Page 65 of Ruger's Rage
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the theatrics, but a small part of me appreciates the thoroughness.
After the man asking about "Elizabeth" at the bar, I can't dismiss the danger as paranoia.
"All clear," Rookie announces, opening my door. "I'll be inside, keeping watch. Prez's orders."
"Lucky me."
The morning rush keeps me busy enough to forget I'm being shadowed.
Rookie sits at the end of the bar, nursing the same coffee for hours, eyes constantly surveying the room.
Occasionally, he steps outside to check the perimeter, always returning with a thumbs-up that I pretend not to notice.
Around eleven, I take a break to use the restroom.
When I return, Ellie pulls me aside. "How was your first night at the clubhouse?"
"Different. But okay." I hesitate, then add, "Met someone named Bailey this morning. She was...friendly."
Ellie snorts. "That one's been chasing Ruger for years. Never got further than a drunken night he probably doesn't remember."
"She made that much clear."
"Don't let her get to you. Club life has its hierarchies. Ol’ ladies at the top, clubwhores at the bottom."
"And where do I fit in that hierarchy?"
"That's up to you and Ruger to figure out." She studies me, her expression softening. "He's different with you, you know. Never seen him like this with any woman. I’d say you’re well on your way to being his ol’ lady, sweetie. He wouldn’t be taking protecting you so seriously if you weren’t."
I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I change the subject. "Have you thought more about staying at the compound? Ruger mentioned asking you."
"I'm too old to be running from trouble," she says dismissively.
"It's not running, it's a strategic relocation." I echo Ruger's words from last night. "Please, Ellie. I'd feel better knowing you were safe too."
She seems surprised by my concern. "Let me think about it."
The rest of my shift passes without anything worth noting.
It's almost anticlimactic given everything going on around us—just regular customers, normal orders.
At 2:30, Ruger arrives to relieve Rookie.
The younger man gives a report in low tones before heading out, leaving Ruger to take his place at the bar.
"Quiet day?" he asks, accepting the coffee I slide toward him.
"Too quiet, maybe." I glance around the half-empty bar. "Feels like waiting for the other shoe to drop."
He nods, understanding without me having to explain. "That's usually how it goes. Calm before the storm."
I finish my shift at four, and Ruger walks me to my car.
It's as I'm reaching for the door handle that I see it—a folded piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper.
My blood runs cold.
Ruger notices my reaction instantly. "What is it?"