Hard Rules

by Lisa Renee Jones

“I prefer somewhere else,” I say, and my voice is remarkably steady considering I’m so out of my comfort zone with this man and my actions tonight that I don’t know what I’m doing. But what I do know is that I don’t want to spend the one night I have with this incredible man at a dinner table.

  He stares down at me, his expression unreadable, seconds ticking like hours before he asks, “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” I confirm, and it’s a relief that I mean it, that nothing dictates this choice but my own wants and needs. “I’m sure.”

  Again, his reply is slow, and he seems to weigh my words before one of his cheeks presses to mine, his breath a warm tease on my ear and neck as he whispers, “I want you to leave with me, but be clear. That means I will fuck you every possible way, with the full intent of ensuring that I’m the man you compare all others to.”

  Every nerve ending I own is suddenly on fire with the bold words that I know are meant to test my resolve. I do not intend to fail. Not this night. “You can try,” I whisper.

  He eases back to look at me, the gray of his eyes now flecked with pale blue fire. “You, Emily, are a contradiction I cannot wait to explore.” I don’t have to ask what he means. I am a contradiction, and in ways he can’t begin to understand. He takes my hands again. “Let’s pay the bill and get the hell out of here.”

  “Yes,” I agree, barely speaking the word before he’s walking again and this time I let me lead me forward.

  Together, we enter the dining room, side by side, walking through the rows of tables toward the hostess stand, and I am more affected by my hand in his than anything else before this. It’s the unity, I think, the sense of being with someone, a façade of course, and that alone cuts deep. I am not with him. I am not with anyone at all and yet tonight I am pretending I am. Maybe that’s the appeal of one-night stands. You get to live the fantasy, experience human touch. Pretend you matter to someone, and them to you, until it’s over.

  We’re almost to the hostess stand when abruptly, Shane stops walking. A moment later, he’s in front of me, his back to the entryway, blocking it from my view, his hands on my arms. “My father is here and he’s the last person I want to see right now. I’m going to grab a waitress and pay the bill. Wait for me at the back door.”

  Stunned, confused, I stammer, “I … yes … okay.” Embarrassment follows, and I turn on my heel, intending to dart away, only to have him snag my hand, and angle me back toward him.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says, his voice thick with promise.

  Unable to process the wave of emotions overwhelming me, I manage a choppy nod and he releases me. I pretty much lunge forward, and still, the short walk feels more eternal than his long, gray-eyed stares. He doesn’t want to be seen with me. He doesn’t want to introduce me to his father, and that is fine, I tell myself, but it feels bad. Really bad. Why would he bring me to one of his regular places, if this is how he was going to react if we ran into someone he knows? Why do I care? It doesn’t matter. I do. Illogical as it might be, I do care. What was I thinking coming here in the first place? Low profile went right out the window and it’s time to get myself back under control.

  Rounding the wall to the hallway again, I continue onward and cut the corner where I spy a BATHROOM sign right next to one that reads EXIT. Exit wins. Double-stepping, I close the distance between me and it, hoping to escape before Shane follows, if he follows. That he might not is a humiliation I really can’t stomach right now. I reach the door and forcefully shove the heavy steel open, finding myself on a street with mostly retail stores that are now closed. I scan for someplace to disappear to, not about to be some sort of obligation to a man I barely know. I cut left when I spot an open coffee shop.

  I all but run toward it, a gust of chilly wind lifting my hair from my neck, and I swear this Texas girl pretending to be a Cali girl will never get used to chilly summer nights. Reaching the entrance, I glance right without meaning to, at the same moment the back door of the restaurant opens. My heart leaps and I quickly enter the coffee shop, traveling the narrow path between the vacant round wooden tables.

  Passing the register, I wave at the person I barely look at behind the counter. “Bathroom before I order,” I murmur, entering yet another hallway and immediately finding the bathroom. I turn the knob, entering the tiny box intended for one, and lock myself inside. Falling against the door, I shut my eyes and touch my lips, remembering that kiss Shane had surprised me with, and I swear I can still taste remnants of cognac on my tongue, remnants of him. I bury my face in my hands, dreading my empty apartment and bed that might have been filled with Shane. Yet another part of me is relieved. I push off the door, dragging my fingers through my hair, staring at my pale face and now messy chestnut hair, and I swear, I look like my mother and I’m making the same mistakes she did. Only she could have turned back time, and made them right, and I can’t. And I was about to add tonight to the list. If anything had happened to me, no one would even miss me. But that’s the point I guess. For one night, I wanted someone to know I exist again. Actually, I wanted him to know. Just him, and I don’t know why.

  It hits me then that I haven’t even checked my phone. I dig it from my purse and look for the call I’m expecting, and find the screen blank. Blank, damn it. What the hell is going on? Nothing I can control, that’s for sure, or I wouldn’t be in Denver. I wouldn’t be doing a lot of things. I drop the phone back in my purse. I need to go home. Okay, not home. That apartment is not home. I just … I need to go. I grab the door, yanking it open, only to gasp at the sight of Shane standing there. “What are you doing?”

  He holds up his hands. “Just hear me out and if you want me to leave, I will.”

