Rogan's Robbie
Rogan's Robbie
Love Happens in Vegas
Irene King
RW&W
Copyright © 2022, Irene W. King.
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. 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 express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews from people who've read it all the way through and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Long sentence, I know. But it's legal. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed "Attention: Permission Request" at the address below.
I'm the author and I'm so proud of this!
ISBN: 979-8-9854934-0-5 (Print)
ISBN: 979-8-9854934-1-2 (E-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022904219
All names, characters, events, and places are either products of the author's vivid imagination or have been fictionalized beyond recognition. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locations, or circumstances is entirely coincidental.
Book cover by Panagiotis "Peter" Lampridis.
First printing edition 2022.
Published by:
Irene W. King
Renie Writes & Wines
840 S. Rancho Drive
Suite 4-228
Las Vegas, NV 89106
Printed in the U.S.A.
Visit the author’s website at www.RenieWritesandWines.com
For email permission inquiries: Renie@RenieWritesandWines.com
Note: Rogan’s Robbie is a work of fiction about a BWWM (Black Woman/White Man) romantic relationship. It contains mature and sensitive themes and situations intended for readers over the age of 18. Reader discretion is advised.
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
45. Chapter 45
46. Chapter 46
47. Chapter 47
Afterword
Derrick's Daria
About the Author
Acknowledgements
To Aunt Joyce and the rest of my girls. You complimented, criticized, and encouraged me throughout the writing process. I love you all!
I wrote my first novel because I wanted to read it.
Toni Morrison
Prologue
ABOUT A DECADE AGO
Palo Mesa High School is located in the Centennial Hills area of Las Vegas. At the time, it was the only local charter high school, and the competition for admission was fierce.
Palo Mesa had been built specifically as a charter school. Because of the donations of wealthy local benefactors, including my parents, the impact on taxpayers was minimal. The school was top-notch in academics and athletics and could, and did, demand the highest caliber students. In addition to a zero-tolerance policy against bullying, academic slackers would quickly find themselves transferred out. It also gave bright students from poorer households or substandard schools an opportunity to receive a private-school caliber education. Because of its high standards, eager students lined up for admission.
Graduating students continued on to top-notch, often Ivy League, colleges and universities, most with scholarships or grants.
That’s pretty much how my parents described Palo Mesa and their personal involvement. Yeah. I’m bragging.
I’m the oldest of two children of fairly well-off parents. My folks had been born into the equivalent of the middle-class in their native countries and had worked their way up. Mama’s originally from Spain, Dad is from Scotland, and they immigrated to the States together. I’m sure they’ll tell me their love story one day. They are still tight. Sometimes overly so, if you get my drift. Get a room.
At any rate, they looked at the school as a way to allow any gifted or talented child an opportunity to get a world-class education without the expense of a private school or the parental limitations of homeschooling. They wanted to offer the same academic opportunities to others that they had worked so hard to get for themselves.
Palo Mesa had the same standard layout as most high schools in Clark County, but it was more sprawling. Its maze-like halls confused new students who regularly got lost. With that in mind, one day I saw a person standing in front of the school map, unmoving. He wore baggy coveralls, an oversized t-shirt, and had coiled hair that brushed his shoulders. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female to tell the truth.
“Can I help you? Are you lost?”
“I’m lost,” was the reply. The voice was female, but because of its huskiness, it could have been a gay dude, too. “This place is a darned maze.”
I laughed and said, “Yeah, I know. I can help you.”
The person turned from the useless campus map to look at me. Something inside of me hitched. It almost felt as if my heart had stopped. How corny is that?
The person in front of me was clearly female, and despite her obviously young age, was pretty, in a way. She had caramel-colored skin that looked smooth other than a couple of zits. She had a dimple on her left cheek and full lips upturned into a smile full of braces. Her hair was wildly coily, and her figure was invisible under all the baggy, paint-stained clothes she wore. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder and huaraches on her feet. But what really got to me were her big, light gray eyes that smiled along with her expression. They looked awesome against her dark skin.
“You’re new here.”
“Yeah. I was just transferred.”
“I’m Rogan.” I extended my hand for a shake.
“I’m Rob,” she replied and immediately started giggling at what I’m sure was my look of confusion. “That’s what some of my friends call me. My name is Roberta, which I hate.”
Ah. Definitely female.
“You can call me Robbie. That’s what I generally answer to.”
“Okay, Robbie. You seem awfully young to be in high school,” I noted.
“I am,” she agreed. “I just turned 13.
