Rule Breaker (New Orleans Bourdons Book 1)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  She reached over, patted my shoulder, then took a sip of her own drink. I had no idea what it was, couldn't remember what it was she'd ordered. Something dark in a short glass with ice and a cherry that she'd long since eaten, something named after a city somewhere. Maybe. I'd been too busy wallowing in my own misery to pay much attention. It wasn't a touristy drink, like my Hurricane, I knew that much—because Jacqui had made a point of teasing me about my drink choice. I didn't care then and I didn't care now.

  Nathan had stood me up.

  For the first time since we'd met three weeks ago, he'd stood me up. At first I tried telling myself he was just running late. Then I wondered if maybe I'd gone to the wrong place, even though I was positive we'd agreed to meet at the oyster house. He'd been in New Orleans for two months and the famous place was only a couple of blocks away from his apartment but he'd never even heard of it, let alone eaten there. I had wanted to watch him as he ate his first chargrilled oyster, wanted to tease him if he didn't like it or praise him if he did.

  But that wasn't going to happen because he never showed up. I'd studied all the faces in the long line to get in and even did a quick walk-through inside, in case he was there waiting.

  But he wasn't.

  We'd waited for fifteen minutes, in case he was running late, sipping on the frozen Hurricanes Jacqui had bought at the corner even though she complained about feeling like a tourist doing it. Another fifteen minutes had convinced me Nathan really wasn't going to show at all and I'd been tempted—oh so tempted—to head to his apartment to look for him. Jacqui had curled one strong hand around my arm and tugged me along Iberville Street, telling me in no uncertain terms that I would absolutely do no such thing. Now we were in a crowded bar and lounge attached to a historic hotel on Royal Street, sitting at a table by the window and munching on blue crab and crawfish beignets with remoulade while I wallowed in misery.

  Not exactly my idea of a fun night. And certainly not the impression I wanted Jacqui to have of Nathan.

  "Maybe he got held up at work."

  "Hmm." It was the same thing she'd said the other twenty times I'd made excuses. I drained the last of my Hurricane then finally gave in to the sigh that had been fighting to break free for the last hour.

  "I just don't understand why he didn't show up."

  Jacqui watched me for a long minute and I could see that she wanted to say something—a lot of somethings. But she surprised me by saying nothing. Instead, she raised her hand, wiggling her fingers in the air to call over our waiter. I started to order another drink but she stopped me and asked for the check instead.

  I stabbed the last piece of beignet with the tines of my fork—maybe a little harder than I needed to—dragged it through the remoulade, then popped the bite into my mouth. "You're right. I should probably go home."

  "You're not going home, cher."

  "I'm not?"

  "No. Number two, you're in no condition to drive." Jacqui took the check and her credit card from the waiter, scrawled her name at the bottom of the slip, then handed the leather folder back to him. "And number three: this calls for some additional liquid therapy."

  I frowned then leaned forward. "What happened to number one?"

  "Number one is a hefty dose of I told you so and you don't need that right now." She slid from the bench and waited for me, her hand hovering near my arm in case I decided to tumble face-first onto the floor. I only wavered a little bit and I could get away with blaming that on my shoes. I didn't bother, though, because we both knew my wavering had nothing to do with my heels and everything to do with the three Hurricanes I had sucked down—and that number didn't include the frozen one we'd had while standing outside the oyster house waiting on Nathan.

  Who had stood me up.

  I stepped outside into the heavy air and inhaled deeply, then immediately winced when the warm, muggy air that was uniquely New Orleans filled my lungs. Jacqui laughed then led me down Royal and, like a lost puppy, I followed. "Where are we going?"

  "I told you: times like this call for some liquid therapy. And where better to find that therapy than Bourbon Street?"

  "But you hate Bourbon Street." Truth be told, so did I. It was too crowded. Too loud. Too...well, too everything, filled with tourists eager to party their troubles away, to adopt the mantra of laissez les bon temps rouler and believe that letting the good times roll was a life motto.

  At least for one night.

  Not that I could blame them. Hadn't I done the exact same thing the night I ran into Nathan? Yes, I had, and look where it got me.

  He'd stood me up.

  The ass.

