Connor

  Political discourse is Madeline Maloney’s jam. Social media manager for a progressive mayoral candidate, she finds her interest piqued by an email exchange with a local businessman—but also by the cute guy at the coffee shop where she buys her morning cup. Palmer Harrison spends his mornings smiling at the beautiful woman who orders a caramel latte every day and his off hours emailing with a mystery correspondent who works for a mayoral campaign. Their parallel relationships intersect on Election Day…

  The Coffee Shop Around the Corner

  Before she was even awake, Madeline Maloney had her phone in her hand, thumb silencing her alarm and tapping the two most important icons: the Arthur for Atlanta campaign social media email address, and her favorite news aggregator service. With the mayoral election just weeks away, nothing else mattered at 6:30 a.m.

  Except coffee. Coffee mattered a lot at 6:30 a.m.

  Madeline rolled up to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her glasses with her free hand and sliding them on in time to scroll through the overnight message influx. Spam, spam, DNC, local news, national news… her stomach jumped when she saw the message from the person she only knew by his (her?) email handle: Harris. “Infrastructure,” the subject line read, and Madeline groaned and flopped back against the mattress.

  “Caffeine IV, stat,” she told the ceiling.

  Thirty minutes later, showered and mostly dressed, Madeline paused to answer one more semi-urgent email before digging her stylish, yet affordable, boots out from under the edge of the bed where she’d kicked them several nights earlier, shortly before faceplanting into a pillow. She slipped her feet in and stood to let her pants legs fall into place.

  God, she missed working from home all the time. Now she only worked nights and weekends from home. For another few weeks, at least.

  She shoved aside questions of whether she’d still have a job after that, gathered up her briefcase and phone, and headed out the door, barely pausing to lock up before her focus returned to the screen. She deleted three more spam emails and marked two to handle later. The one with Harris’s name attached still sat there, mocking her.

  Harris could wait. She had the rest of her Monday morning to deal with.

  First, though: coffee. Lucky for her, she had a favorite spot around the corner and down the block from the office.

  And just like clockwork, there she is.

  From his usual Monday morning post behind the coffee machines, Palmer Harrison bit back a smile as he finished a skinny vanilla latte and handed it across the counter to another regular. While he poured the next order, a simple Americano with room for cream, he watched in his periphery as Mads—he only knew her by the name she gave with her order—paid for her caramel latte and moved to the side to wait for him to make it. Some mornings she offered a greeting across the bar, but today, she had her focus on her phone, typing away with both thumbs.

  It was a common position for his customers. Capitol Grind’s prime location placed it halfway between the Gold Dome—the Georgia State Capitol building, with its gold leaf–gilded top—and the Fulton County Courthouse and Atlanta City Hall. Politicians, reporters, and other types of government hangers-on were common, and nearly all stayed glued to their smartphones.

  He passed the coffee to the previous customer with a quick smile and then reached for the paper cup with CAR LAT MADS scrawled on the side. He put together the order on autopilot, resisting the urge to get artistic with the caramel drizzle. It’s a to-go order, idiot, he scolded himself. She’d never see it.

  Finished, he reached for a cardboard sleeve for the cup, glancing up just as Mads lifted her head from her phone. A brilliant smile broke across her face.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” she told him as she held out a hand for her coffee.

  He grinned in return as he gave it over. “I get that a lot.”

  A hint of pink brushed across her cheeks. “Same time tomorrow?”

  Palmer resisted the urge to wink. “I’ll be here.”

  He watched as she drifted toward the door, her attention back on her phone, until his assistant manager, Lizzy, nudged him with an elbow.

  “Orders are waitin’, boss.”

  He ignored her knowing grin and got back to work.

  “Mads! Line two’s for you!”

  Madeline reached for her phone without looking away from the computer screen in front of her. “Madeline Maloney.”

  “Hey Mads, it’s Kim.” Madeline sat up straighter. The campaign manager didn’t often call her, much less on the campaign office line. “I tried Julie”—their communications director—“but got voicemail. Can you forward me that last email from the Hyatt? The attachment got corrupted, and Susanna wants to look it over.”

