Bending the Rules: A Brother's Best Friend Romance: The Rules Duet (The Dating Playbook Book 1)

by Mariah Dietz

  “I’m going to order a drink,” I say. “Want anything?” I turn from Craig to Maggie.

  “Yeah… Yeah, let’s get you something.” She places a hand on my back as she rises from her seat. At the end of the table, Pax belts out a laugh while one of Maggie’s friends strokes his flexed bicep. Beside him, Lincoln sips on a drink, his dark eyes tracking me like he has the right to.

  “Let’s go this way,” I say, turning around though the most direct route is behind us, leading us directly by Lincoln.

  “I need to make sure they don’t think this is a full touch and feel bar,” Maggie says, grabbing my hand and tugging me to turn back, a smile on her face that slips when my expression registers, making her delicate brows bunch.

  I quickly paste a smile on my face. “Sure. Sorry. I thought it was this way,” I lie.

  Her forehead relaxes, and she reciprocates my smile before turning and leading us to Pax. I want to cower and hide, but my pride refuses to allow me the comfort. I lift my chin, standing beside Maggie with a manufactured smile while my heart batters wildly at the walls of its cage, loathing the way Lincoln keeps his gaze on everyone seated around the table instead of on me.

  Maggie clears her throat, and Lincoln finally turns his attention toward us, but it never makes it past my sister. He exudes confidence and nonchalance, like he didn’t just leave the bloodied remains of my heart in the bathroom. My heart beats an angry rhythm, demanding retribution, or at least a sign of compassion.

  “Okay, time to establish a few ground rules.” Maggie pulls Pax’s arms, silently instructing him to stand. “Ladies, let me draw you a quick diagram.” She turns toward Paxton, drawing a wide rectangle around his groin that expands past his hips. “No one is allowed in this region,” she says. “You can fondle the biceps, he might even let you feel the abs, but remember he has a girlfriend, and he’s still in college.”

  There’s a mixture of responses ranging from cheers to groans.

  “And,” she says, turning her attention to Pax. “You have a game tomorrow. Don’t let these wenches make you forget that.”

  Maggie drops his arm and turns back to me, resuming our path to the bar.

  “Where are you guys going?” Pax yells.

  “We need drinks and maybe some eye candy.” Her grip tightens on my arm.

  The bar is a long, shining counter painted as a giant keyboard that distracts me from the faces of the dozens of strangers. I take in the sleek beauty of the bar and the many details I haven’t seen all night, the little bits of elegance like the large chandeliers dripping in glass cut like diamonds, and the lights bringing a classy and gentle glow at every turn.

  “No! No! Stop!” A woman with dark hair stained with several strands of purple stares at Maggie and me. She’s dressed entirely in black, her eyes heavily shaded in black eye shadow.

  Maggie laughs, her grip on me releasing as she shadows the woman to the end of the bar where the two embrace in a fit of giggles. As the stranger smiles, a spark of resemblance blooms, and I recognize her as Blythe, Maggie’s close friend from childhood, back when her hair was a light shade of brown that she often wore in a single braid and dressed in light pastels.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” Blythe says, looking over Maggie, likely tracking the same differences that have been tripping me up over the past twenty-four hours. “Patrick!” Blythe yells over one shoulder.

  A stocky guy with a headful of short, spiky blond hair and a black tee appears, his eyes warm and soft as they meet hers. “Babe?”

  “Do you remember Maggie?” Blythe’s eyes flash to me, and she smiles. “This is her sister, Raegan. Gosh. You grew up.”

  “Right?” Maggie cries.

  Patrick lifts three shot glasses to the bar and reaches for a clear bottle, filling each of the glasses. “Reunions call for celebrations,” he says.

  We each reach for a glass. My experience drinking is about as long as my sex life, but rejection fuels my confidence, and I throw the liquid back in one drink. Tears burn my eyes as the alcohol scorches my mouth, throat, and stomach. I want to sputter and wipe my tongue on my sweater, but hide it all with a wince.

