Rogue Acts Read online

“So, I’m your lover.” Jake sounded unsure. Michael had been unsure whether they could actually be together before today. But Jake had surprised him by coming through. He’d cared for him more than he did about how it would look.

  Even though there wasn’t veto-proof legislation passed by Congress currently winging its way to the president’s desk that would enshrine net neutrality for the ages, there was one thing that Michael was sure of after today—he was very much in deep like with Jake Lieberman.

  “Only if you want it to be permanent.” Michael needed to be clear that Jake wasn’t a random. He was very much on purpose. He wasn’t sure if he loved him, but he could take a stab at finding out.

  He worried for a long moment as Jake walked beside him, looking pensive.

  “We’re going to have to do a segment to explain.”

  Michael took his hand, stopping them on the sidewalk. He pulled Jake into his arms. “I think we’re going to need the whole hour.” And then he kissed him.

  Thank You

  Thank you for reading Brand New Bike! I hope you enjoyed it. If you want more Michael and Jake, or you just want to learn more about my next release, please sign up for my newsletter. (I’m planning on publishing an extended epilogue there in the next few months.)

  If you’re dying to know why Michael is on a self-imposed blow job fast at the beginning of the story, you might want to check out Biker B*tch, the first book in the Heaven’s Sinners series. The Heaven’s Sinners are a non-outlaw motorcycle riding club located in Sonoma County, California.

  Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative, and thank you for your time.

  I always love to hear from readers! You can get in touch through my website, www.andiejchristopher.com, I have a reader group with authors Adriana Anders and Kasey Lane called the Booksmart Tarts, and I can be found very easily on Facebook or Twitter. If you’re only interested in finding out when I have a new release, the best place to follow me is on Bookbub. If you want to get in touch with me personally, drop me a line at [email protected].

  Also by Andie

  One Night in South Beach

  Stroke of Midnight

  Dusk Until Dawn

  Break of Day

  Before Daylight

  Night and Day

  Heaven’s Sinners

  Biker B*tch

  Standalone

  Full Contact

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Adriana Anders for inviting me to be a part of the Romance Resistance, reading an early version of this story, and telling me that it is “sweet” despite the “raunch factor.” I would also be remiss if I didn’t thank Jessica Snyder for her quick turn-around on edits. And thank you to Tamsen, Amy Jo, Zoe York, and all the other Rogue authors for making protest romance the new brunch.

  About the Author

  USA Today Bestselling author Andie J. Christopher writes edgy, funny, sexy contemporary romance featuring heat, humor, and dirty talking heroes that make readers sweat. She grew up in a family of voracious readers, and picked up her first Harlequin Romance novel at age twelve when she’d finished reading everything else in her grandmother’s house. It was love at first read. It wasn’t too long before she started writing her own stories — her first heroine drank Campari and drove an Alfa Romeo up a winding road to a minor royal’s estate in Spain. Andie lives in the Nation’s Capital with her French Bulldog, Gus, a stockpile of Campari, and way too many books.

  For info on new releases, sales, and more, sign up for her newsletter.

  andiejchristopher.com

  Cover Me

  Olivia Dade

  About This Book

  Elizabeth Stone has no health insurance. No savings. No one to turn to when she finds a lump on her breast…except James Magnusson. Even during his doomed first marriage, James considered Elizabeth a special friend—one he had to keep at a safe distance. Now he’s free, and she needs him...but will they finally have the chance to be together, only to have everything torn apart?

  1

  The hospital gown didn’t fit.

  Elizabeth tugged at the edges in front, but all that did was pinch her armpits. The worn, thin material couldn’t stretch any more. It would tear if she yanked harder. And the young woman who’d led the way to the curtained dressing booths had said to leave the gown open in front, so Elizabeth couldn’t reverse the garment.

  The jeans covered some of her, but not enough.

  She didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror. No need to see her breasts and upper belly spilling through the opening, the flesh pale and pebbled by the chill of the Marysburg hospital.

  Any other time, the embarrassment and discomfort might have brought stinging color to her cheeks, even though over four decades of life as a plus-size woman and many visits to this very hospital—and its very inadequate gowns—should have inured her to such indignities. But today, no. She wouldn’t pray the hospital would invest in bigger gowns or wonder what those spotting her would think about her weight.

  Marysburg General was offering free mammograms today, or at least cooperating with the local breast cancer awareness organization who’d advertised the event. That was good enough for her, even if she had to parade down the antiseptic-scented hallways half-naked.

  She didn’t know who was really paying for the mammograms, the hospital or the organization. She didn’t care. The money wasn’t coming from her depleted checking account, and the results from today should relieve weeks of fear.

  So she simply held her sweater in front of the gap in her gown, covering all the crucial bits, and drew back the curtain with a metallic rattle. The tech who’d led her to the dressing room was working at a nearby computer, her dark brows knitted.

  She looked up after a moment, then winced when she saw Elizabeth’s predicament. “I’m sorry.” Her ponytail swished as she shook her head. “We’ve been so busy today, I forgot to get you the right type of gown. If you want to go back into your dressing room, I can bring you one.”

