Page 27 of Ruger's Rage

She's skittish as a wild horse, and I'm complimenting her like some teenager with a crush.

Twenty minutes later:

Tildie:

I'm not looking for dangerous men anymore.

Me:

What are you looking for?

Tildie:

Safe spaces. People I can trust.

This conversation is like walking barefoot over hot coals.

One wrong step could burn whatever connection we're building.

Me:

Safety's relative. Trust has to be earned.

Tildie:

Agreed. Goodnight, Ruger.

Me:

Night, darlin'.

I set the phone down, mind churning with too much stress from the day.

Striker's return, the Grim Vultures pulling some shit they know we’ll retaliate for, the bar purchase, and underlying it all—this woman who's managed to burrow under my skin in less than two days.

Sleep isn't going to happen anytime soon, so I make my way to the clubhouse bar.

At this hour, it's quiet—most of the brothers have home or crashed in the rooms upstairs. Just Decorum playing pool by himself and Krypto passed out in the corner.

I settle at the bar, drumming my fingers on the worn wood.

"Rough night, President?"

Venus slinks over from where she'd been organizing bottles.

Her tight tank top leaves little to the imagination, pushing her tits up and out like an offering. She's been around the club for years, knows her way around all of us.

"Something like that," I mutter, watching as she pulls down a bottle of Jack.

She slides a glass toward me, pouring two fingers. "Company helps with rough nights."

I down the whiskey in one swallow, enjoying the burn. "Not tonight."

Venus refills without being asked. "You sure? Bailey and Shayla are around too. We could all help take the edge off." She runs crimson nails along my forearm, a move that usually works on me.

Not tonight.

I shake my head, pulling my arm back. "I'm good."

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