  “Sure thing.” Madeline clicked away from Twitter and over to her email. “It should be… right here.” She found the email in her “Election Night” folder and forwarded it along. “Just sent it. Let me know if it doesn’t come through.”

  “Will do. Thanks!”

  Madeline hung up the phone and turned her attention back to Twitter. She’d blocked three clear troll or bot accounts that morning and muted a few more, but it would always be a losing battle trying to keep the campaign’s mentions under control. She skimmed through the rest of the feed, populated almost exclusively by political and media accounts, and then moved on to check Facebook.

  So went most of her time these days, her eyes glued to one screen or another, charged with monitoring the campaign’s various online presences for any hint of a story they’d need to address. The campaign had been remarkably scandal-free on both sides, unusual even considering Atlanta’s mayoral race was nonpartisan. Most of the media’s focus remained on Susanna Arthur’s relative inexperience and her opponent’s bombastic self-aggrandizing, but there always seemed to be someone determined to make front-page news out of a fever dream.

  Facebook cleared, Madeline reached for her cooling coffee as she switched back to email. She had a staff meeting in another hour, so she had time to answer a few messages.

  Almost of its own will, her cursor drifted over to hover on the email from Harris. I can just give it a quick read, she told herself. I don’t have to answer it right now.

  She snorted out a soft laugh. “I can quit any time I want,” she murmured.

  She opened the email.

  Palmer locked his front door behind him and hung his keys from the little coffee cup–shaped shelf just inside, a gift from a college friend when he’d bought his condo. Ever since he’d taken over Capitol Grind, everyone had decided he needed to own everything coffee themed. Most of the kitsch hung in the café, but he did keep a few at home.

  He kicked off his shoes on his way to the sofa, toes relishing the freedom and the soft carpet. He dropped onto the cushions and stretched out, his entire body tingling in relief. Tuesdays were notoriously busy at the café, even when the state legislature stood adjourned, but today had kept him running from counter to back room and back for nearly the entire twelve hours he’d been there.

  He’d learned that lesson before. Wednesdays were off limits.

  With that thought in mind, Palmer pushed his aching body off the sofa and wobbled his way into the kitchen for some dinner. Eat, shower, fall into bed. His evening routine rarely varied much, no matter his daytime schedule.

  I should get out more. He slapped together a sandwich and grabbed a beer out of the fridge before hoisting himself onto the kitchen counter, his much-abused feet grateful once again for the reprieve.

  Halfway through his meal, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and dug it out to find a
new email notification.

  He grinned. His campaign correspondent at it again. He’d been exchanging emails with someone with the Arthur for Atlanta mayoral campaign for a couple of weeks, since he caught a TV ad for the other candidate, Lionel Kimbrell. Just his smarmy smile had Palmer vowing to vote for his opponent, even though he knew nothing about her.

  Thankfully, the campaign had been very accommodating in answering his questions. After a couple of brief exchanges on smaller matters, Palmer had spent a little more time on his latest missive, asking at least a half-dozen questions about Susanna Arthur’s plan to deal with Atlanta’s aging and crumbling infrastructure.

  Now he had a response.

  Dear Harris,

  Dr. Arthur has developed a comprehensive plan to repair and restore the infrastructure of the city of Atlanta. You may read the full plan on her website, but in brief, her plan involves immediate repairs to several high-priority roads and overpasses, a longer-term program involving replacement of many of the city’s water mains, and a complete assessment of all infrastructure needs both now and projected for up to twenty years into the future.

  To finance her plans, Dr. Arthur is proposing extending the city’s existing bond and Temporary Special Local Option Sales Tax programs. We realize that, as a businessman, you are likely to be concerned about sales tax because they can affect your overall sales totals. However, we believe that the benefits you—and your customers—will reap from better roads and improved services outweigh the possible downsides. In particular, the repairs and improvements to our water and sewer systems will result in lower overall costs to the city and, by extension, to its customers.