  Maggie laughs. “Let’s dance.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not in the mood to dance.”

  “Did you hear that, Patrick?” Blythe asks.

  A crooked smile graces his lips, and he pours another round of shots. “Then you need another drink,” he says.

  I know it hasn’t been long enough for the first drink to register, and a second is a bad idea, but I take it as well, the burn slighter and more bearable, unlike the rejections from Lincoln that seem to burn deeper with each experience.

  Maggie watches me, laughing as I release a deep breath. “Now are you ready to dance?”

  The three of us forget about the others we left behind, making our way toward an open space. Few are dancing, but Maggie and Blythe don’t seem to notice—or maybe they just don’t care. Maggie’s boldness has always been something I’ve envied. The tempo picks up as a new song begins, and the alcohol helps numb all the fears and feelings that have been sitting in my head like a tide pool, forgotten by the ocean, leaving a slickened path that leads to jagged rocks. The past is heavy with questions and doubts, and the future exhausts me, but this, the now, Maggie’s cheerful smile and warm grip, ground me to the present that feels bearable as I lose myself in the music and nameless faces.

  We dance until our feet hurt, until the crowd has grown around us, until I feel him watching me.

  “I’ll be back. I need to check in with Patrick and be sure everything’s good,” Blythe says, making a quick exit that has Maggie slowing.

  “I’m so tired,” she admits. “That fourteen-hour time difference is kicking me in the ass right now. With pointy shoes.” She runs a hand through her hair, a thin coating of sweat making the back of her neck and brow glow. “You ready to call it a night?”

  “I’m your ride or die. If you’re ready, I’m ready.”

  A loud laugh bursts through her lips as she wraps her arm around my shoulders, tucking her face close to mine. “I’m going to miss you so damn much.”

  I want to tell her I know, that her impending exit is already looming like winter, cold and unforgiving. “Should we call for a ride?”

  “Probably. I failed you.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. We had a good time.” I’m sure I’m sober enough to drive. It’s been well over an hour since we shared another shot, but among the many lessons drilled into me since my tween years was to never take the chance of driving under the influence, knowing the risk never outweighs the consequences.

  “The best.”

  “We should see if the others are still here,” I tell her.

  “Oh, shit.” She straightens, her jaw falling with a full second of silence before she quietly laughs. “Let’s make sure Pax doesn’t need saving. Knowing those women, he’s going to need our help.”

  I finally look up, trying to find Lincoln to see if he’s in the compromising position I’ve already suspected a half dozen times in the past minute. He’s at the bar, one elbow on a painted piano key with a drink in his hand as he watches us.

  Maggie follows my gaze. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  Doubt has her dropping her chin, but I shrug in reply, refusing to dive into the story—not tonight, not now when I want to revel in my time with her as I fight to remain present.

  When I glance back at the bar, Lincoln’s gone. A tease to my brain that questions if I really saw him. Then he’s in front of us with two glasses that he offers Maggie and me. “It’s water,” he says.

  Maggie accepts one of the cups without hesitation, downing half the glass in one gulp. I eye his hand, refusal on my lips. “Are the others still here?” Maggie asks.

  Lincoln glances in the direction of the table we’d shared. “A few. Craig and Pax left a while ago. He got a call from Candace.”

/>   Maggie’s attention snaps to me. “Already?”

  “This is typical.”

  She sighs loudly. “Damn. Maybe tomorrow, we hide his phone.”

  “Good luck,” I tell her.

  “I’m going to go do a quick good-bye. I’ll be right back.” She squeezes my shoulder before slipping away.

  “Why are you here?” My question is as brash and accusing as a thunderstorm, brandishing the promise of regret and annoyance.

  “I stayed so I could give you guys a ride home.” He tucks his free hand into his pocket, still holding the glass of water intended for me.

  “You can’t do this,” I tell him. “You can’t care when it’s convenient. Like me only because someone else is paying attention to me.”

  He gives a small, nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “I don’t give a shit about Craig.”