“Apparently, I’m a prodigy or a genius or something,” Robbie continued. “I’ll graduate at 15, so it’s not like I’m all that smart. If I were a real prodigy, I’d be graduating college by now,” she laughed at her own humor.
Once again, my breath caught. Her laughter was easy and somehow made her dimple stand out. Her gray eyes went silvery with humor.
“I’m already a seasoned artist. I mean the whole articles in magazines, face on TV showcasing young artists on Bravo and PBS thing,” she explained in one breath, “and I’m here for the art and academics. Mostly academics.”
“Where do you need to go?” I asked. This little black chick was impressive.
“Wherever the Art Department is,” Robbie answered, looking up at me.
“I’m an ambassador for the school,” I told her with a lift of my shoulders as we started toward the department. “I get to show new people around and answer questions. My father made me do it, but I don’t mind.” I smiled down at her again. “I kinda like it.”
“Why would he make you do it?”
“Long story. He’s supporting and contributing to the school, and because it’s a charter school, they can use the money. He’s making me be a good citizen. It’s supposed to build my character. So I’m okay with it.”
Robbie was still laughing when we arrived at the Art Department’s hallway entrance, and I swept my hand toward the double doors. “Here you go!”
“Thanks, Rogan,” she said. “See you ’round!” She waved at me as she opened the double doors into the Art Department hallway and disappeared inside without a backward glance.
I stood in the same spot for long moments after she was out of sight. I was trying to figure out the feelings I was dealing with. I was 18, a senior, my grades were good, and as the soccer team captain, I had both status and female company. While the females consisted of the usual groupie girls who were willing to put out for any male member of any varsity team, I was more than okay with that. I’d been able to get some play from time to time and thoroughly enjoyed the encounters. I always had a couple of condoms in my backpack. Just in case.
For all intents and purpos
es, life as a senior was outstanding.
So why had this little girl affected me? She was not even remotely my type. She was on the tall side, African American, flat-chested, skinny, and way too young. Jailbait, even. She was decidedly not a blonde. Other than her smile, she had shown zero interest in me either as a jock or the son of a wealthy benefactor. She was just being friendly and nothing else. At the time, I couldn’t put my finger on the effect Robbie had on me.
“Rogan!” I heard my name being called and looked up to see Colleen, the slender, athletic blonde I was currently dating, waving and trotting toward me. She was a forward on the girls’ soccer team, which meant we had a shared interest in the “real” football, as my folks called it. I grinned at her and gave her a hard kiss as she skidded into me. Yeah. This was more my style.
She looked at me oddly. “Everything okay?”
Even as I nodded, I inwardly shook my head as we jogged to our next class on the other side of campus. I put Roberta on the back burner of my mind. She was a distraction I didn’t need or want.
Three months later
“Hello, McDonald. How are you doing?”
Mrs. Green, the school librarian, greeted me in her usual dry style. I’d asked for help in Advanced Euclidean Geometry and needed to sit with a tutor for a while. I was pretty sure that I’d pass the midterms. However, since I couldn't find a study partner, I’d finally put my name on the list for a tutor. Colleen was worse than useless, and my teammates didn’t “do” tutoring.
I nodded at Mrs. Green and checked the tutoring pairing list. Ah. There was my name next to Thornquist, R. Hm. Swedish. Maybe a blonde. I should be so lucky.
“Thornquist is in the Reference section,” Mrs. Green told me. I nodded again and headed toward the area. It was late afternoon and relatively quiet. I stood near the tables and looked around. Several people were there, and a couple looked at me curiously before returning to their books. I walked to the Reference desk and asked the student assistant, “I’m looking for R. Thornquist. Do you know them?” The student nodded and pointed at a solitary figure sitting at one of the tables with his back to us. The hunched posture told me that he was deep into his reading.
“Thornquist?” I asked as I arrived at the table. The head shot up, and once again, I was speechless. It was Roberta. I looked at my paper, then at her, and asked, “You’re Thornquist?”
Robbie smiled at me and nodded. She waved at the chair next to her and scooted over a bit to give me room to sit.
“Thornquist? Isn’t that Swedish?”
“Yes,” she replied. “My family history is, well, complicated. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about it.”
“You’re tutoring Geometry? Advanced Geometry?”
“The more I know about Geometry, the more I can apply it to my art, especially with my more complex and geometric pieces. Good art is math, and I have to know math. I hate it, but it sticks in my brain, and I can use it practicably.”
Well, well, well, I thought. This little girl is crazy smart as well as cute.
