The Rule Breaker

by Cat Carmine

  I swallow down over the huge lump that’s formed in my throat. I can do this. It’s fine. I’m a professional. This is my book, I’m proud of it, and I believe in everything I wrote.

  I take another deep breath.

  “I’m going to be reading from Chapter Five. It’s called ‘Casual Sex: Just Say No.’”

  A barking laugh comes from the back of the bar. I don’t even have to look up. I know that laugh, because I heard it earlier tonight.

  Tyler.

  My cheeks are on fire, but I refuse to look up. I’m just going to read.

  “Casual sex is a controversial topic,” I intone. “And I’m going to take a controversial stand. I don’t think that any woman who’s serious about finding a partner should engage in it. It’s about respect. And not just his respect. It’s about your own self-respect, ladies.”

  Self-respect. That’s rich, Emma. Where was that self-respect earlier tonight?

  “I know sex is fun, and trust me, I like sex as much as the next girl. But if all you want is to get off, that’s why God and Dr. Mortimer Granville invented vibrators. Sex is about an intimate connection, and that’s something that can’t be rushed.”

  Even without looking up, I can feel Tyler’s eyes on me. There might as well be no one else in the bar right now.

  “You’ve heard of the three-date rule, but that was before the invention of smart phones and social media and a lifestyle that moves at a lightning pace. Today, I think six dates is more appropriate. Life moves faster, but we get to know each other slower. After three dates, you really only know what someone wants you to know. After six dates, you’re starting to really get to know them as a person. Then and only then can you make an informed decision about whether or not you want to share your most special gift with them.”

  I pause there. Everyone in the bar is looking up at me. Blake gives me a thumbs up, and my parents are beaming. Solange nods again. But my eyes travel right to Tyler. He’s still grinning and now shakes his head, chuckling.

  I’ve never been so mortified in my life. I feel like a complete hypocrite. I really do believe every word I wrote in this book — sex should be special. I believe that down to my core.

  What happened in that bathroom was … not special. It shouldn’t have been, anyway. It had all the hallmarks of a one-off encounter, exactly the kind of thing I advocate against. And yet …

  Yet. My body had felt things I’d never even dreamed of. When he’d kissed the back of my neck, at the end, my skin had buzzed with something foreign, something I couldn’t name. Was that Tyler? Or was it the fact that I didn’t know him, that I wasn’t putting any kind of special expectations on what was happening between us?

  I don’t know the answer to that. And this isn’t the time to think about it, because every time I think about leaning over that sink, my pussy clenches, a visceral reminder of how hard he made me come. And that is not what I need to be thinking of, up here on this makeshift stage, in a room full of my friends and family and total strangers.

  I force my mind to stay on the words I’m reading. I actually make it through the entire chapter, and when I finally look up, the bar erupts into applause. It’s over. I survived. I’m dizzy with relief by the time Solange rushes onto the stage.

  “Thank you, Emma,” she says into the microphone, squeezing my hand. “Emma is going to stick around and sign some books, so be sure to pick up your copy of Miss Emma’s Rules for Dating.”

  I’m ushered off the stage and right into Rori’s waiting arms. As she wraps me in a hug, I try to blink myself back into reality.

  “Wine,” I pant. “I need wine. Please.”

  She pulls back, laughing. “I’m on it. Hold tight.”

  After Rori disappears, it’s one hug after another. I lose track of the number of people who come up to congratulate me — friends I haven’t seen since college, old coworkers, even a couple of my parents’ friends who knew me when I was little. It’s all incredibly touching, except I can’t focus on any of it. All I can do is scan the crowd for Tyler.

  I don’t see him anywhere. I’m not even sure he stayed until the end of the reading. I stopped looking up after a while, because it was easier to focus on the words on the page instead of on him. Now he seems to have disappeared. I should be happy about that, but instead I feel a pang of something in my chest. My fingers stray to the nape of my neck, touching the place where he’d grazed his lips earlier.

  After all the hugs, Solange ushers me over to a table that’s been set up with copies of my book. I sit down behind it. Rori drops a glass of wine in front of me — white this time, thank God. At least I don’t have to worry about ruining Tyler’s shirt too. People are already lining up on the other side of the table, and I lose myself in the process of chatting with everyone and signing copies of my book.

  This is the moment I dreamed of when I decided to write a book. Not about standing on a stage reading, but about this — connecting with readers one on one. I get a thrill every time someone comes up and buys a copy or, even better, when they present me with a slightly-worn copy that’s clearly already been read and ask me to sign it.

  Between the wine and the fans and the euphoria of being finished with the reading, I actually start to have … fun.

  Another book gets slid in front of me, and I open up the cover.

  “Who should I make it out to?” I say, pen poised over the page.

  “To the best fuck you ever had?” The voice is low, loud enough for only me to hear. I somehow blanche and flush at the same time.

  I don’t even want to look up, but I force myself to meet his eyes. Tyler. Of course.

  “I thought you had left.” I try to keep my voice as cool and professional as possible.

  “Not a chance. I wanted a signed copy. Something to remember tonight by.”

