The Rules (Moving the Chains)

by Kata Čuić

  The Rules

  A Moving the Chains Series Novella

  Copyright ©2021 by Kata Čuić

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written permission by the author. This includes, but is not limited to, the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. And yes, that includes the internet and social media. Especially those. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Art in any form is created from the blood, sweat, and tears of the artist. In this case, the writer. Please do not engage in piracy or plagiarism. Purchase from valid vendors. Create your own art!

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and goings on are the product of the author’s ridiculous imagination and/or life experiences and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead or otherwise, is coincidental. Kind of. Mostly.

  Editing by Lisa Salvucci

  Proofreading by Alison Evans-Maxwell at Red Leaf Proofing

  Cover by Sarah Kil at Sarah Kil Creative Studio

  Contents

  1. Dirty Little Secret

  2. Trouble

  3. The Cave

  4. Wicked Games

  5. Maneater

  6. SexyBack

  7. Mr. Brightside

  8. Don’t Let Me Down

  9. Sugar, We’re Goin Down

  Epilogue

  Personal Foul Sneak Peek

  Titles by Kata

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Playlist

  She’s flustered. That’s new.

  Red cheeks, downcast eyes, hair a little messy, top button of her blouse undone. Just that tiny detail screams off. The strap of her messenger bag catches on a nearby chair. She doesn’t even notice until she tries to take another step only to be snapped back into place.

  “Damn it.”

  The curse is so soft, I barely hear it. I sit up straighter in my seat. My tutor doesn’t swear. She doesn’t leave buttons undone. She’s never anything less than put together and in control of any situation. Not that I have a ton of basis for comparison. I see her in the library; in a private study room without any other people around. I’ve never run into her at a party on campus, never seen her in the stands at a home football game. We definitely don’t share any of the same classes. Not that I’ve been looking.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  She collapses into a chair across the large table from me, staring at the lacquered wood like she wishes it would swallow her whole. “Everything.”

  I replay my question, but her answer doesn’t make any sense. “Everything is wrong with you?”

  “That’s what I said, did I not?” She snaps her gaze to me, fury burning in her black eyes. The effect is fucking scary.

  I slide my chair back a little from the desk, just to give me a few inches of space in case she starts breathing actual fire.

  I’m a big dude. Not as big as a lineman, but nothing to sneeze at either. At six-two and a hundred ninety-five pounds, most women would be afraid to meet me in a dark alleyway. When they find out I’m a starting wide receiver for the State Miners, they suddenly want to count my abs in any spare room of a frat house. By count, I mean lick. For the record, it’s an eight-pack. Six-packs are for amateurs. The ladies definitely don’t have any complaints about the size of my dick. It’s not for amateurs.

  Amira has never been like any of those women. She’s not afraid of me, and she doesn’t want me to make her scream. Actually, I take that back. Sometimes, I think I really do make her scream. In frustration. At night. Into her pillow.

  Call it a gift. I do. Making women scream is my calling in life. Along with being a football god.

  We stare at each other in silence. I’m not going to be the one to break. If she wants to waste my tutoring session with a hissy fit, then I’m cool with it. I don’t really need her help anyway. This is just another football tradition like locker room pranks, hazing, and jersey chasers. People—including our coaches and the donors who pay our scholarships—expect athletes to be stupid. They assign us tutors to make sure we stay eligible to bring in money for the team and the university.

  I don’t need to advertise my brain since I have other more important skills, but I don’t need a tutor to pass English Lit either.

  She narrows her eyes at me, then she chews her lip and glances out the window. It’s a nice day. The sun shines on all the people walking around campus. She acts like it’s pouring rain and thirty degrees.

  Maybe that’s just me. Maybe it always feels a little colder around the Ice Queen.

  “My parents came to visit.”

  “Okay.” I fold my hands behind my neck to keep my head upright. Small talk isn’t something I have any interest in. Even if I’m curious as hell about Amira Deep. I don’t want to hear about her parents though. I want to know why she wears silk blouses with the buttons done all the way up to her neck. I’m dying to find out if she’s dying in eighty-degree weather with a long-sleeve shirt, a cardigan, and sometimes a scarf wrapped around her neck. No shorts, never a skirt or even a dress. With her black eyes, black hair, tan skin, and slight accent, I first thought she might be Muslim. She’s never hidden her hair the way she hides her banging body. She’s built like an Amazon—wide hips, heart-shaped ass, flat stomach, big tits that aren’t fake. She’s taller than most of the women I fuck. I wouldn’t have to bend down to kiss her, that’s for damn sure.

  Not that I’ve been thinking about that. A woman like her is too much work. Why bother when I can get an easy lay any time I want?

  Amira narrows her eyes until they’re tiny slits. Still black though. Still scary. “You don’t know my parents.”

  Maybe not, but I do know what she’s doing. She’s dangling the carrot, hoping I’ll bite. Since I’m sick of lying in bed at night thinking about things I don’t want to think about, I do. “I know after you talk to them, your accent gets thicker. You’re in a bad mood until it evens out again.”

