Page 21 of Rogue

“From what I heard, you really held your own, even with the bullet wound,” I say. “The guys were really impressed with how your whole MC handled themselves.”

“I did it more for the women we freed than to impress Devil’s Nightmare MC, to be honest. Though praise coming from them is worth something too,” he says. “But yeah, it was good to find out I still had it in me. Used to be we’d get into fights like that whenever we could. Nowadays it’s just surveillance, recon and hacking.”

“You sound like that’s not what you wanna be doing,” I say. “But I say it’s safest that way.”

He shrugs and stays silent, and I take the time to eat some more of the excellent dish.

“I didn’t get into what we’re doing to stay safe,” he says in a hard, kinda edgy voice, like he’s not just replying to me, but to an accusation someone else has also made.

I grab a few of the thin napkins from the dispenser and wipe my lips. “All I know is that getting killed or almost killed is no sign of bravery or manliness. It’s just what it is. Getting killed. The end.”

He shrugs again and brings a piece of the fried burrito to his mouth, chewing purposefully, his eyes reminding me of an otherwise calm lake surface rippled by wind.

“I mean, what would your mother say?” I ask playfully, surprised how easy it is to speak to him. In any which way. Flirting. Admonishing. Baring my deepest hurts. It all just comes out smoothly.

I noticed this on that first night when I sewed him up and it’s only deepened somehow, even though I’ve hardly had three conversations with him since. I’m sure that means something. Or at least the girl I was does. As far as the woman is concerned, she knows men will always turn on all their available charm untilthey get me in bed. And Rogue here, he has enough charm to win over a stone statue if he wants to.

He finishes chewing, only his eyes smiling at me as he does.

“My mother wanted me to become a priest,” he says.

“Wow, a priest? Are you serious?” I say actually leaning back in my chair because that’s how blown away I am by it.

He nods and grins. “So, you see, I’d fail her whatever I was doing.”

I spend a few moments studying his face. Just sitting there in the near darkness, he’s more present and solid than at least half the people I meet. But those eyes of his. They seem to see more than other men do. Way more.

“What? Is there something on my face?” he asks when I don’t say anything for a while.

“Nah, I was just picturing you as a priest,” I say and finish my beer. “You’d make a good one.”

He scoffs and waves to the waiter to bring two more.

“I’m serious,” I say. “I’m not surprised you’re running your own MC at your age. You’re what, in your early thirties?”

“I’m thirty,” he says. “Almost the same age Jesus was when he died. Just like him, I sometimes think maybe I’ve already done all I could down here.”

I shake my head and resume eating. More to get out of the way his eyes seemed to just freeze over as he said it than anything else.

Neither of us speak for a while, we just eat. The soft breeze is caressing my skin, stirring my hair and making the candle flame dance, casting multicolored lights over the white parts of the table cloth. Perfect in its imperfectness. Just like tonight is. Sort of. Because as attractive as he is, and as much as I feel at ease talking to him, it won’t lead anywhere. He’s got his crusade and his dead girlfriend and I have a new life to find.

If nothing else, how would it look if I left one biker club to join another. The Devils were there for me when I needed them most. A lot of them don’t understand why I had to leave. And they probably wouldn’t understand me hooking up with another club any better. Though they do want what’s best for me. Always have.

I could sit here all night coming up with excuses why I should walk away from Rogue sooner rather than later.

But I like sitting here across from Rogue too much. Even if we’re not talking. Even if we’re just each thinking our own thoughts. Even if we’re totally wrong for each other and we have no future I can see.

“Was that too depressing?” he asks once we’re both done eating and are just sitting there, nursing our beers. “Catholic religion and dead exes usually are a huge conversation killer. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

I laugh. Can’t help it.

“Most people would say religion gives them hope,” I say ignoring the stuff about the ex.

“Sure, that’s what you have to say,” he says. “But I don’t know… I just always thought there were too many rules and not enough comforting going on. I used to drive my mom and the priests crazy talking like that.”

“I bet,” I say. “I disappointed my parents too. They wanted me to become an artist like them, but I chose medicine. My mom was a sculptor and my dad a painter.”

He chuckles. “No one ever disappoints their parents by becoming a doctor.”

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