  No. Elizabeth couldn’t wait another moment.

  “It’s fine.” She glanced at the name on the woman’s badge, her cheeks aching from a forced smile. “Thank you for the offer, Cailyn. But I figure I’m supposed to be flashing the goods soon anyway, right?”

  Cailyn’s shoulders relaxed. “True enough. And the room is just down the hall. Follow me.”

  They proceeded past several doorways and the bustling nurses’ station before entering the room with the mammogram machine. It looked newish, shiny and clean, although Elizabeth knew she couldn’t expect 3D images from it. Not when someone else was paying.

  The machine. The chairs. The table. Everything in this space was familiar. Nothing had changed since last year’s mammogram, other than her insurance status.

  And one other terrifying, crucial detail.

  Despite the coolness of the hospital, slick perspiration had gathered under her arms. Deodorant could throw off mammograms, of course, so she hadn’t used any that morning. She suspected she’d have been sweating either way, though.

  “Um…” She licked her lips and tasted blood. The dry air of late winter always caused chapping if she wasn’t careful, and she hadn’t been paying much attention to anything outside her own head in recent days. “You might want to look closely at my right breast.”

  Cailyn paused in her adjustment of the machine. “All right.”

  “In the shower last month, I found a—” She faltered, then made herself finish. “I found a lump along the side. Toward the middle. You can’t see it, but it’s pretty easy to feel. I think it’s a cyst, since I tend to get those, but I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Hmm.” Cailyn crossed the room and flipped through Elizabeth’s various registration forms. “Have you discussed this issue with a primary care physician? Especially given your family history and risk factors?”

  Her weight. Her time as a smoker in her twenties. Her grandmothers. All things sh
e’d noted on those forms. All things she’d been unable to forget since she’d slicked Ivory soap over her breast and felt…something.

  Under any other circumstances, she’d have rushed to Dr. Sterling’s office weeks ago, and her doctor would have insisted on a diagnostic mammogram, rather than a simple screening.

  But much as she’d like to create an alternative reality, one in which she could afford unlimited doctor’s visits even without insurance, she couldn’t. “No. I haven’t seen her.”

  Since Elizabeth was taking advantage of a program offering free mammograms to uninsured Marysburg residents, Cailyn likely understood the situation without further explanation. At the very least, she didn’t ask any more questions.

  “All right.” Brown eyes kind, Cailyn gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best to get crystal-clear images.”

  And then the normal routine began. How many times had she had this procedure? Seven? Ten? Definitely every year since she’d turned forty, and Dr. Sterling had ordered at least one baseline mammogram before then. By this point, Elizabeth knew the basics of how to angle her body and her arm, how to lean into the machine when necessary and hold still.

  Her left breast compressed between the glass plates, and as always, she noted its resemblance to an unbaked loaf of ciabatta. Dimpled, off-white, and vaguely rectangular.

  Two images, like normal. Then the tech helped her switch sides, and her right breast went between the plates. More pressure as they squeezed together once more, spreading her into an even layer as effectively as her favorite rolling pin did pie dough.

  Elizabeth tried to concentrate on that vision, letting its familiar sweetness distract her. Rolling out a disc of dough and transferring it into a pie plate. Cutting off the overhang and crimping the edges. Inspecting the little bits of butter within the dough, which would provide flakiness as they melted and steamed in the heat of the oven. Filling the shell with thin-cut apples, tossed with cinnamon-sugar, lemon juice, a few more pats of butter, and a pinch of salt. Weaving a lattice of dough strips for the top and brushing them with cream for extra browning.

  From the humid warmth of her mental bakery, she heard and obeyed Cailyn’s gentle directives. Position. Freeze. Reposition. Freeze.

  Then Cailyn told her to breathe again, and Elizabeth inhaled deeply, her chest loosening for the first time in weeks. The two standard images of her right breast had been taken. Any moment now, the tech would tell her to put the gown back on and return to the dressing room. She’d don her bra and sweater and find out in a few days that the stupid lump was meaningless, nothing of concern.

  This horrible month would have a happy ending, and she could go back to worrying about normal things, like that rattle in her car or whether she had enough extra money to maintain her small monthly donation to Planned Parenthood.

  All stressful considerations, of course, but not nightmarish. Not anything that would keep her sleepless for weeks on end, waiting for the next free mammogram event nearby.

  But Cailyn didn’t smile and say they were done. Instead, she bit her lip. Fiddled with the machine, looking at God knew what on the screen.

  Another repositioning, and then the tech took one more image. Two more.

  Elizabeth coughed as the pressure in her chest returned and ratcheted tighter.

  “Are you okay?” The smile crinkling the corners of Cailyn’s eyes had disappeared. “Do you need a minute?”

  She didn’t need a minute. She needed insurance. She needed her mom. She needed a stalwart barrier between her and a world abruptly turned frigid and terrifying.

  “I’m fine.” Another approximation of a smile, and then she couldn’t help but say it. “Does everything look okay?”

