Page 62 of Rogue

The entire ride to the neighboring town of Dayton, I weep into his back, letting my tears flow until they dry up like a wheat field in a Shelby drought. Until all I can think about is how much I need him. His body, his strength, his ability to make me smile even when life offers me little to be happy about. I’m going to steal a moment of happiness and pray it’ll be enough to help me cope.

In Dayton, Jaxson parks the Harley on Main Street, directly across the street from Dayton Creamery. The ice-cream shop has the second-best chocolate-chip mint ice cream in Oklahoma. Shelby Sweets beats it, hands down. Except it’s the shitty clientele like mobster Franco DiCapitano, who leaves a bad taste in the place. After the incident with Franco buying me a cone, my father would make the short drive to Dayton to buy us a treat.

Jesus. My pop thought of everything, even ice cream. Everything except an insurance plan that’d cover alternative treatments. But who thinks of the worst when everyone is healthy and thriving, as we all were when he bought the plan.

“You’re scowling. Once we get inside, you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”

He leads me into a brick building facing Main Street, then marches me up seven flights of stairs. In spite of a month of Hayden’s Hell, I’m winded. The aftermath of my morning freak-out isn’t helping matters. He whisks out a key, opens the door, and leads me inside apartment 7C.

The apartment is nice but sparse. Hardwood floors run the long length of the rectangular living-dining space. To my right is a galley kitchen, modern in style and feel with its gray granite countertops and matching gray cabinets. State-of-the-art appliances, all in stainless steel, all expensive. A snack bar divides the space between the kitchen and large dining area, which is furnished with a big black-stained farmer’s table and matching seats that look like they’ve never been used.

I follow Jaxson deeper into rectangular-shaped living room to take a peek outside through the wall of windows overlooking the Creamery. A brown leather couch with two matching chairs and a coffee table take up minimal space within the large room, but the natural sunlight adds a homey feeling to the otherwise sparsely decorated space.

I take a quick peek inside the bedroom off to the right. There’s a window, a dresser with a mirror, and a queen-size bed with a gray comforter and four pillows. That’s it.

From what I can see, the apartment is masculine in taste, spacious and cold. So cold. So unlike Jaxson.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“A TORC safe house,” he replies briskly, tossing the keys onto the dining-room table.

“Phew. I thought you were going to tell me it’s your fuck pad.”

A sudden, subtle tension fills the air. Something in the way his body stiffens, in his shoulders squaring off just the slightest bit.

“Tell me.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“You’ve been here before?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah.”

God, now he’s drawn his lips into a straight, thin line.

“Jaxson?”

He stalks toward me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Fine. Maybe you’ll better understand why TORC is no place for you.” His fingers tighten over me, though not enough to hurt me. “There’s no fucking easy way to say this.”

“You brought me here to terminate me,” I joke, trying to ease his way.

“It might go the other way when you hear what I have to say. First of all, you’re the first woman I’ve brought here.”

My jaw feels tight, probably from how hard I’m clenching it in an effort not to speak.

“I have a bit of a reputation. Before TORC relocated to Shelby, there’ve been two major assignments where I worked over a woman for information. Got in close, learned what they knew, got out. My third job was a termination. I shot a man straight in the forehead at one hundred feet away—like I told you, I’ve done some sniper work in Afghanistan. The only assignment I’ve come up empty-handed is this recent one in Shelby. Point is, whatever Hayden asks, Hayden gets.”

I step away from him and glance down at my shaking hands. If I can only curve my fingers into a fist . . .

“Nothing physical has happened since we moved into the Ranch in April.”

“That helps. God, Jaxson. How am I supposed to react to this? All those times I called you a man-whore . . .”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not proud of it. But I’ve used precautions, gotten regular physicals, and I’m clean. And that part of the job is over for me. I told him no more. I’m a goddamn sniper, for Christ’s sake. I told him to use me for what I’m good at.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“‘I am.’”