I inwardly shook my head at that thought and smiled at her. She gave me a metal-covered grin, silvery eyes almost disappearing.
“Now, Mr. Rogan,” she chuckled, “how can I help you?”
“I don’t need tutoring so much, but I do need a study partner for today,” I answered. “I need to review stuff that’s going to be on the mids, and I want to make sure it’s right. Tell me whatcha know.”
She smiled again, opened her book, and took a sheath of notes from her binder. As she began explaining what she had written and how it pertained to the midterms, I realized that I was only half-listening. Once again, I was struck by how mature and intelligent she was and that her face, even with zits and braces, was actually kind of pretty. Her body was lost in another oversized t-shirt, but today she was wearing jeans and Vans. Her boyish figure served as a reminder that she was just a little kid.
I smiled at her as she began going point-by-point over the topics we needed to cover since she was taking the same exam. As she spoke, I found myself drifting, not because of boredom, but because this chick was interesting, and, if I, as a young, masculine, hormone-driven male could use the word, adorable.
“Okay, Miss Robbie,” I interjected when she took a breath. “Let’s start over again. I’m a little distracted today, and I don’t think I got everything.”
“Okay, Rogie.” She smiled. “I get it. No problem.”
Rogie. How had she come up with that?
I smiled and paid attention, this time focusing on the subject because I had a date with Colleen later. A date that would most likely require the use of the condoms I just bought.
I need to get this test prep out of the way so I can focus on the real stuff. I smiled to myself, thinking of Colleen’s sexy body. Too bad this one is barely out of diapers.
Chapter 1
Rogan
“Rogan! Is that you?”
I turned around at the sound of the familiar voice and was greeted by my sister Janina who threw herself into my arms. I caught her, and we whirled around together, laughing.
I was meeting Dad on what seemed to be a crucial matter, and I didn’t know that Janina would be a part of it. Nevertheless, we grinned at each other as we walked toward the building housing Dad’s offices. I draped my arm companionably over her shoulders, happy to see her. When we were kids, we were as thick as thieves, and even though our adult lives had seen us take different paths, we were still close.
“What are you doing here?”
“Dad called me,” she replied, one arm around my waist. “He was kind of cryptic about why he wanted to meet me,” she continued. “He didn’t say anything about you being here.”
“Ditto,” I answered.
Neither of us was worried about whether there was bad news. He would have told us to prepare for heartbreak if necessary. He had done that when our granddad, his father Hamish McDonald, had died in a work accident a few years back.
When he called me, his voice had been enigmatic but flecked with humor. The fact that he hadn’t told me that Janina would be arriving at the same time suggested that he’d have a surprise waiting for both of us.
I looked down at my little sister as we strode across the parking lot. Anyone seeing us together should know immediately that we were siblings. She was the shorter one, taking after Mama. Our hair color was virtually identical, a fusion of the colors of our parents’ hair. Dad was originally from Scotland and had the blinding red hair, sky blue eyes, and masses of freckles expected from that country. Mama was from Spain, and her beautiful dark looks with olive skin, nearly black hair, and eyes the color of clover honey still turned heads.
Janina and I sport a hair color that’s a vivid chestnut with luminous red overtones. It's a dark red in the sunlight and can look nearly black in darkness. We both inherited Mama’s olive complexion. And that’s where our genetic similarities more or less part. Janina’s bright blue eyes are definitely Dad’s, and she has smooth, freckle-free skin like Mama. I, on the other hand, have freckles in places that most people probably don’t. My eyes are similar to Mama’s in that they are more honey than brown. The difference is that mine are an unusual bright gold, which sometimes leaves people peering into my face just to take a look. I’m used to it by now, but sometimes it could be disconcerting. My eye color had earned me the nickname “Wolf” when I was at UNLV and was also a play on my stalking style of defense when I played soccer. Or the “real” football, as Dad likes to say. Nowadays, I’m occasionally compared to The Witcher character on Netflix because of how I sometimes wear my hair as well as my eye color. People who know me no longer notice, and neither do strangers after a while.
At Dad’s insistence, I had flown in from Florida for this meeting. I knew it had to be important because he wouldn’t have called both of us in just to have a cup of tea. I opened one of the front glass doors and allowed Janina to enter before me. After nodding to the security guy, we walked to the elevators to go to the third floor. The entire floor belonged to Dad’s company. Fact is, he owned the whole complex and leased the business office and storefront spaces on the lower levels, but he took the entire top floor in the main building of the complex.