  “What if I want to forget tonight?”

  “Will you be able to?”

  “Of course.” Not that I feel quite as confident as I sound, mind you.

  “Then consider this for me. For my memory banks.”

  I don’t want to think about what he does with the memories in that bank, but he nudges the book closer to me. I glare at him one more time before I sign it and shove it back to him.

  “Just say no,” he reads, repeating the inscription I’d scrawled. “Love Emma.”

  I smile sweetly at him. “That’s just good life advice.”

  “Mmhmm.” He nods. He’s still grinning. Does he ever stop? He slides something else in front of me — my phone.

  “You left this on the bar earlier,” he explains. “I took the liberty of putting my phone number in it.”

  “And how did you manage that? It has a password.”

  “Your sister might have provided some assistance in that department.”

  Rori. I’m going to kill her. I’m too annoyed to answer, but Tyler just runs his hands through his hair.

  “Feel free to use it anytime,” he says. “My number, I mean. Like when you return my shirt. Or if you want to have a little fun. Because judging by that book you wrote, you could use a little more fun in your life.”

  I try to cue up a snappy response, but he’s already heading away from me, towards the door. So instead I sit there, mouth agape, and watch him walk out of the bar.

  Five

  I expect to collapse into an exhausted heap that night, but instead I lie there in my bed, staring up at the ceiling. My blood buzzes like I’ve had a quad shot espresso, and all I can do is replay the events of the evening in my head, over and over.

  This was supposed to be one of the biggest nights of my life. I should be ecstatic right now. Actually, I should be sleeping right now — but I should be doing it ecstatically. The reading had gone well, for the most part, and we’d sold over a hundred copies of my book, and Solange seemed happy with the turnout and the feedback.

  But it’s the ‘for the most part’ that I can’t stop focusing on.

  Tyler. Our tryst. My abject humiliation wh
en I had to stand up there and spout off my views on casual sex.

  And of all of it, it’s his parting comment that runs over and over in my mind. What the hell did he mean when he said I seemed like someone who could use a little more fun in their life? I have plenty of fun. I probably have more fun than him. Just the other day, I had sorted through all my summer clothes, and the week before that, my roommate Lucy and I had gone to the Container Store and completely organized our kitchen.

  What? That’s fun for some people, okay?

  What does Tyler think is fun, anyway? Drinking beer? Having dimples? Tormenting people he’s had sex with?

  The more I think about it, the more my blood boils. I try a hundred times to force him from my mind, but the more I try, the more his smug grin haunts me. I turn my pillow over, trying to find a cool spot, and rip the sheets from the bottom of the bed. I kick, twist, toss and turn, but I can’t get comfortable.

  I sit up in a huff. My cell phone is sitting on my nightstand, where I set it to charge when I got home. I pick it up, scrolling through the contacts. There it is: Tyler Grant.

  The time says five-thirty. My room is still dark. But my alarm is set to go off in another fifteen minutes, since that’s when I usually go to the gym. And if I, a lowly advice column writer, gets up before six, surely the fancy-pants CEO does too?

  Before I can change my mind, I hit Tyler’s contact info and listen while it rings.

  “Hello?”

  My breath catches at the sound of his voice, and under the bed sheets, my toes curl. He sounds groggy, like I woke him up. Oh well. Since I didn’t get any sleep at all, I can’t say I feel sorry for him.

  “What did you mean when you said I sounded like someone who needs to have more fun?”

  He’s silent for a beat. “Emma.”

  “Yes. What did you mean?”

  He chuckles. “It’s five thirty in the morning.”

  “Please. Don’t tell me you were actually sleeping.”

  “I was, in fact.” He yawns dramatically. I have a sudden vision of him in his bed, his face soft with sleep, his chest bare under the sheets. I bet he has amazing … sheets.

  “Well, that’s not my fault.”

  “Actually, it is.”

  “Huh?” I shake my head. “Anyway, I just wanted to know what you meant when you said … what you said. About me not having enough fun.”

  “I meant that I had fun with you, Emma. And I think that I’d like to have more fun with you. And I think you’d probably like that too, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me before the cocks are even up.”

  I choke. “The what?”

  “The roosters, Emma.” There’s a note of teasing in his voice, and I curse myself for falling for his crude joke.

  “Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling,” I tell him. “I have no interest in repeating what happened last night, especially not now that I know you’re the CEO of my own publishing company. That’s got to be an ethical grey area.”

  “Grey is my favorite color.”

  I sigh in exasperation. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Sure, I have. Now let me take you to dinner sometime.”

  “No.” The word is out of my mouth before I can even consider it.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know your type.”

  “And what type is that?”

  “Arrogant. Entitled. The kind of guy who thinks he can have any girl he wants. I might have fallen for your nice guy act when you gave me your shirt, but I won’t be making that mistake again.”

  He makes a sound that’s something between a laugh and a sigh. “Emma, I’m not going to lie to you — you’re not wrong about those things. But I think you like them a little more than you say you do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Hang on.” I hear him rustling on the other end of the line and then his low breath as he comes back. “Chapter Three: Making the first move.”