  “I do. I want you to leave.”

  “He wasn’t with my mother.”

  I gape. “What?”

  “The woman my father was with wasn’t my mother.” There is a rasp to his voice, and steel in those gray eyes. “I couldn’t have you be a part of that potential confrontation.”

  The wall I’ve placed between us falls away, my chest pinching with the familiar emotion of betrayal he must be feeling. A feeling I know all too well but wish I did not. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry. I know what I made you feel. Like I was embarrassed to be with you and that simply isn’t the case.” He offers me his hand. “Come with me.”

  I could say no, but I don’t want to. And I should ask where we’re going, but very out of character for me, I simply don’t care, nor do I think about any of the reprimands I gave myself in that bathroom. This isn’t about an agenda I must follow. This is about one night with this incredibly sexy man. I slide my hand into his.

  I never lie to any man because I don’t fear anyone. The only time you lie is when you are afraid.

  —John Gotti

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHANE

  The instant Emily’s delicate little hand settles against mine, I close my fingers around hers, holding on tight, wanting her to the point of almost need. This night, somehow, she’s become the light in the darkness that is my fucked-up family.

  I drag her to me, my hand molded to her lower back, hers settling over my thundering heart, her eyes on my chest. “Look at me,” I order.

  She tilts her chin up, those pretty blue eyes filled with desire, but also trepidation that I will take great pleasure in tearing away. “This isn’t,” she begins. “I don’t normally…”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. I know and I don’t make a habit of taking women I just met to bed.”

  “Then why me? Why tonight?”

  “Because it would be unfair to someone else for me to fuck them while thinking about you. I want you. Just you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Because you’re you. That’s the only answer I have for either of us.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Neither do I, but we won’t figure it out standing here in yet another
hallway.”

  She studies me for several long moments, and I fight the urge to pressure her, but I wait, and when she finally nods her approval, the relief I feel defies all reason and my understanding of who I am as a man. But I don’t question it or give her time to change her mind. I take her hand, leading her through the tables, me in front, simply because it’s the only way I can hold on to her. Now that I have her, I’m not letting her go. I want this woman. I’m not letting her get spooked and run again.

  Once we are at the door, I pull her in front of me, holding it open for her, but staying close, my hand on her back. We exit, a gust of especially cold wind greeting us and she faces me, hugging herself. “I really need that jacket right about now.”

  “Take mine,” I say, shrugging out of it, feeling protective of this woman when I barely know her.

  “No,” she says, holding up her hands. “I can’t do that. It’s very—”

  I settle it around her, holding on to the lapels as she murmurs, “Expensive,” and I am looking at her lips, thinking about my mouth on hers.

  “Put your arms in,” I order softly, the wind lifting that sweet scent of hers in the air, and I swear my groin tightens as if she’d touched me. Holy hell, I’m in trouble with this woman. “Arms,” I say again when she hasn’t moved.

  She hesitates a moment longer but does as I say, laughing as her hands are swallowed by my sleeves. “You’re big or I’m small.”

  “Considering I’m six two and I’d guess you to be a foot shorter, I’d say both.”

  “Hey now,” she reprimands me. “I’m five four. Don’t take my two inches.”

  “Five four,” I amend, reaching for one of her arms to roll up the sleeve.

  “Don’t do that,” she objects, grabbing my hand. “This is at least a two-thousand-dollar suit. You can’t roll up the material.”

  For a woman who tries not to talk about herself, she’s just told me there’s a good chance she’s been around money, even if she doesn’t have it now. “The jacket will be fine. The dry cleaners can handle it. I promise.”

  For a moment, she looks like she might argue, but instead says, “Thank you,” and there’s an odd hint of something in her voice that reaches beyond simple politeness and stirs further interest in me. She interests me and remarkably, the edge of minutes before has eased slightly, and I haven’t even gotten her naked yet.

  I grab the lapels again and inch her closer. “My place is a mile from here. I want to take you there. This is where you say yes again.”

  “You know my answer.”

  “Say it,” I demand, needing her to be clear about what she wants, and what I want.

  “Yes,” she whispers, then seeming to understand I’ll ask for more, she firms her voice to add, “Your place is fine.”

  “Good answer.” I don’t give her time to get nervous on me, draping my arm around her shoulders to sweep her into the shelter of my body, and set us in motion down a fairly deserted section of the sidewalk. “The walk is longer from the direction we exited the restaurant,” I say, noting her hands grasping her purse, not me, where they belong. “But I need to drop by the building and pick up my car. Is yours in the garage?”

  “I walked,” she says as we enter the dark patch just before the bustle of Sixteenth Street. “Good grief, this back street is spooky. I’d never walk it without you.”

  “Just another half a block and we’ll be back on the main road,” I say, when someone jumps out of the darkness, and starts cursing at us. I quickly pull Emily to the opposite side of me, away from the action, and hustle us forward. The minute we’re on Sixteenth, I place her in front of me and turn to find a homeless man hanging back and laughing.

  “Little bastard,” I murmur, joining Emily, who’s now facing me. “He’s not following us,” I say, my hands settling on her arms. “Are you okay?”

