Page 30 of Ruger's Rage

Dealer's choice.

I start to smile, but stop myself.

As much as I like him, I don’t want to.

I don’t want to put myself at risk, to let my walls down… even if he is being the sweetest thing ever.

At 11:45, I'm unnecessarily rearranging bottles behind the bar when the familiar rumble of motorcycles pulls into the lot.

Not just Ruger—three bikes.

The door swings open, and he enters first, followed by a man I recognize as Ounce, the VP, and another older man in a suit who doesn't fit the MC vibe at all.

Ruger fills the room instantly.

It's not just his size or the leather cut declaring his status.

It's something in the way he carries himself—like gravity bends around him.

His eyes find mine immediately. "Blueberry?"

"Apple," I counter, pointing to the fresh slice waiting at his usual stool.

The smile that breaks across his face transforms him—lightening the hard edges, revealing glimpses of the man beneath the President patch.

"Even better." He settles onto the stool while the other men take a booth. "How are you?"

"Fine."

"Tildie." His voice drops, serious now. "How are you,really?"

The direct question catches me off guard.

Marco never wanted real answers, only the responses that pleased him.

"Nervous," I admit. "About everything changing."

He studies me, his dark eyes searching mine. "Not everything will change. Just the parts that need to."

"And who decides what needs to change? You?"

"The bar was going under. That's fact, not opinion."

He's right, though I'm reluctant to admit it. I've noticed the dwindling inventory, the empty shifts when Ellie would send the other members of staff home to save money, then it was just me and her. The signs were there for anyone paying attention.

"You didn't answer my text last night," he says, cutting into his pie.

"Which one?"

"About what you're looking for." He takes a bite, watching me. "Safe spaces. People you can trust."

I busy myself wiping the already clean counter. "I thought I was being clear."

"Crystal clear. But I'm wondering what makes a space safe for you. What makes someone trustworthy?"

The question feels too intimate, too close to places I don't let people see.

"Time," I finally say. "Consistency. Actions matching words."

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