His Rules

by Scott Hildreth

  “Are you going to save the world today?” she asked.

  I tossed $30 on the table. “I’m going to give it one hell of a try.”

  She leaned against the back of the booth and swept her hair away from her face. “Maybe you should get a cape and a cool suit. You’d look good in black.”

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Have a good day, Atticus.”

  I paused. “I figured you’d call me Winston.”

  “He betrayed his true love to save himself from facing his greatest fear. I don’t think you’re like that. At least not in my mind. If you are, don’t tell me. Now, go save the world, Mr. Watson.”

  “Who am I saving it from?” I asked. “I want to be sure and target the right group.”

  “Anyone’s whose thoughts oppose yours.”

  “That might take a while.”

  “It’s easy.” She opened her book and then peered into it. “All you’ve got to do change their way of thinking.”

  Chapter 9

  Taryn – Day eight

  There were three weeks and one day left in my thirty-day no-sex agreement, and I hadn’t seen Marc since we had the Dom/sub discussion in the salon. Going to a coffee shop wasn’t on my list of favorite things to do, but that’s what we were doing, nonetheless.

  While bile slowly rose in my throat, I studied the wall-mounted menu. “Who drinks this stuff in the middle of the day?”

  He motioned toward the only two empty seats in the coffee shop. “The place is packed, Apparently, everyone but you.”

  I found the smell of coffee disgusting. If it tasted the way it smelled, there was no way I could choke down a cup of it. I couldn’t imagine the mustachioed seventeen-year-old hipster standing at the cash register could do anything with it to change my mind, either.

  I glanced at his ridiculous mustache and then at Marc. “I don’t even know what to get.”

  “Do you want hot, cold, sweet, caramel, or--”

  “Caramel.”

  “Hot? Cold?”

  Cold had to smell better than hot, At least the stench wouldn’t rise out of the cup and float around the room while we talked.

  I let out a sigh. “Cold.”

  “I’ll order,” he said.

  I gave the menu one last look and shrugged. “Okay.”

  He ordered our drinks, and we sat side by side in the two leather chairs positioned against a narrow back wall. As far as I was concerned, it was the best seat in the place, but it seemed the laptop clad nerds that were pecking away at their keyboards didn’t agree.

  “I have questions,” I said. “A lot of them.”

  “I’m sure I’ll have answers.”

  I wasn’t accustomed to having meaningful conversations a man. Actually, I wasn’t used to having conversations with a man, period. Most of my time with men in recent years was spent struggling to get my pants down while they were on their lunch break.

  “You’re not going to get mad?” I asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Promise?”

  “Marc! Drinks are ready at the bar!” someone shouted.

  “Let me grab our drinks,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He walked to the counter, and quickly returned with two matching drinks. He handed me one of them. “It’s an iced caramel macchiato. Espresso, milk, and caramel. You might want to stir it first.”

  I looked at the drink. Dark brown at the top, and white at the bottom, with two very definitive layers, the drink looked like a work of coffee shop art. “It’s pretty, I’ll drink it like this.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I poked my straw into the bottom of the cup and took a sip of the drink. Milk laced with threads of caramel filled my mouth. After swallowing it, a hint of coffee flavor lingered, but didn’t last.

  “Holy shit, this is good.”

  In sheer disbelief of any coffee product tasting so good, I eagerly took another sip.

  He cocked his head to the side. “You had questions?”

  “Oh. Yeah. You never promised.”

  “Promised what?”

  “I asked if you were going to get mad. You said no. I asked if you promised. You didn’t respond.”

  “No means no.” He chuckled. “There’s no need to promise.”

  “Okay, fine.” I took another sip of my drink, and then set it on the table situated between our chairs. “Do you have any diseases?”

  He choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”

  “Diseases. STDs. Are you clean?”

  He wiped the corner of his mouth with the end of his thumb, and then looked at it. “Sterile.”

  “Okay. Next question. if we go through this thirty-day thing, and you decide you like what I have to offer, are you going to make me have threesomes and wear a collar?”

  He barked out a laugh, which started a coughing fit. As he almost choked to death coughing, he set his drink beside mine. When he finally caught his breath, he wiped the tears from his eyes and then looked right at me.

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  I slumped in my chair. “Some girls at work.”

  “Our sexual relationship, if we have one, won’t be like that.”

  “What will it be like?”

  “It will be something that will satisfy us both. Something we both agree is suitable. Something that meets both our needs. Knowing what I know about people, I’m going to guess you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “It’s what I believe, so saying it comes easy.”

  I wanted more details, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to give them. I straightened my posture and exhaled a breath of frustration. “Okay.”

  “I’d like oysters for dinner tonight,” he said. “Have you ever had them?”

  It was a random insertion of grossness that caught me off guard. If I had to make a list of the ten things that I would rather die than have in my mouth, coffee and oysters would be the first two. It was going to be one of those days.

  “I uhhm. No. I haven’t.”

