He pulls a phone out of his back pocket, taps something, and puts it back. "Got eyes on the truck now. One of mine'll holler if he wakes up. You're not going to be sitting here worrying about him while we talk."
I don’t know what to say to that.
I take a sip of the iced tea because my hands need something to do.
It’s sweeter than any tea I have ever tasted in my life.
"You came a long way," he says.
"Yes."
"From just a phone call."
"Yes, I did."
He sets the glass down, folds his hands on the table.
His knuckles are inked—a single black dot on the back of each one, on the right hand only.
I don’t let my eyes linger on them.
"That's a long way to drive a six-year-old," he says, "for a man you've never met."
"I needed the job."
"You needed it badly enough to put your kid in a truck for eight hours and drive him into a place you didn't know?"
It’s not a question. It’s the closest thing to a threat that has been spoken to me in two years.
I set my jaw.
I look him in the eye.
"My husband died of lung cancer twenty-two months ago, Rogue, and I’ve been working three jobs to keep my son fed since the day I buried him. I sold the house. I sold the truck. I sold every piece of furniture we owned. Four weeks ago, my landlord told me I had thirty days. Last week, I had my son sleeping in the back of a Ford Ranger in a Walmart parking lot because the motel was full. So yes—I needed this job badly enough to drive him into a place I don’t know, and if you’re about to tell me I don’t have the job anymore, I would appreciate it if you would do it now so I can be back on the road before he wakes up."
It’s eerily quiet now.
The ceiling fan turns. The cicadas are loud outside. Somewhere on the property, a dog barks once and stops.
Rogue looks at me for a long time before he speaks.
When he does, his voice is lower than it was a minute ago. "You've got the job, Hadley."
I close my eyes for one second. When I open them, he hasn’t moved.
"I wasn't testing you," he says. "I was making sure you knew what you were walking into. You weren't going to drive a U-Haul this far if you weren't already sure. I needed to hear you say it."
"Okay."
"You're going to live in a cabin behind the bunkhouse. You're going to cook three meals a day for the men who live and work here. You're going to keep the kitchen the way you'd keep it if it was your own. You're going to be paid every two weeks. Your boy is gonna have everything he needs here. You're even going to have medical care for both of you through this job, and you're going to have Sundays off and one weekend a month."
He pauses. "And nobody on this property is going to lay a finger on you without your say-so."
I look at him.
He is not blinking.
"I want you to hear that part," he says. "Because I'm going to say it once and I'm not going to say it again. You’re not here for any man on this ranch to touch. Not the prospects. Not the patched members. Not the men passing through from other charters or clubs. You are here to cook, to live in that cabin, and to raise your son. If any man on this property forgets that, you come to me personally before you go to Phantom, and I promise you I will handle it. Do you understand?"