  Her expression screams shock, but only for a split second before she smooths it out as she finally arranges our study materials on the table in front of her. “That is because they insist on speaking Aramaic instead of English when we converse.”

  “You mean Arabic.”

  “No. I mean Aramaic.”

  I thought she’d be impressed that I guessed her family speaks Arabic, but I’m dead wrong. She’d rather argue with me about it. That’s cool. Her sharp tongue weirdly adds to the fantasy. When she narrows her eyes at me, all I can picture is her draped in brightly colored veils and gold coin jewelry, shaking her hips like a Middle Eastern Shakira. Amira has that ethnic vibe that drives men crazy.

  The only thing driving me crazy about this woman is not knowing why she doesn’t use her assets to her advantage. If she’s not covering herself up and hiding behind glasses for religious reasons, then why isn’t she flaunting what God gave her? Why hasn’t she ever tried to seduce me in the three months we’ve been locked up for hours alone in this room? She has to know it would be so easy. Too easy. I could bend her over this desk and fuck her until she limps out of the main campus library. Why doesn’t she do it?

  My buddy, Mike, would spout some psychobabble that my weird obsession is all about how men are hardwired for the chase. He’d say I only dream about her because she doesn’t lay at my feet. The dude’s been fascinated by what makes people tick ever since I’ve known him, and he’s been giving out free advice for just as long. Which explains why he actually cares about his psychology major even though he’s a running back for the team. My best friend, Rob, would tell m
e that he’s proud of me for finally growing bored with too easy conquests. The guy is a starting freaking quarterback with every shot to go pro, but he’s always preferred to work for it. For one very specific woman, actually. And he’s a computer engineering major because he likes to prove how hard he can work.

  We’ve been the three amigos ever since pee-wee league football, but we’re all as different as can be. I could tell them the truth about my problems with the Amazonian devil, but that would mean coming clean about a bunch of other stuff I don’t want to talk about with them even though we’ve been through some serious shit together.

  Because honestly? I’m sick of waiting for the next shitstorm to rain down on me. Sex is great, but as soon as the orgasm fades, it’s back to nightmares about things I can’t change. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and I could have handled some stuff better. Too bad there are no second chances in life. I’m pretty sure the only reason I think about Amira so much is because she’s a puzzle that gives me a break from my own fucked-up headspace.

  “Aramaic is a dead language. Variants of Arabic are spoken all over the Middle East,” I argue back. Okay. Maybe I do like a challenge.

  Her wide eyes are a dead giveaway I’ve impressed her. “How do you know that?”

  “I’ll never tell.” There’s something to be said for mystery on both ends. Keeping people guessing keeps them interested.

  Her eyes shrink from wide black pools to something that would look more sinister if it wasn’t accompanied by a slight lift of her pink lips. “Aramaic isn’t a dead language, actually. Variants of it are still spoken and used liturgically throughout the Middle East as well as in the diaspora. I suppose technically what my parents speak is Syriac, which is a derivative of Aramaic.”

  The woman absolutely loves being right. Loves it so much, she’ll never admit she enjoys sparring with me as much as I live for these few hours in the middle of my grueling weeks.

  “Explain to me why your parents speak to you in a dying language instead of the more common one from your homeland? I can guess easily enough why they don’t want to use English.”

  Her head meets the table with a dull thud. “Because they are clinging to a dying way of life and insist on burying me with them.”

  Now, we’re getting somewhere. I resist the urge to rub my hands together in anticipation. I’ve been working for months to get a peek at what’s behind the imagined veils. “I know you’re in a country where you’re considered a minority, but I’m not sure being Muslim counts as a death sentence.”

  I’ve figured out she’s not Muslim. The lack of head covering is obvious, but she’s also snacked on carrot sticks, chips, and whatever else she pulls out of her Mary Poppins bag in the afternoons, even during Ramadan. I just want to hear her admit it. I get the feeling that’s another veil she hides behind, but I can’t figure out why.

  Everywhere she goes, leery eyes follow. Even though college students are way more likely to be gunned down by a crazed white man, they still look at obviously Middle Eastern people with distrust.

  If I thought letting her know I don’t think she’s a secret terrorist would earn me some brownie points, I’m wrong again. She narrows her eyes at me. Again. I scoot my chair back a little further. Again.

  Mike’s right about one thing. I’m hard-wired all right. Addicted to masochism. I’m in love with the torture she threatens me with.

  “First of all, yes. Being Muslim in this country can actually be a death sentence. Second, I’m not Muslim.”

  Duh.

  “I’m Maronite Catholic.”

  Sweet. Common ground. I can use that. “Cool. I’m Catholic, too. I actually went to Catholic school from pre-school through eighth grade.”

  She nods, but her expression doesn’t seem like she’s happy about this connection. “Oh, so your parents arranged your marriage to a complete stranger when you were in pre-school, also?”

  Commence choking on air.

  She waits patiently while I flirt with death.

