Rogue Passion

by Sionna Fox

  I’m buzzing with a rush of happiness. Too much to comprehend. I’m overwhelmed. I ponder how I got from the lonely day I had yesterday to all the hope I’m feeling right now. It feels like a beginning.

  His art hangs in front of us. We’re jostled by the crowd. His shoulder is firm touching mine.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if it happened for us?” he says. I feel his eyes flicking carefully over to me and I know what he’s saying without him saying it. “That’s ludicrous, right? Tell me it is.”

  I shake my head. I can’t.

  Love, after all, is love.

  Acknowledgments

  The record store in this story is purely fictional, but I would be remiss if I didn’t say that it was inspired by the great Amoeba Music in Hollywood, who notably does welcome all within their walls. It is not only a safe place, but a wonderful place, full of amazing people and an abundance of inspiration hidden in all corners.

  I am likewise inspired by all artists who put time and effort into their art—whatever form it might take—especially during dire times when art might feel like a frivolous pursuit. It most surely is not. Being moved as a human being is important and sustaining in its own right, especially when the world can seem like a pretty dismal place. Making your art, being who you are, and speaking up about it will hopefully end up creating a world where Love is Love is universally accepted as the truth.

  I want to thank my fellow Rogue authors for adding me to their ranks. I’m beyond honored to join this amazing group. My thanks to Tamsen, Christa, KD, Sionna, Jeanette and Robin for their thoughtful reads and edits. Their suggestions made this story so much stronger. Any remaining mistakes belong to me!

  And of course, a huge thank you to my friends and family who read and supported this story, including–and most importantly—my beloved husband, who inspires me on a daily basis. You’re my first reader every time. Without you, the winter would hold no spring, and I probably wouldn’t write at all.

  About the Author

  Rebecca Vaughn is a glasses-wearer, a runner, a graphic designer and a few other things. She and her family currently live in New England, after stops in all four continental U.S. timezones. She’s rather ridiculously fond of spinach and wonders what would be the point of life without coffee. Say hi to her on Twitter @vaughn_writer.

  Taking Aim

  Jeanette Grey

  Teacher Julie Chao never wanted to be an activist. But after a shooting at her school, she can't stay silent any longer. When a mysterious, gorgeous stranger offers advice on getting her message out, she takes it. But the man is clearly hiding something. They may have chemistry, but how can she trust him, once she finds out who he really is?

  1

  As the sun glints off the approaching town cars, I grip my sign so hard the edges of the poster board bite into my palm. Sweat forms at my temples and drips down the back of my neck—and not just on account of the oppressive mid-July heat.

  My pulse pounds as the cars slow to a stop. This is it—what I've been waiting for. I'm not going to throw away this chance.

  Three weeks now I've been standing here in front of this government office building, holding this sign, sweating and silent, and every moment of it has sucked. But it's better than what I have waiting for me at home.

  Teachers only get a couple of months off for the summer. I thought I'd spend mine reading books and catching up on sleep. But I can't concentrate. I can't lose myself in stories the way I used to.

  I can't sleep.

  Not without hearing the screams.

  The gunshots.

  Gritting my teeth against the wave of memory, I stand up straighter as the first car pulls up to the curb. Men and women in neat suits spill out, but I don't have eyes for any of them. They're just staffers. The driver of the second car gets out and goes around to open the back door, and I zero in on an unmistakable head of silver hair.

  This is it.

  I start forward, my heart in my throat, my mouth dry, but my voice—my rage—refuses to stay inside. "Assemblyman Ryker. Sir!"

  The man's gaze darts my way, and I swallow hard.

  But instead of stopping the way I always imagined he would, he looks away. Clenching his jaw, he fast-walks toward the entrance of the building, and the spark of anger in my gut catches and flares.

  "Assemblyman Ryker," I shout again, following after. "My name is Julie Chao. I'm your constituent. Just a moment of your time—"

  One of the burlier guys in suits steps into my path. "Any inquiries for the assemblyman can be directed to his office."

  I look up at the guy with a glare. "This is his office."

  "In writing. Or you can call and leave a message."

  I've left messages. I've sent letters, emails, tweets.

  I've stood here, holding this sign for three weeks, and now this man is going to hear me.

  Craning my neck and standing on my toes, I shout past the guy trying to keep me back, all my focus on my state representative, who works for me.

  "Ninety-six Americans are killed by guns every day. America's gun homicide rate is more than twenty-five times that of any other high income country," I recite. "Two thirds of Americans support stricter background checks, closing the gun show loophole, and a ban on assault rifles, and yet you refuse to take action."

  Assemblyman Ryker is getting farther and farther away from me now. Sudden desperation claws at my chest.

  My heart rises into my throat. Angry tears form in my eyes. "Seven teenagers and teachers wounded at a graduation not ten minutes from your office, and you've said nothing. Nothing." The gunshots ring out again in my memory. The vision of Winnie clutching her arm, blood spattering her clothes. She's an honors student. A child. And I can't look away. I can't stay silent.

  How can he?