  My glare is as sharp and bright as lightening. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t be here if it he didn’t come out with us.” My words are a torrent of rain, revealing the truth.

  Lincoln stares at me, his face frustratingly void of emotion.

  “You have to stay away from me,” I tell him.

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “Yes.” My answer is a burst of lightening, the positive and negative particles that have built too great, combusting with a startling and shocking intensity. One I regret the second the word leaves my mouth. I can’t take it back though, because I know his presence only makes it more impossible for me to recover from him.

  He flexes his jaw and then nods. “Okay.”

  Panic send my heart falling, tugging my heart into a direct plummet.

  He gave up that easily.

  That quickly.

  The house is dark when Maggie and I climb out of the Lyft, my heart still miles behind us as I struggle to pull in a steady breath.

  My phone buzzes with a text, and I pray it’s Lincoln telling me I’m wrong, and that anger fueled my response. Defeat fills me as I see it’s from Pax.

  Pax: Craig texted me. Said he forgot the charging cord for his iPad in Dad’s office. Can you please bring it to the game tomorrow?

  Me: Yeah.

  Knowing I’ll forget by morning, I break stride from Maggie. “I’ll be right up. I just need to grab something.”

  The house is dark, allowing fears to trickle into my thoughts at every squeak. Maggie nor Pax has mentioned the cranes that carried letters of fear into our minds earlier today. I’m grateful, hoping they’re convinced it’s nothing but a hack like I’m striving to do. Unfortunately, the darkness has my mind wandering into a labyrinth of scary ‘what ifs’ that don’t seem to vanish even with the slights switched on.

  I stop at Dad’s office door, phone in my hand though I doubt it would be a successful weapon or a means to call for help because chances are I’d drop it at the mere sight of a threat.

  I push the door open wide and flip on the overhead light before stepping inside.

  “Rae?”

  I jump, my heart launching itself on a catapult to the other side of the house as I turn and face my dad sitting at his desk. “You scared me,” I admit.

  He blinks several times then shifts his chair, rolling closer to his desk. He’s wearing another Brighton sweatshirt, his hair mussed. “You startled me, kiddo. What are you doing?” He looks uneasy, almost nervous.

  “Pax messaged me. His coach left a cord that he needs.” I move toward the TV, grabbing the cord I’d winded but left behind. “Are you okay? Something going on with work?”

  “There’s always something going on with work,” he says, making a face that I suspect is meant to look goofy, but fails. “Did you guys have a good time? It’s late. Lie to me and tell me there was no drinking, loud music, or guys involved.”

  I shake my head. “Only for a second. But we robbed the bar and were out in like two minutes flat.”

  He drops his chin, fighting a smile as he attempts disapproval.

  “What did you do tonight? I heard the team left early.”

  Dad nods. “I went to an open gym and am just trying to catch up with work.” Dad started playing basketball for the first time in his life a couple of months ago. He said it was to get fit. Pax claims it’s because he’s worried about getting older. I’m still undecided.

  “It’s late.” I glance at the large clock that hangs across from him, telling us both it’s past our bedtimes. “You should go to bed. Don’t you and Mom have something in the morning? She mentioned you guys would be home a little after noon.”

  He scrubs his face with the heels of his hands. “I forgot.” A long sigh has him draping back into his chair. “You’re right. I’ll go shortly. I just need to finish this up.” He grabs a pen, and slowly twists back to his laptop.

  “Night,” I say, returning toward the hallway.

  “Night, kiddo.”

  32

  Thump.

  A pillow hits me, then falls to the floor. I slowly open my eyes, straining to focus on my bedroom.

  “Are you hungover?” Maggie asks.

  “Maybe.” My eyes fall shut.

  “I was kidding. You’re not hungover. You didn’t drink enough for that.” She launches herself onto my bed, her elbow falling on my bicep sharply. I swallow the pain, appreciating that something can hurt more than my thoughts for a second. “Why are you being a bum? It’s Saturday. Breakfast.” She leans so close to my face, we both go cross-eyed. “Feed me!”

