Rogue's Redemption by A.J. Green

Trigger Warning

This is a dark romance featuring explicit sexual scenes. Possible triggers include stalking, abuse, torture, blood, violence, guns, knives, gun play, mental health issues, and addiction. 

Blurb

Emmy was used to running… 

Chased by the shadows of her past, she’d gotten good at hiding.  She was prepared for darkness creeping in. She was prepared for the chase that always followed. 

But she was not prepared for him. 

Rogue was a different kind of man, one she didn’t see coming. The kind who made her want to give in and find freedom in the trust of surrender. But that was extremely dangerous, and they both knew it.

He wanted to save her from her past. 

Never did he imagine that she could save him in return.

EXCERPT

Rogue

There was a road on the coast that looked straight down the hill and out to sea. You could see the sunlight playing off the ripples and the endless birds circling overhead. They screamed so loud some mornings that it used to wake Katy when she was really little. You’d ride right into the shallows if there wasn’t a sharp turning at the end, heading off into the high street. Sliding through it smoothly and riding back to my own house had been Friday evening bliss. A whole weekend to myself. I shifted my weight in the seat as I took the corner.

“Get out of the fucking road!” I yelled at the idiot as I slammed the brakes. There he stood brazenly in the middle of the street, eyes locked on the corner by the café. Then he turned back to me. “Fuck off,” he scoffed, spitting in front of my wheel. I revved my bike in fury. “Are you looking for a fight?” He didn’t even look back, so I tracked his eyeline—the street corner—Emmy’s brown hair flowing in the wind. Why was she running?

I looked back at the creep wrapped in a black hoodie and leather jacket, his face disfigured and scrawny, and it didn’t take much to join the dots. If I had to guess, it probably wasn’t me she was running from.

My attention snapped back to him and, with a low growl, I stared him down. “Get the fuck out of here.” I revved the bike in warning, shifted gears with a sharp, guttural clunk, and shot off down the street, leaving a trail of tire smoke. The engine roared louder than the pounding in my chest, and I watched the stalker stand there, momentarily stunned, before his eyes narrowed. That was when I realized she was never going to outrun him on foot. The engine thudded in time with my heart as I closed the gap.

“Get on.”

“I don't have a helmet.”

“Get on the damn bike.”

“What if I fall off?” she whined.

“Don't.”

She hesitated, then grabbed my arm and swung herself onto the back. Definitely not her first time. She folded herself against me, arms locking around my waist without direction, and we were gone.  Time was not on our side. The roads looped and twisted, and I hoped every bend brought her a few more seconds to get somewhere safe.

When we finally pulled up outside her flat, I handed her a business card.

“Call if you need me.”

“I won't,” she said. “I'll be leaving today.”

“Do you do this a lot?” I asked.

“Run away? Yeah.”

“There’s always time to break a bad habit.”

“And what would you know about it?” she snapped, claws out.

“More than you’d know, but you’re welcome for the ride. Have a nice day.” I watched her eyes meet mine — a flicker of confusion, a soupçon of annoyance, and something like recognition. Whatever it was, she wasn’t arguing anymore, so I took it. I swung back up on the bike and rode home, making a mental note to keep a spare helmet on the bike just in case.

When she called — and she would call — I promised myself I’d make sure whoever that prick was regretted it.

I was used to showing up wherever shitty men were, my dad being the best example of that. Despite how it might have seemed, I didn’t live at home with Katy. I spent every other week there to make sure she wasn’t left alone with our failure of a father. Then she returned to respite care. Nice that someone got a break, I suppose.

My own place looked a bit more disheveled than I remembered from the week before, compared to how tidy I usually kept it. I glanced at the acoustic guitar in the corner, covered in stickers Katy stuck on it when I wasn’t looking. It had been a while since I picked it up and played, and today wasn’t going to be that day either.

Too many things around the place reminded me of Mum — the guitar first and foremost, the disassembled drum kit in the lounge, even the wallpaper was hers, and the blankets still carried that cotton-fresh laundry-detergent scent. It pushed a headache behind my eyes, but I refused to erase any memory of her. This had been her home, and I’d promised I would take care of it.

She was the one who chose Rogue as a nickname; she’d tussle my hair and send me off to school.

I had always been the outlier. I liked my own space and didn’t really enjoy socializing. While I could be charismatic, intelligent, or even suave if I had to be, it was never a necessity.

I liked being a mechanic. I got on with bikers. They said what they meant, and they didn’t mess about. More importantly, if you called them, they showed up. Anywhere, for whoever. For a lot of people, The Hurricane was the last port of call in a storm, and we got a lot of storms down here.

The sun had gone down so early these last few days that I barely remembered seeing it, I thought to myself as I pulled the curtains together. The TV was turned up to drown out the neighbors arguing, and my kitchen, still, somehow had crumbs everywhere. Mum used to tell me off for having Pot Noodle for every dinner, but it did the job. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

My phone started to ring. Unknown number.