  Congress refuses to act. The president tweets nonsense and ignores the tragedies happening around him. Our state has the will to make its own laws, but this man—my representative, the majority leader of the state assembly—he won't even let the vote come to the floor.

  I shove past the staffer who's standing between me and the man who could actually bring about change.

  "What do you have to say for yourself?" My voice goes raspy and choked. "What do you have to say?"

  A big arm blocks my way. "Ma'am. You need to control yourself."

  I snap. "Control myself? People are dying and you don't care. Nobody cares."

  And I can't stand it anymore. All these people are complicit in murder and the terrorizing of an entire generation. The assemblyman, his staff, everyone who voted for him. They might as well be pulling the trigger, every time they refuse to do anything.

  "Ma'am." He grasps me by the shoulder, and I shrug out of the hold instinctively.

  "Don't touch me."

  "Go home, ma'am." He drops his hand, but he looms over me. "Or we will call the police."

  Let them try. "This is public property."

  "And we will have you removed from it if you attempt to assault the assemblyman again."

  "Assault?" I want to laugh, but I'm afraid I'm going to cry.

  All the violence in the world, and a tiny half-Asian woman trying to ask her democratically elected official a question is where they think the police need to get involved?

  His expression remains grim. "You've been warned."

  With that, he casts a glance over his shoulder.

  And just like that, my stomach sinks to my toes. I follow his gaze. The last of the assemblyman's staffers is disappearing behind the front door of the building. Ryker himself is nowhere to be seen.

  Everything in me plummets.

  I missed it. My one chance, and I let myself get distracted.

  I threw away my shot.

  The edge of my sign crumpling in my grip, I take a single, staggering step back.

  With a smug sneer, the staffer turns on his heel. He follows the rest of Ryker's people into the building, and I want to throw my sign at his stupid head. I want to pound my f
ists and rail.

  I stumble to the spot where I've stood, wasting my time these past three weeks. Hopelessness washes over me, taking with it whatever fight I had left.

  I sink to the ground and toss my sign down beside me.

  What's the point of protesting if nobody's looking? How does democracy even work if elected officials won't face their constituents?

  I drop my head into my hands. What the hell am I going to do?

  For a minute, I sit there, catching my breath and trying to get my composure back. I'm still shaking, though, when the sound of approaching footsteps on the pavement pulls me out of my fugue. Without lifting my head, I open my eyes to the sight of polished black dress shoes and crisp charcoal slacks.

  If it were even possible, my stomach would sink further. My cheeks heat.

  I look up, and sure enough, dancing green eyes stare down at me from behind sexy, black-rimmed glasses. A soft, pink mouth twists into a sympathetic smile as neatly combed brown hair gleams coppery red in the sun.

  Of course.

  It's not bad enough that I made a fool of myself and wasted my best opportunity to make myself heard. Apparently, I had to do it in front of the hot guy I've been flirting with for the past few weeks, too.

  Covering my face again, I groan. "Tell me you didn't see any of that."

  "Wish I could," Eli says, nudging my hip with his foot. "Mind if I join you?"

  "If I said yes, would you go away?"

  "Sure. Is that what you're saying?"

  I frown and consider it. But who am I kidding? I shake my head. "No."

  I don't move to get up, though. I'm not really sure what I'm expecting, but it still takes me aback when he lowers himself to sit on the ground beside me. I raise my brows in surprise, glancing over at him.

  It's funny how a three piece suit can make some people look stuffy and uptight. One of the first things I noticed about Eli was how he wears one like he was born in it. The expertly tailored fabric hugs his lean frame, and yet he somehow makes it seem perfectly normal to be sitting on the ground like this, unperturbed by his imminent dry-cleaning bill or the heat of the midday sun.

  "Here." He holds out a cup of iced coffee.

  I accept it with one hand and scrub at my eyes with the other. "Thanks."

  I take a sip. It's black and just a little sweet—exactly how I like it. The cold feels good on my throat. I press the cup to my brow, and that feels pretty great, too.

  Three weeks now I've been standing vigil outside this government building. Three weeks, I've been ignored by pretty much everyone inside.

  Except Eli.

  He was hard to miss that first day. His gaze lingered on me as he and his navy pinstripes strode on past. My gaze lingered on his rear, and I figured that was the end of it.

  But the next morning, he came down and brought me a cup of coffee and asked me about what I was doing. I stumbled over my words like a moron, but he was patient and kind and acted like he was actually interested in my opinion. When he took his leave to head back to work, I mentioned that I liked my coffee a little colder and sweeter. It was the closest I dared get to an invitation to stop and chat again.

  Only he took it. Now he comes by pretty much every day. We talk for a bit and drink coffee together. He's asked me all about my life and my political leanings, and he's told me a little about his, and it's been…nice.

  Really nice.

  He nudges me with his elbow. Usually, he's pretty hands off, so the contact sends a thrill racing up my arm.

  It's dampened when he opens his mouth. "So. You wanna talk about it?"

  I groan around my straw. "Not really."

  "You sure about that?"

  Sometimes I love how perceptive he is.

  Sometimes, I really, really hate it.