  She rolls off the bed, taking my covers with her.

  “Why do you hate me?” I groan.

  “Three words. Biscuits and gravy.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, you better get hungry because Pax is at Frank’s Diner as we speak, waiting for a table.”

  “On a game day?”

  She nods. “Said he wanted to carb up for the game.” A grin crests her face. “Come on. Mom and Dad went out—something about a conference or something. I don’t remember. All I know is Frank’s has huckleberry pancakes, and I will literally fight you if I have to.”

  “I don’t have my car,” I tell her, rolling to my back.

  She nods. “Actually, you do. Lincoln drove it back last night. Left your keys in the mailbox.”

  My brow furrows. “What?”

  She hitches a shoulder. “Are you out of excuses, yet?”

  “How do you know he drove my car back?”

  “He asked for your keys last night.”

  “And you gave them to him?”

  “He was sober. I figured we’d ride home in the Lyft so we could chat about boys without a spy, but apparently, I was more tired than I realized,” Maggie says, referring to her sleeping during our ride home. She swats my backside. “Up. Shower. Dress. Let’s go.”

  She leaves my room before I can digest that Lincoln drove my car home. Thoughts pull at my brain in endless directions, making everything feel too heavy as I trudge to my closet and pull out a pair of jeans, avoiding all my shirts and sweatshirts I’ve collected over the years that have Brighton’s name across them.

  I hurry through my shower, not wanting to be alone where my thoughts feel like ammunition that will maim me. My makeup is an afterthought, fast and light before I pull on a pair of sneakers and take the stairs to find Maggie.

  “Ready?” she asks from her seat on the couch where she’s watching the news, her makeup perfect, her lips a light shade of red that enunciates her sweetheart’s bow and flawless skin.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you mind if I drive?” Maggie grabs her purse. Her smile is quick, but her gaze is slow, sweeping over my face. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah,” I repeat the word, striving to sound more convincing.

  Her smile grows, following me to the door. Sure enough, my car is parked in the driveway.

  The air is cutting and brisk, but warmer than last night. Clouds have returned, making summer feel like a distant memory as the damp air swirls into a cloud with each of our breaths. Water is pooled in
the driveway and clings to our skin as I make it to the mailbox and discover my keys.

  I toss them to Maggie, who beams as she moves to the driver’s side and climbs into the chilled cab. She starts the car, her fingers anxiously curling around the wheel. She checks her mirrors, then shifts the car into reverse and hits the clutch and the gas. My Civic lurches, sending us both forward and then backward into the seats. I brace myself, both hands on the dash seconds before she slams on the brakes, jerking us forward against our seat belts.

  She cackles, throwing her head back. “Sorry.”

  “You good?”

  She nods. “It’s just been a while. I’ve got this.”

  She punches the gas again, and though it’s still too hard, it’s softer than the first round, and slowly, she eases to a level speed. Maybe she senses my mood or attributes my silence to my being tired, but she fills the silence on our way to Frank’s by recounting the night, never requiring a response from me. Her driving is improving except for times when she had to come to a complete stop, the same whiplash occurring with each stoplight.

  Relief kisses my skin in the fashion of a breeze as I get out of the car, my muscles strained from Maggie’s attempt to parallel park that had me digging through my glove box because I was certain she was going to hit both cars at one point.

  “I told you I had it.”

  I don’t point out that while the paint jobs of both cars survived, my nerves didn’t come out nearly as untarnished.

  “Finally,” Pax says, standing as we enter the filled lobby, a small Styrofoam cup in his hands. “I had to let five families go. What took you so long? I called you an hour ago.”

  “Traffic,” Maggie lies.

  Pax scoffs, but drops it. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, turning his attention on me.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “You’re judging me. I needed coffee. I was desperate.”

  “In a non-recyclable, non-biodegradable cup that will be here when your great, great, great, great grandkids are born or be the cause of them not being born.” I nod. “Yeah, I see that.”