  “Now that my heart is out of my throat. That was scary.”

  “I’m pretty sure that was a guy known as Joe who has some notoriety around him. He’s a street person who enjoys scaring people.”

  “Enjoys it? What a horrible way to amuse himself. And how can I be mad at him and still feel sorry for him?”

  “Don’t,” I say, draping my arm around her neck and turning her to step us into action again. “My understanding is that he has family who’ve tried to help but he always ends up back here.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yes. Drugs. He won’t stay clean. Addiction is an evil monster that comes in many forms.”

  “Yes,” she whispers, delicately clearing her throat. “Yes. It is.”

  She cuts her gaze, hiding what I might find in her eyes, her response suggesting the topic is personal to her and I wonder if that has anything to do with her coming to Denver alone. “Have you ever lived downtown in a major city?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ve traveled enough to know that every downtown located in a major metropolis is packed with convenience, but also comes with a rough side. I was with you tonight, but you never know when you’ll run into another Joe, or someone with worse intentions.”

  “I’m always careful.” She cuts me a look. “As you can tell, considering I’m going home with a stranger tonight.”

  “I’m not a stranger. You know where I work. You know a restaurant I frequent and plenty of people saw us together. And by the way, Jeffrey’s really does make a damn good plate of ravioli. You would have liked it.”

  “It smelled and looked amazing but…” She hesitates. “I guess it’s good we didn’t decide to stay. I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Yes well, it really shouldn’t have surprised me the way it did. I mean this is a man I caught fucking our neighbor, my buddy’s mother, on our kitchen counter when I was sixteen.”

  “Oh God. That must have been a nightmare for you.”

  “It wasn’t one of my brighter moments.”

  “I’d say it’s more like it wasn’t one of your father’s brighter moments. But your mother stayed?”

  “Yes. She stayed.”

  “So, they worked it out. Are you sure this dinner was inappropriate?”

  “Inappropriate is about as ‘appropriate’ as it gets,” I say, remembering the way the woman was hanging on my father and wishing like hell I hadn’t opened the door for more questions I won’t answer.

  But she doesn’t ask another question, instead summing things up perfectly with, “Then he’s an asshole.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “He’s an asshole.” Silently adding, An asshole dying of cancer. And yet he seems to revel in pissing people off and watching them catapult their anger to guilt.

  “I love horses,” she says, as a carriage pulled by a black gelding passes by us. “And this one is quite beautiful.”

  “Have you been around horses?”

  “My father loved to ride. I love to ride.” I’m curious about this side of her, but she’s already moving on. “I’m glad the carriages only work the section of Sixteenth closed to traffic. The animals seem well cared for too.”

  “Unlike the ones in New York City,” I say, reluctantly allowing her to divert the topic from herself. “My apartment was right next to Central Park. Those poor animals are in the middle of traffic getting their hoofs beat to hell.”

  “You lived in Manhattan?”

  “Yeah. I moved there right out of law school and stayed there until I moved back to Denver last year.”

  She stops dead in her tracks and turns to look at me. “You’re an attorney?”

  “Didn’t I mention that?”

  “No. You did not mention that. You sat there and listened to me talk about law school and you didn’t say a word.”

  I step to her, my hands settling at her waist, under the jacket. “I’m telling you now.”

  “What kind of law?”

  “Corporate.”

  “Where’d you go to school?”

  “Harvard.”

  She gapes. “Harvard? You went to Harvard?”

  �
�Yes. I went to Harvard.”

  “And then you were recruited out of college to work in New York?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Money or passion?” she asks.

  My brows dip. “What?”

  “Are you in it for the money or the passion?”

  “Why can’t I have both?”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Not always. But sometimes.” I study her a moment, and that sexy trepidation I’ve noticed several times before has returned with a vengeance. “Emily,” I say softly, lifting my chin toward our destination. “We’re ten feet from the building, and my car, which means us leaving together, and we aren’t moving any closer to achieving that goal. Is this nerves or second thoughts?”

  “I really want to know about you and Harvard and—”

  “Understood. And I’ll tell you, but we’re still standing here.”

  She glances at the building and then back to me. “I wasn’t, but now that you just pointed all of that out, I am. It’s been a while and you’re…”

  “I’m what?”

  “You. You’re just you, and don’t ask me to explain that because like you, I can’t.”

  There is something so damn sweet about this woman that hits all the right spots and I reach over and caress hair from her face. “We’re going to be good together. We already are. I feel it. You have to feel it, too. Do you feel it?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I do.”

  Pleased with her answer, I link our arms again and we cross a walkway toward the building. “I don’t have to ask to know you’re a good attorney,” she comments a few steps later. “You’re very persuasive.”

  I laugh. “Some would say I’m an asshole.”

  “Are you?”

  “If I’m dealing with an asshole, then yes, I’m an asshole. Have you taken the LSAT?”

  “Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. I have no desire to compare scores.”

  “Now you’ve really made me curious.”

  “Why?” she asks as we reach the glass doors to the building. “It’s nothing you haven’t already done and done very well.”

  I key a code into the security panel and open the door. “What was your score?” I press again.