  “What? You’re engaged? An arranged marriage?” Holy shit. I definitely never guessed this. Amira’s a few years older than me, but I can’t imagine being engaged at the ripe old age of twenty.

  “Not exactly,” she hedges, twisting her mouth to the side. “But I might as well be. I’ve never been allowed to date. Was never permitted to go to school dances. I have never even been allowed to have male friends! They are supportive of my education, yes, but the closer I get to graduation, all my parents do is pester me about when I’m going to find a good Lebanese Maronite man to settle down with!”

  “Uh, wow. Okay.” I relax a little against my chair. More like my whole body sags in relief that this game I’m playing isn’t over. Right up until I turn into one of those suspicious white dudes. “Is this where you tell me your parents put out a fatwa on me for being in close quarters with you a little too often?”

  She tsks, and even that sound of disappointment reels me in a little more. “You know Aramaic is a dying language, and yet you use the term fatwa interchangeably with a hit? That is not what it means.”

  Normally, I’d ask what it means while kicking myself for not doing good enough research, but right now, I can’t stop glancing around us for any suspicious characters who look like they might be ready to take me out. In a private room. With the door closed.

  “Oh, relax, Alex. My parents do not even know you exist.”

  That should make me feel better, but it weirdly doesn’t. I refuse to think about why. I’ll ask Mike to psychoanalyze me later with some similar but totally made-up story. For fun. Irritating him is another one of my life’s callings. He makes it so easy.

  Unfortunately for me, cracking Amira is not so easy. Which makes it even more fun. Not like poking a grumpy bear, but like unlocking her secret code should be worthy of a Nobel prize.

  Wait a second…

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I didn’t even try to charm any info out of her today.

  Her eyes flit everywhere but at me. “Because my time is running out, and I need…” She swallows. Hard. “…your help.”

  Huh. Didn’t see that coming. The game just got a whole lot more interesting.

  “Why do you need my help? You’re the brains of this operation.”

  “And you’re the brawn,” she responds immediately.

  That’s right. We have nicknames for each other. I’ll admit using her as my guinea pig to try out shit I would normally never do with a woman is entertaining as hell.

  “So?” I prod. I’m busting a gut with the effort to keep my glee on lockdown. Amira Deep, asking me for help. I officially declare today a national holiday. I pause. For dramatic effect. Leading, pulling, tugging—all while trying not to laugh out loud.

  She doesn’t take the bait.

  “What do you need my help with?” I sprawl out in my chair, arms and legs everywhere. Putting my chest and abs on display under my fitted tee. Really making an effort to sell what she’s already looking to buy. I might even tilt my hips up a little. To enhance the whole package.

  Seconds turn into minutes turn into eternity.

  The temperature in the room drops. Ice Queen Amira reappears like a puppet master changed her costume and mask. She even takes the time to refasten her top button and smooth her hair before pushing her glasses up higher on her nose. Her expression is all business when she says, “I need to begin work on my senior thesis. Ideally, my research will increase my chances of being accepted into a graduate program, so I can bypass a master’s and go straight for my PhD.”

  I’m confused. “You’re a junior this year.”

  “That is correct,” she states.

  “Why would you need to start your senior thesis a year early?”

  “I don’t need to. I want to.”

  We stare at each other for a while. My irritation grows by the second. I make a get on with it motion since she’s back to being a wall I can’t punch through.

  She steeples her hands on the des
k, prim and proper. “I would like to study you.”

  I can work with this. “Okay.”

  She blinks at me. “You do not even want to ask what my thesis is about before agreeing?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “My hypothesis is that elite athletes order their entire lives around a very careful code of conduct because they are conditioned to operate within set parameters of the rules of the game.”

  Whatever that means. “Okay.”

  “That’s it?” There’s practically steam coming out of her ears. “That is all you have to say to me? Okay? I am asking to study you carefully for the next two years in order to prove that you cannot handle change in your carefully ordered world. It will require hours of research. It will be invasive. I will be on you like, like, like…”

  She tries so hard.

  “White on rice?” I supply. “A fly on shit? A hooker on Main?”

  Her face scrunches in either disgust or confusion. Not sure. “I do not understand that last one, but yes. All of those.”

  “Okay.”

  She stands up so quickly that the legs of her chair screech against the tile. Like nails on a chalkboard. She slams her open palms against the desk. “You are supposed to argue! You are supposed to tell me you’re not interested! You are supposed to behave like the spoiled jock you are!” All the wind leaves her sails in a rush. She sinks onto the chair, cradling her head in her hands and moaning. “Why can you not be the way I expect you to be?”

  “Why would I do that?” I’m practically dying with the effort not to laugh. “I’ll help you even though you’re right. I’m a spoiled little prick.”

  There’s nothing little about my prick, actually. And I know damn well a thesis guinea pig isn’t what she really wants from me.

  He has really nice hands. It is perhaps a stupid thing to notice, but I always notice the little things. Except there is nothing little about these hands wrapped around his mug of coffee. They are big—with long fingers, prominent veins and so deliciously masculine. My date could be a hand model. He possesses hand porn for days.