Page 48 of Ruger's Rage
Back in my trailer, I double-check all the locks, then pull the blinds tight.
The small space that usually feels cozy now seems exposed, vulnerable.
Every creak, every shadow becomes a threat.
I take the hottest shower I can stand, trying to scrub away the feeling of being watched.
As steam fills the tiny bathroom, my mind races through too many scenarios, each more terrifying than the one before it.
Marco finding me in the parking lot. Marco waiting in my trailer. Marco hurting Ellie to get to me.
I'm toweling off when someone knocks on my door.
I freeze, heartbeat thundering in my ears.
"Tildie? It's Ruger."
Relief floods through me, immediately followed by panic of a different sort. I'm in nothing but a towel, hair dripping wet.
"Just a minute!"
I throw on sweats and a tank top, scrunch my hair with the towel, and try to calm my breathing before opening the door.
Ruger stands on my tiny porch, leather cut over a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.
He's holding a small white bakery box.
"Hey," he says, those dark eyes taking in my damp hair and flushed face. "Bad time?"
"No, just...surprised. What are you doing here?"
"Brought pie," he says, lifting the box. "From that place in town everyone raves about. Figured I owed you dessert after dinner last night."
The normalcy of the gesture—a man bringing dessert after a… date—feels so foreign it almost makes me laugh. Or cry. I'm not sure which.
"You okay?" His expression shifts, concern replacing his usual charm. "You look..."
I finish for him. "Terrified?"
His jaw tightens. "What the fuck happened?"
I step back, letting him in.
My trailer is small—just a living area with a kitchenette, a bedroom, and the bathroom. With Ruger inside, it feels even smaller, his presence filling every corner.
"Someone came to the bar today," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. "Looking for Elizabeth Hayes."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Your real name."
I nod. "Had a picture of me with Marco from a few years back. Offering money for information. Luckily, I was a blonde and stick thin back then, so he didn’t realize who I was."
Ruger sets the pie box on my tiny dining table, his movements deliberately controlled.
I recognize the effort it takes for him to contain his anger.
"Tell me everything," he says quietly.
I relay the entire encounter—the man's questions, the photo, the business card I show him.
