Page 14 of Ruger's Rage
The way Tildie's guarding herself makes me think she's running from something—or someone.
Back at the clubhouse, I head straight to my office.
Paperwork never stops—even in the club, bills need paying and the books need balancing.
But as I review supply manifests and territory reports, my phone buzzes.
Aunt Ellie:
You were good with Tildie tonight. Proud of you. Appreciate you not jumping her bones the first second you could. I know she's your type.
I can't even hold back my laugh.
Me:
Ah, so was this some blind matchmaking shit?
Aunt Ellie:
No. Just don't scare her off, Ryan. She's the only one who stayed when I let the others go… took a pay cut to help me keep the bar open.
I stare at the last text for a long moment before responding:
What's going on with Backroads… and what's her story?
Aunt Ellie:
I'll tell you about the bar later. I'm beat, sweetheart. As far as Tildie goes, not my story to tell. Give her time.
I don't like this. Aunt Ellie never keeps anything from me, not since shit went down with my uncle.
I set the phone down, leaning back in my chair.
The possessiveness I felt earlier wasn't just a protective instinct. It was something primal, immediate.
It's like seeing her flipped a switch I didn't know I had.
I've taken plenty of women to bed over the years. Quick fucks to release tension, meaningless encounters that left me feeling empty afterward.
But none of them made me feel like I'd been hit by lightning just from touching their hand.
My phone buzzes again.
Bloodhound:
Striker's been spotted in Pittsburgh.
The message kills my mood instantly.
Three years, and the bastard still can't let go.
Striker's been making noise through our contacts—bitter complaints about being forced out, threats about coming back to reclaim what's "his."
Me:
Keep tabs on him. Let me know if you hear about him heading this way.
Bloodhound:
