Page 15 of The Rogue

Folding my arms, I lean on the doorframe. “Need a place to crash before you head back to where you came from?”

Tessa hops off and dusts her hands on her hips. “Thought you’d never ask.” Then she strides over to the door, stopping at the threshold like she’s afraid to pass me.

“Don’t you…have a bag or something?” I ask.

She smirks. “I’ll leave it in the car. Wouldn’t want you thinking I’m making myself comfortable or anything.” She’s a breath away and I try to convince myself I haven’t missed that raspy, sassy voice.

I give the front door a little kick. “Fine with me.”

She enters and I lock it behind her. “I’ll bring you down some linens.” I point to the small den just past the foyer. “You can crash on that couch.”

I have two empty bedrooms upstairs but there’s no way I’m letting Jackson see Tessa here.

He grew a little too fond of her last year, and I don’t know what Kool-Aid she’d been feeding him, but I’m not having any of it.

“Help yourself to the kitchen if you want anything, but if you don’t mind, I’d like you gone before Jackson wakes up tomorrow. The kid asks too many questions as it is.”

“I’ll be up before he is,” she assures me sharply, scoping out the den.

If I’d ever heard a guarantee from anyone,thatwas it. “Great,” I mutter before rushing up the stairs, shaking my head at myself as I round up a pillow and light blanket.

She’s got one part right—I wouldn’t have to worry about her looking for a real-life love story because one thing I’d learned about Tessa is that she’s a flake. A flight risk. Temporary.

She has every intention of leaving.

Who’s to say I’m not going to come home one day and find Jackson scared and alone because she decided it was time to go again?

Something’s up with that girl—there were times I was curious as fuck to know what it is—but that’s just asking for trouble.

And I don’t want trouble anywhere near Jackson.

Or me.

I toss the linens on the couch.

She smiles. “I won’t let the bed bugs bite.”

I point a finger at her. “Seven. The sun will be up, and you will be gone.”

“Seven,” she repeats.

4

Pang.

I jolt at the violent sound, the sharp pain in my lower back and suck in a jagged breath.

It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just my internal alarm clock.

If I told you it gets easier waking up to the subconscious sound of a gunshot, I’d be lying. It always hits the same.

My eyes sting, but I shake it off.

Thankfully, I always wake up alone. Not for the obvious reason that no one will ever have to witness my permanent trauma. But when I wake up—no one is pointing a gun at my chest, threatening to finish the job.

But…it does take me a minute to remember where I am.

That’s right. I’m at Indie’s castle of a home. The one he graciously let me crash last night.

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