  Every year, she asked the same question, and she always got the same answer. The tech couldn’t make that determination, and the radiologist reading the images would send a report to Dr. Sterling within five business days.

  Usually, though, the tech would seem relaxed and smile in a way that told Elizabeth what she needed to know. The images were fine. She was fine.

  This time, however, Cailyn remained silent for several heartbeats before speaking, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Your doctor should hear from the radiologist within three to five business days.” Another pause. “Or sooner. The radiologist might have time to look at this today. I’ll check with her.”

  The kindness, the probable reason for it, paralyzed Elizabeth in a way a brusque dismissal wouldn’t have.

  “Even when she sees abnormalities, most of the time it’s nothing. Calcifications or a cyst or something harmless. A simple biopsy can tell you one way or another.”

  Cailyn’s voice had become a little higher, the pace of her words a little more rapid, probably because she wasn’t supposed to say any of these things to a patient. But she was young and concerned and not experienced enough to disguise either.

  “So don’t wor—” The other woman cut herself off. “Anyway, you should hear soon. Let’s take one more image, and then get you back into your nice, warm sweater.”

  Elizabeth was pretty sure she’d never be warm again.

  Another slight repositioning, another held breath, and it was done. She walked to the dressing area, her sweater held in front of her exposed flesh like a shield. Behind the cloth curtain, she peeled off the too-tight gown, hooked her bra, slicked on the deodorant stashed in her purse, and pulled the sweater over her head, tugging it past her hips.

  Then she braced her hands against the wall and dropped her head to her chest.

  After a few minutes, Cailyn spoke on the other side of the curtain, her tone gentle. “Are you okay, Ms. Stone?”

  The poor kid had asked that question before, and the answer would be the same. The answers, really.

  Not at all. Not for months, and definitely not now.

  “I’m fine,” Elizabeth said.

  Later that afternoon, as Cailyn had promised, the call came.

  2

  James glanced at the dashboard clock, the numbers bright green and accusatory in the twilit gloom. Ten minutes to six. Dammit, he was going to be late, and he didn’t have time to pull over and call Elizabeth.

  That last job at the Keplinger house had taken way more time than he’d anticipated, largely because the new kid on his crew had ordered the wrong damn paint for the living room, a semi-gloss blue instead of a matte yellow. An extra early-morning trip to get the right color and finish had set James behind all day.

  He’d intended to shower and change before the town hall. Elizabeth wouldn’t protest, of course. She’d never been overly concerned with appearances. And Lord knew he didn’t give a fuck what some jackass congressman or his supporters thought about him. But meeting his old friend in a paint-splattered sweatshirt and jeans, his hair plastered to his skull by the wool cap he’d worn during trips outside, pained him anyway.

  In their better years, his ex had teased him about it sometimes, how meticulously he tried to straighten himself before they gave final instructions to the babysitter and met Elizabeth—with or without one of her boyfriends—for dinner.

  “We lived with her in a tiny apartment for two years,” Mel would say, rolling her eyes as he ran a comb through his hair and ironed his shirt. “She’s seen you passed out on a stained sofa with dicks Sharpied on your face. I think she can handle uncombed hair.”

  “That was in our university days,” he’d tell her. “Over a decade ago.”

  What he carefully neglected to add: Back when I was drinking too.

  Then, behind the closed door of their bedroom, he’d catch Mel by the waist, press her against the wall, and remind her that the only woman he cared to impress was her. All while hoping he wouldn’t taste tequila on her tongue.

  In their worse years, when they’d moved cross-country and her drinking had become a constant in their lives, their visits home to Marysburg and occasional dinners with Elizabeth had turned fraught.

  “You don’t prep like this for
our other friends.” Mel would watch him in the hotel mirror, her mouth a hyphen.

  He’d inhale through his nose, struggling for patience. “There was never anything between Elizabeth and me. You know that. You and I were already together when we lived with her.”

  Mel would nod, but she wouldn’t look convinced. At dinner, she’d go through an entire bottle of wine or half a dozen margaritas and try to drum up arguments with either him or an ever-calm Elizabeth. And once they got out to the car, the slurred accusations and screamed invectives would begin.

  Finally, he’d stopped suggesting dinner with their old friend and former roommate during visits to Marysburg. Just another way he’d contorted his life, his relationships, everything he did and was, around his ex-wife’s alcoholism. But after the divorce, once he’d returned to his hometown for good, he’d called Elizabeth and apologized. Asked for forgiveness and company at their favorite diner that night.

  She’d accepted him back into her life without questions or recriminations. She provided pleasant, undemanding companionship when they both had time. She baked him cookies for every conceivable holiday. She was the antithesis of drama, and around her, he could just be.

  His history, his choices, his regrets: She knew them all in a way no one else did, not even his parents or his sons. Over the years, he’d hidden so much from his family. From everyone.

  He’d wanted to shield his kids from pain. Wanted to protect the privacy and sanctity of his marriage. But because of Elizabeth’s unique position in his life, she’d witnessed some of the hardest, most horrible moments of that life.

  She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t done anything but offer understanding and warmth.