  “They’re one of my favorites.” He clasped his hands together. “Will you go with me to the oyster bar this evening?”

  With my eyes fixed on his, I slow blinked. Repeatedly. It seemed to have no effect.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  I let out a sigh. “Sure.”

  “They have Oysters Rockefeller that are out of this world.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A fresh oyster is covered in a spinach sauce and cheese, then sprinkled with breadcrumbs. They’re baked and served warm.”

  I threw up in my mouth. Spinach would have been number three on my vile substances list. It was clear that God wasn’t done punishing me for my past, and I did my best to accept a spinach-covered oyster being in my near future.

  “Sounds interesting.”

  He cocked his head slightly. “Did you have any other questions?”

  I couldn’t rid my mind of having to eat spinach and oysters, let alone both in one meal. I struggled to swallow the bile that had risen in my throat. After half a dozen failed attempts, I reached for my drink and took a long sip.

  The taste went from caramel and milk to coffee surrounded by more coffee. With my cheeks bulging like an overfed chipmunk, I pulled the straw from my mouth and looked at the cup.

  The milky caramel goodness was gone. All that remained was a dark brown substance and a few ice cubes.

  He was right, I should have stirred it.

  I decided it just wasn’t my day. After looking away, I plugged my nose and swallowed the vile filth.

  “Sorry, I thought I was going to sneeze,” I said as I turned to face him. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and swallowed a few times. “I’ve got a few more questions, yeah.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I set my drink on the table between us, all the while wishing I could throw it away without upsetting him.

  “
Okay. So, you don’t have any diseases. According to you, if we decide…if you decide to have sex, it’s going to be something we both enjoy, but it won’t include threesomes and collars. We’ve defined that much, but I need to know a little more.”

  “I’m an open book.”

  “Two things: One, between now and day thirty, is all sexual contact off-limits?”

  “No.”

  His face was expressionless. My acknowledgement of his response wasn’t. I sat up in my seat and shot him a look.

  “It’s not?” I asked excitedly.

  “No,” he said. “There are things that I believe should be. Other things? We’ll have to see. I suppose it will be determined by how well we get along through the course of these thirty days. But to prohibit all contact? That’s certainly not my intention.”

  “Good. I guess we’ll just see how that goes, huh?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He didn’t seem to care, but I was overjoyed at the possibility of something happening. “Well, that gets me right to the second question. I guess more of it’s a statement.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I uhhm.” I cleared my throat. “Describe your dick.”

  “Come again?” he said, coughing out the words.

  I shrugged innocently. “I want to know what it looks like.”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “It’s kind of fleshy, covered in a smooth skin, and has a cylindrical shape.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I think that covers it,” he said dryly.

  A sigh shot from my lungs. “I was hoping for more.”

  He chuckled. “Oh really?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Like what?”

  I twisted my mouth to the side, and wandered around the room with my eyes, like I was thinking, but really didn’t need to.

  “I think I’d like to see it. You know, just to make sure we’re going to be okay later. That is, if things go like I think they will.”

  “And, you think that’s something you won’t be able to wait for?”

  “You’re not, like, tiny are you?”

  He chuckled. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “So, can I?”

  “Right now?”

  Dressed in jeans, a fitted V-neck tee, and black zip-up boots, he had his right ankle resting on his left knee. His eyebrow was cocked in wait for my response. I looked around the coffee shop. At least two-dozen people were littered about.

  “Probably not. Maybe on the way to the oyster bar?”

  His other eyebrow raised. “While I’m driving?”

  The boatload of confidence that he hauled around with him led me to believe he hadn’t been deprived in the dick department. I doubted I was wrong, but I wanted to see it nonetheless. I’d known him for eleven days, and we’d been seeing each other for eight.

  I had guys introduce themselves on Facebook with a dick pic, and some of the men I’d met on Tinder had done the same. Waiting eleven days seemed like an eternity.

  “Oh. I don’t know.” I shrugged, hoping to maintain my innocent portrayal of myself. “In the parking lot?”

  “Afraid that’s not going to happen,” he said with a laugh. “Anything else?”

  It seemed juvenile, but the thought of seeing his dick had become as exciting to me as sex had been in the past. If the eleven days of abstinence were any indication as to what lie ahead, I’d be ready to burst on day thirty.

  “I guess not.” I crossed my legs and looked him over. “I was worried about the threesome thing more than anything.”

  “You’ve heard Dom and sub used in describing a sexual relationship, have you not?” he asked.

  Upon hearing him say the words, my face went flush. I wedged my hands between my thighs and swallowed a lump that was slowly rising in my throat. “I have.”

  “For clarification’s sake, I’m neither,” he admitted. “I like to consider myself nothing more than sexually demanding. If we reach that point, you’ll understand what I mean fairly promptly.”

  My interest was piqued. “What do you…what do you demand?” I asked, my tone barely a whisper.

  His gray eyes pinned me in place. “Whatever my cock desires.”