  “What?”

  “Your book. Chapter three is about making the first move. How the woman is never supposed to be the one to call first. She’s always supposed to wait for the man. Because ‘men like to chase.’ Isn’t that what you wrote?”

  “Did you read my book?” I ask, instead of answering him.

  “I did. The whole thing. I read it as soon as I got home. It’s good. I don’t agree with most of it, but it’s well-written. Smart.”

  I flush with pleasure but force myself to keep it together.

  “That’s kind of you to say,” I tell him, “But what’s your point?”

  “My point, Emma, is that you’re breaking your own rules. Again.”

  “I’m not,” I sputter.

  “Really? Did I call you or did you call me?”

  “I called you, but—”

  “Exactly. And where are you right now?”

  “Where am I?”

  “Yes, where are you. In your apartment. Are you in your room? In your bed?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Lying there, wearing some tiny pair of pajamas, tossing around in that bed all by yourself — and you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

  I hate him in this moment. I swear to God, I literally hate him. Mostly because he’s right.

  “Okay, yes, I was thinking about you, but only because I was annoyed about what you said.”

  “Wait, let’s rewind a bit. I think I need an exact description of these little pajamas. I mean, if I’m going to picture the scenario correctly.”

  “You will never know what my pajamas look like,” I promise him. I don’t know how this conversation got so far off track.

  “Would you like to hear about mine, then?”

  “That’s a negative.”

  “Good. I’m not wearing any, anyway.”

  I swallow. Hard. So loud he can probably hear it over the phone.

  “Don’t tell me I rendered you speechless,” Tyler teases. “If I’d known all it took was to tell you I’m naked right now, I would have done it at the beginning of this conversation.”

  “I really don’t need to know anything about you being naked.”

  “Really?” I can hear him shifting in his sheets. “Do you want to hear about how just the sound of your voice is making me hard?”

  My toes curl involuntarily. Why did he have to say that? Thinking about his cock is not helping my situation.

  “More information I really didn’t need,” I say lightly, even though my skin is already covered in a sheen of sweat.

  On the other end of the line, Tyler chuckles.

  “I love this prissy routine. I’d love to see what’s underneath it. I think I got a peek at the real Emma last night, and I have to say — I’m a fan.”

  “That was not the real Emma,” I insist. “That was nothing more than a huge mistake, brought on by nerves. And unfortunately, you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I see.”

  Tyler goes quiet on the other end of the line. I suddenly regret my last words. I mean, they’re true — Tyler was nothing but a colossal mistake — but I didn’t have to be rude. Isn’t that what I’m always telling people in my column?

  “It was a good stress reliever though, I’ll give you that,” I allow.

  Tyler chuckles but it doesn’t sound quite the same. “Well, I’m always happy to be a stress-reliever,” he says. “Listen, I’ll text you my address. You can drop the shirt off anytime. You don’t even have to see me; just leave it with my doorman.”

  “Sure. Great.” I sit up in bed. My heart thuds softly. Why do I feel like this conversation isn’t ending the way I wanted it to?

  “Take care, Emma. Good luck with the book.”

  “Thanks. You too. I mean … thanks for the shirt.”

  “Any time.”

  With that, he’s gone. I collapse back onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling again. All I had wanted was to convince Tyler that I wasn’t as boring as he thought I was. Now he thinks I’m a b
itch.

  I turn my pillow over again and try to close my eyes, but my alarm clock rings at that exact moment. I sigh dramatically but drag myself out of bed. The StairMaster waits for no woman.

  Six

  “How was it?” Keagan asks me as soon as I get into the office that morning. He’s holding out a very large cappuccino, and I take it gratefully.

  “The book launch? It was okay. Interesting, I guess.” I swallow down a huge mouthful of caffeine, not caring that it’s scalding hot. I need the jolt, and I need it bad.

  I didn’t sleep much last night. After I got home from Veneer, I sat in bed and read through Emma’s entire book. While I don’t agree with everything she wrote, I could hear her voice in all of it — a little bit sassy, a little bit know-it-all, and underneath, maybe something softer, some kind of yearning. I fell asleep thinking about her face in the mirror when I’d kissed the back of her neck, my cock still snug inside of her. The way she had looked at me isn’t something I’ll ever forget.

  Then she’d woken me up at five-thirty to grill me about some dumb comment I’d made before I left the bar. It had been an amusing conversation, right up until the point that she told me that what happened was a flat-out mistake. That I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess that means I’m just the wrong kind of guy.

  Not that that bothers me. Of course not. It’s not exactly a surprise that I’m too bad to be anyone’s Mister Right. I guess it’s got me feeling out of sorts a bit. I’m not used to women regretting their time with me. Or at least not being so open about it. And sure, maybe I had thought Emma and I had some kind of chemistry. No matter. I have my pick of women, and there are thousands of women just like her across the city.

  Okay, maybe not just like her. I doubt any of them are quite as stubborn. Or opinionated. Or have quite those long legs. Or those lips.

  You know, now that I think about it, maybe I won’t even bother with women. Maybe I’ll just throw myself into my new job.