“Mechanic,” I answered blankly.

“Oh, hi. Is that Peak Performance Motors?”

“Speaking.” I recognized that voice. My blushing and embarrassed getaway girl.

“Sorry to bother you, my car was in your shop yesterday, and I'm afraid it seems to have cut out again? Is there any chance you could come and look at it?” After the work I’d done, there shouldn't be a damn thing wrong.

Unless…someone had tampered with it.

“We do charge a call-out fee, is that alright?”

“Yes, of course. I just need my car by tomorrow. It's important.” She was still going to run, which meant his guy needed handling, and if she wasn’t going to sort it, I would. I didn’t need creeps on my turf.

“What was the name?”

“Emmy. Emmy Fields. 207 Dalkeith Lane. If you come up, I'll give you the keys.” Her voice hitched with every breath, and I wondered for a minute if she even realized she was doing it.

“I'll be there shortly.”

“Oh, by the way, there's a drunk guy lurking outside the landing. If he's still here when you arrive, please be careful.”

“Sure.”

Careful. Don't patronize me.

The bike was a little too loud for later call-outs, and besides, I needed the trunk.

I parked outside the block of flats and took the lift up to the top floor. As the doors opened, I heard a voice mumbling. “Who are you talking to? Hmm? Emmy, I know you're in there.”

I stopped just outside the lift and watched him for a moment. The way he leaned back as he walked, almost nonchalantly, like he thought she was just playing a game. He's persistent, I'll give him that. But you can’t fix stupid.

I approached the door, making sure to stand to one side of the entitled prick, and knock lightly.  “Mechanic,” I said.

She didn’t answer. Of course, she didn’t. He needed to go first.

“You again,” he grumbled while getting in my face, “First, you tried to run me over, and now you’ve come for your turn, have you? You’ll have to wait. I’ve not had my fill yet.”

Straight out the gate. I underestimated the level of idiocy this man would be capable of. “I’m sorry?” I stuttered slightly. I must’ve misheard him. Surely, he couldn’t possibly be that much of a pussy.

“Do your ears not work? Back off, mate. I’m not done.”

My eyes narrowed. “I’m not your mate. I’m here to fix a car.”

“Is that what she told you to say? Told you she liked to roleplay, is that it?”

“No. Really. I’m a mechanic. I’m here to fix the car.”

“Good luck. She’ll be a fucking write-off by the time I’m finished with her.”

“The car — or the girl you won’t leave alone?”

“Both,” he swaggered, smirking at me. No wonder I’d had to keep fixing the damn thing. “Besides, we both know she shouldn’t be leaving the house anyway. Better to keep them locked up at home.”

I took a breath. Locked up… I took two more, deeper this time.

“You need to go. Now.”

“Says who?”

I knocked again on the door, ignoring him.

“You gonna make me?” he teased.

I was a big boy; I could take words. They didn’t mean a thing.

Then I felt a cold finger prod me in the chest. “Make me.”

And before I could think, I picked him up by the shoulders of his hoodie and slammed him into the exposed brick by the top of the stairs. His eyes darted down the stairwell, seeming to realize how bad a fall that would be. His eyes came back to me.

“You're a big boy, aren't you? A grown-up. You understand big words, don’t you?” I teased, watching him squirm away from the edge of the stairs. How easy accidents happen. “You make your own choices, right? No one sent you, did they?” I dropped him, and he tumbled to the floor.

“Who would have sent me for her?” He chuckled as I kicked his legs out from under him. That’s all I needed to hear. A lone wolf. So, no one would miss him if he didn’t piss off.

“You’ve got a problem with sharing,” he coughed from the floor.

“I've got a problem with you claiming what isn't yours.”

“She is mine.”

I’ll give three warnings.

I picked him up by the collar.

“Consider this your first warning. Leave.”

“Why in hell would I listen to you?”

Instantly, my fist met his face, and I felt something crunch and collapse under my knuckles. With any luck, he'd have at least a black eye in the morning. The sack of shit dropped back to the floor and looked up at me with that pathetic look of a child.

“Second warning. Leave. Am I understood?

His eyes were vacant and unblinking. The silence was thick and suffocating like heavy smoke. And I wished I'd stopped. I wished something in me could have shifted back from the choice I made, but I didn’t. If he'd just said yes, taken the hint, and left, maybe I wouldn't have done it.

“I lied. Only good boys get a third warning.”

I lifted him up and held him in the air for a moment just so I could watch the excitement of his chase leave him, before dropping him down two flights of stairs.

The crack of bones echoed down the staircase, snapping and crunching as he broke both his arms in an attempt to break his fall. Usually, I didn’t take any pleasure in watching someone’s face smash into each individual step, but this particular brand of dickhead deserved it.

I sighed. The white steps had been a terrible decision for apartments, hard to get stains out of without the right chemicals.

I sent one text.

To: Ranger

307 Dalkeith Lane. Stairwell.

Keep reading...