  Dear fucking God.

  I couldn’t speak. I simply sat and stared at him. Expressionless, he gazed back at me. Thoughts of sex rattled around in my head like marbles.

  “Any other questions?” he asked flatly.

  I swallowed hard. “How many days do we have left again?”

  Chapter 10

  Marc – Day eight

  After spending an inordinate amount of time perusing the menu, she lowered it and took a drink of her water.

  “Make a decision yet?” I asked.

  “The Crab Crusted Fresh Icelandic…” She glanced at the menu and then looked up. “Cod Filet.”

  I titled my head to the side. “No oysters?”

  “I love Cod. If I didn’t get it, I’d be kicking myself for weeks. I’m so glad they serve it. Especially the Icelandic Cod. And fresh?” She cocked her head and grinned. “How can you top that?”

  “The only way to top something like that is with an oyster” I said. “I’ll order plenty, don’t worry. Rockefeller, and on the half shell. We can share.”

  The color drained from her face. After taking a drink of water, her mouth curled into an awkward grin. “I can’t wait.”

  The waitress approached the table and glanced at each of us. “Have you decided?”

  “We have,” I said. “She’ll have the Crab Crusted Cod, and I’d like the O-Side Clams, Mussels, Scallops, Shrimp and Cod. I’d also like half a dozen Oysters Rockefeller, and half a dozen on the half shell.”

  “Would you like the oysters before the meals come out?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  “Any wine?”

  “None for me, thank you.”

  I gestured toward Taryn.

  “None for me, either,” she said.

  “Great choices. The oysters will be right out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You must be hungry,” Taryn said.

  “Seafood is one of my favorite foods. Actually, it’s my go-to food.”

  She swallowed heavily and then widened her eyes. “Oysters included?”

  “Oysters included.”

  She took a drink of water. As she lowered her glass, she wagged her eyebrows. “That’s awesome.”

  “I’ve got a broad palate. After eating foods in other countries, I’m open to almost anything.”

  She wiped the condensation from her glass. “I haven’t been outside of the states.” She looked up. “What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever been?”

  “None of them are weird, they’re just different. Different cultures, different beliefs. They think we’re the weird ones.”

  “Are they really that much different? In other countries?”

  I chuckled. “In Pakistan, when a male member of a family commits a crime, the punishment is oftentimes financial,” I said. “If he is incapable of paying the debt, he can be forced to forfeit his daughter for marriage. It’s called Vani. The tribal elders discuss it, decide who will be given for marriage, and that’s it. No discussions, no negotiations. It’s a form of arranged child marriage. Eleven or twelve years old is a common age for an arranged marriage.”

  “Holy crap,” she said. “Eleven?”

  “In Pakistan, child marriages are as common as a cold. Many countries have arranged marriages, not all of which are children. Afghanistan, Yemen, Guinea, Niger.” I shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a few more.”

  Her eyes went wide. “I had no idea.”

  “Do you believe that a marriage like that can be a loving one?”

  Her gaze fell to the table. After a long moment of consideration, she looked up. “I don’t know. I mean, I can see the girl growing up and not really knowing any better. At eleven or twelve, she’d be too young to understand love. She’d probably look at her h
usband as a fatherly figure, and be attached to him in different ways. I suppose it could become love. Over time. It’s really hard to say.”

  “What about the arranged marriage of adults? In China, Japan, and a few of the other countries I mentioned? Many of those are forced, and some are exogamous. That means that a third party makes the decision of who is marrying who regardless of their social, cultural, or economic group. So, you’d be forced to marry whoever they decided. No exception. And, that person may be someone who has beliefs and habits that you’ve been raised to oppose. Can those two people love each other, or do they simply settle into a life of misery?”

  “That’s a good question.” She reached for her glass of water. “What brought this up?”

  “I’d like your views on love. Can those two adults who are being forced to marry outside of their social and cultural groups love one another?”

  “I think so. Eventually. They’ve got no choice as far as the marriage goes, right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “I think if two adults know that, sooner or later, they’ll make whatever adjustments they have to. You know, to accommodate the other person.”

  “So, you think their relationship is about sacrifice? Or that sacrifice is necessary for it to succeed?”

  “I think it would have to be. In that circumstance, you know there’d be turmoil. One person believes x, and the other believes y. But they’ve got to be together, no matter what. No divorce? Is that allowed?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I think they’d have to be willing to make adjustments. Consider what the other’s beliefs are, and be willing to accept them. That’s a tough one.”

  “But you think, in the end, that they could find love? Develop it?”

  “I think so.”

  “What about love at first sight?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you think soul mates exist? Two people meet and, bam! They’re in love? They say, I knew the instant we met that we were in love. We got married six weeks later. Everyone oohs and aahs at their story of how they met at the produce section of Whole Foods. Is that realistic? Is it love?”

  She chuckled. “I think they tell themselves it is. I don’t believe in insta-love.”