Page 13 of Ruger's Rage

"Tildie," I say, and she finally looks at me. "I don't know what happened to you before, but I'm not him."

Something flickers in her eyes—pain, maybe, or fear. "How do you know it was a 'him'?"

"Because I recognize the signs." And I do. Years of watching my aunt heal, of seeing the way she still flinches at sudden movements sometimes. "Someone hurt you."

She turns away, focusing on the cash register with laser intensity. "I need to finish closing up."

I should leave it alone.

Three years of being President has taught me when to push and when to back off, but something about her draws me in.

"You know," I say, watching her count bills, "if you ever need backup?—"

"I don't," she interrupts, her voice sharp.

"Everyone needs backup sometimes."

"No offense, but I've learned not to trust men who wear 'badass' like it's a personality trait."

I can't help but grin. "Fair enough. But the offer stands."

She finally looks at me again, studying my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why are you being so nice?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a complete asshole."

That gets a small smile out of her. "Just mostly?"

"Mostly," I agree.

The tension between us eases slightly.

She finishes her closing duties while I nurse one last whiskey, both of us pretending this conversation isn't fueled with something we're not ready to admit.

Aunt Ellie emerges from the back room with her purse. "You heading out?"

I stand, pulling out my wallet. "Yeah."

"You boys' money's no good here," Ellie says firmly. "Family discount."

I shoot Tildie a look. "Told you the owner plays favorites."

"Good to know," she says quietly.

As we head for the door, I pause at the bar. "See you tomorrow, Tildie."

"Probably," she replies, her walls coming right back up.

Outside, the night air has cooled down considerably, and thank fuck for that.

My brothers are already on their bikes, waiting.

"You coming back tomorrow?" Bloodhound asks the question innocently enough, but I hear the underlying curiosity.

"It's a good place to think about club business," I say vaguely.

"Right," Ounce smirks. "Club business."

We ride back to the compound, but my mind stays at the bar.

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