  But yeah—he's right. This is eating at me, and as much as I'd prefer not to let on how upset I am, he's here, and he's offering to listen. I set my coffee down hard enough it makes a grating sound against the sidewalk. Lifting my head, I throw my hands up in the air in frustration, gesturing uselessly at the door Assemblyman Ryker disappeared behind.

  "Just—what the hell? You know?"

  Eli raises his brows. "Not in the slightest."

  "Ryker—he just—I tried to stop him, but he ignored me. His entire job is to represent me, right?"

  "You and everyone else in the district."

  "But I'm in the district. He's supposed to listen. That's what democracy is about, right?"

  "In theory."

  "Screw theory." I stare off into the distance, raking my fingers through the grass and tugging at the blades.

  This idle anger has been living in my bones for so long now. I thought I was taking it and turning it into action, only… Only everything I ever believed in feels like it's crumbling right in front of me.

  "My grandparents," I start, then I pause. My grandmother's voice rings out in my mind, spurring me on. "They fled China in the middle of the freaking Cultural Revolution. They were escaping violence and chaos and a government that was telling them what to think and do and say." I turn to look at him again. "And now I'm here. And it feels like I'm living out their worst nightmare."

  He regards me for a long moment, head tilted to the side, gaze considering. "You really think it's as bad as all that?"

  Is he kidding me?

  "Yeah. I do."

  A furrow appears between his brows. "And yet you're still engaging with the process."

  It's weird—I haven't one hundred percent gotten a read on Eli's political views. He has to be a government employee of some kind, but there are a lot of offices in this building. I have no idea which one is his, and he hasn't been forthcoming on the matter. He's clearly well informed on the issues, but sometimes it's like he's hearing the idea that our country is sliding into an authoritarian hellscape for the very first time.

  "I mean—I'm worried that we're past the point of salvaging it. But I do want democracy to work." I shrug. This is precisely the dilemma that led me to this patch of sidewalk in the first place. "I don't know what else to do except engage. If I did, I'd, like, do it. You know?"

  He hums contemplatively and takes a sip of his coffee, throat bobbing as he swallows. I wait, expecting him to ask another question maybe, or at least respond. He doesn't, though, and after a minute it seems pretty clear he's not going to.

  We slip into silence, and it should probably be awkward, but it's not. There's something about his presence that soothes me. I want to lean into him, to take comfort from the warmth of his body. Tentatively, I shift my arm a little closer to his.

  If he notices, he ignores the overture. I bite the inside of my cheek in embarrassment.

  He moves to rise.

  My heart dips, but I'm not exactly surprised.

  Only instead of leaving, he stands for a minute, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Gazing at the horizon, he taps his finger against the lid of his cup. His sharp jawline flexes, and he nudges his glasses higher on his nose.

  Finally, he blurts, "Ryker will be back a week from Tuesday. Probably noon-ish…"

  I blink. "He—"

  "You're going to need more people if you want him to take you seriously. Even then, a camera crew or two wouldn't hurt."

  "Oh." That…makes sense, actually.

  He glances down at me, eyes bright. "Engaging is one thing. Changing the narrative is another."

  "Right." My voice sounds weak to my own ears.

  "Good luck." He tips an imaginary hat at me, then turns on his heels. I watch him go, half numb as a thousand thoughts race through my head.

  There are logistics, first and foremost. My protest outside this building has been solitary so far. Plenty of people were riled up to donate money or write letters right after the shooting, but standing in front of a random government office building all summer? I didn't exactly get a lot of takers for that one.

  A single day of action, though? I bet I can rally a decent crowd for that. One of my f
ormer students is an intern at the local news station. She'd probably be willing to do me a favor.

  In my head, I start composing messages and practicing phone calls. I may have missed my shot today, but next week I get another chance.

  Only… Amidst the hope and planning, one other thread of thought circles around and around my brain.

  How the hell did Eli know that?

  And why in the world is he helping me?

  2

  This time, when the cars begin to approach in the distance, I'm ready.

  "Here we go." I take my sign and hoist it in the air.

  All around me, the sounds of idle chatter die down. A different kind of buzz starts up.

  My stomach flutters. The past week has flown by in a haze of phone calls and texts as I've assembled the troops, and my efforts haven't been in vain. At least a hundred people have shown up, most of them teachers and students from my school. My senior honors project mentee, Winnie, stands beside me, her arm still bandaged and held in a sling. The camera lenses of three local news stations bore into my spine, and God, I hope I'm not wasting their time.

  I trust Eli, of course, but anxiety has still underlaid every preparation I've made. My attempts to contact Assemblyman Ryker's office and verify his schedule have all been rebuffed, so I've had to fly on faith alone.

  The cars pull up. I hold my breath.

  For what seems like an eternity, nothing happens. Bright sunlight reflects off tinted windows, making it impossible to see what's happening inside the cars. My stomach churns.

  Crap—what if Eli's tip was wrong? What if it's just a bunch of staffers we've assembled to harass? What if they're not even from the assemblyman's office?

  Then—

  Finally, doors begin to open. The asshole who held me back last week is among the first to spill out. The instant I recognize him, my heart expands and rises. This is happening.