Contents
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TELL ME YOUR FAVORITE BITS!
ROGUE
copyright © 2015 Callie Hart
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at callie.law.author@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognises the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.
For Alice — for being the best bitch in town.
For Ryan — for shutting down every bar in Sydney with me.
For Andy —for every single cringe-worthy pun.
For Astrid & Campbell —There isn’t enough wine and cheese in the world.
PROLOGUE
LOUIS JAMES AUBERTIN III
“You’re a fucking embarrassment, you know that don’t you? I can’t believe you’re my goddamn son. If you hadn’t been born within the walls of this house, I’d think the wrong child had been brought home from the hospital.”
My father throws back the last of his champagne and hands off the empty glass to one of his faceless servants. Faceless to him, but not to me. I know Sarah, know that she just became a grandmother for the first time this morning and no matter how badly my father treats her today, even he won’t be able to keep the smile off her face. She gives me a wry shrug, placing the glass carefully on her silver tray, and then she vanishes off into the crowd.
My father is oblivious to the entire exchange. “You had no business inviting people here this evening, James. This is a political event. There are important people here. Serious people. Your little friends aren’t suitable company for you to be keeping. You’re not a child anymore. Lord knows you might still act like it, but you’re not.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms, though the action is hidden inside the pockets of the four thousand dollar Ralph Lauren suit I’m wearing. The suit he made me wear. “Cade Preston is a veteran, the same as I am, Dad. He served his country for four years in one of the most dangerous places on earth. And Laura’s just been made partner at her father’s law firm. How are they not serious people?”
My father scoffs. “Cade followed you to the other side of the world because you two boys have always had ridiculous, romanticized notions of war. That’s why you both only lasted for two tours. Neither of you accepted the rank owed to you because of your station. You went out there, full of piss and vinegar, thinking it would be easier to start at the bottom rung, where you’d have no responsibility. And then you didn’t like it, didn’t want to stick it out, so you quit and came home before the job was done.”
Louis James Aubertin II loves baiting me like this in public. He knows if he says these things to me in a crowd, there’s nothing I can do but grin and take it from him. Makes him feel big. Superior. Thing is, my tolerance for this kind of treatment is wearing really fucking thin. “The U.S Marine Corp is not the bottom rung. The Marines are an elite unit. It takes an insane amount of hard work and dedication to even get in. If you think I had no responsibility as a Marine, then you clearly have very little understanding of how the United States Military is run.” I don’t bother defending the length of time my friend and I spent barely surviving out in the desert. What would be the point? Old Louis has no fucking clue. He’d simply say I was making excuses for myself. He can’t possibly comprehend what four long, never-ending years in that environment is like. How the dirt and the sand and the hostile locals and the poverty and the disease and the heat and the IEDs and the amputations and the Taliban and the rape victims and the pain and the suffering all eventually wear you down.
My father’s eyes flash with the same unbridled fury I’ve been provoking in him for years. “I was there in Vietnam, you little shit,” he spits. “I was there from the moment the war started until the moment it ended. Don’t you tell me I have no idea how the U.S. military works.”
Yes, Old Louis was in Vietnam, and yes he was there from start to finish, but he has nothing to be proud of. He never held a rifle or got his hands dirty a single day of that war. He sat with his other command buddies in a hotel fifty miles away from the jungle, where the only conflict they ever encountered was when the toilet paper was too rough to wipe their pampered, lily white asses on.
I say all of this in my head, but the thoughts don’t make it out of my mouth. I press my tongue firmly against the back of my front teeth, just in case a rogue insult should try and escape me. This is how it’s been for years now. So many fucking years. Our mutual hatred of one another only magnifies itself as time passes. I hate him because he’s a vile, angry, malicious old man. He hates me because I killed my mother.
Fair turnaround.
In truth, I hate myself for killing my mother too, but there wasn’t much to be done about it at the time. I had to be born, and fate decided to take the woman who carried me in her womb for nine months, only three seconds after I came kicking and screaming into the world. It was entirely unintentional on my part.
My father swoops down on another of the wait staff, Gavin this time, and snatches up a fresh glass of champagne without uttering a word of thanks. “And what about the girl? Laura Preston is a brash young woman who doesn’t know when to hold her tongue. She’s only made partner at her father’s firm because it’s exactly that—her father’s firm. She wouldn’t have accomplished anything if she’d had to fend for herself, James. There’s no denying that. And just…just look at what she’s wearing, for crying out loud. She looks like a fucking prostitute.” He points off across the other side of the room to where Laura, Cade’s sister, is laughing with a young guy I don’t know, her head tipped back as she lets out a throaty bark of amusement. Her blonde, cropped hair has been pinned up out of her face—a minor miracle, considering it’s normal, wild state—and there’s the faintest hint of blush reddening her cheeks. She always said she’d never wear make up when we were growing up, and for a long time she didn’t. She doesn’t need it, and she’s sure as hell never been a girly girl, but tonight she looks great with that tiny splash of color brightening her face.
The dress she’s wearing is decked out in gold sequins, which reflect the light from the illuminated chandeliers overheard, sending fragments of golden, fiery light dancing and skittering on the walls and on the ceiling. It’s not something a respectable Alabama woman would wear in polite company, and that is precisely why she’s worn it. I want to high-five her so badly, but that sort of behavior would be frowned upon.