  Except he had such a nice ass. Hard and firm and round and—I stumbled on the uneven sidewalk and caught myself at the last second, aided by Jacqui's strong hand. "I'm fine. I was just distracted by thinking."

  "I always said thinking was a dangerous thing." She released my arm as we turned the corner from Iberville onto Bourbon and we both paused, momentarily taking in the sights and sounds and smells exploding around us. Part of me wanted to turn and run. Another part—the saner part that knew running would be impossible in my boots and in my current condition—just stood there, gawking like I'd never seen the sights before.

  Jacqui laughed again, looped her arm through mine, then guided me into the crowded street. We made it half a block before we veered to the side, detouring long enough for her to buy us two frozen drinks in large cups. I accepted mine with more greed than I probably should have and took a long sip. The brain freeze was instantaneous and I pinched my eyes closed, waiting for the sharp pain in my head to subside.

  "You don't have to drink it like you'll never have another. There's plenty more where that came from."

  I nodded, took another sip—a careful one this time—then moved along the sidewalk next to Jacqui. She found a clear spot and we lounged near the wall, watching the crowd stopped in the middle of the street in front of us. Ten women, most of them probably my age, huddled together, shouting and waving to the group of men on the balcony above them. More people had stopped to watch, laughing as the compliments and dares were tossed back and forth between the two groups until the men were rewarded with what they wanted. They threw down a handful of colorful beads and the women scrambled to collect them from the dirty street, adding them to the strands already hanging from their necks.

  I took a long sip of my drink and shook my head. "I still don't understand the obsession with the beads."

  "You've never gone out to collect any of your own?"

  "Only during the parades when we were growing up."

  Jacqui laughed and said something about me being a cynical local. We stayed there a few minutes longer, watching the crowd around us, then moved down the street. I finished the first drink, then the second and the third as we made our way along Bourbon Street. I wasn't keeping track but I was fairly certain we stopped at nearly every bar and to-go shop we passed. And I was pretty sure Jacqui had every intention of helping me forget my sorrow and misery by getting me drunk—a fact that became fairly evident when another drink was pushed into my hand. Jacqui waved my objections away and a part of me felt guilty about turning down her generosity so I drank it. But the disappointment I'd been feeling all night was still there, a large knot lodged just beneath my breastbone, and something told me that it would stay there no matter how much I had to drink.

  "I can't believe he stood me up." Jacqui gave me a knowing look and I wondered how many times I'd already said that. Probably too many, which made me wonder if Jacqui had been right all along. Maybe I'd become too attached to Nathan. Maybe I'd turned our no-expectations fling into something more.

  Or maybe Jacqui didn't really hear me and was just indulging me. That was possible, too, considering we were now standing in a crowded bar with loud people and even louder music blaring around us. She pushed yet another drink into my hand, this one in a neon green tube with a base resembling a hand grenade, and motioned me to drink. If I didn't know better, I'
d think she was trying to get me drunk so I would forget about the night's failure. Or maybe I was already halfway there—to the drunk part, at least, because my cheeks felt all tingly and warm.

  I wrapped my fingers around the long straw, nearly stabbing myself in the eye with it before getting it into my mouth. I rewarded my success with a long sip and immediately wished I hadn't. The drink was too sweet, with a hint of something sour. Melon, maybe. I cringed and shook my head, pushing the drink toward Jacqui. "Don't like it."

  "No?"

  "Uh-uh. And it's too crowded in here. Too loud. Too hot." And it was, especially the hot part. Not that it wouldn't be hot outside but at least the air wouldn't be quite so heavy. Maybe it would even be a little fresher.

  I almost laughed at the thought then pushed away from Jacqui and stumbled through the crowd, weaving my way to freedom in a desperate attempt to get outside so the world would stop spinning. I reached behind me and gathered my hair in one hand, trying to pull it away from my neck and walk at the same time. Under normal conditions, I would have been able to do both with no problem. That last drink—even though I'd had no more than a sip—seemed to be taking its toll though because instead of walking forward, I lurched to the side and collided with a wall.

  No, not a wall—he just felt like one. I stumbled back, an apology hovering on my lips as strong hands caught me. The strangest sense of deja vu washed over me and I blinked, expecting to see Nathan staring down at me when my vision cleared.

  "Nathan?" I even said his name and so what if it came out a little more slurred than I thought it would? To my surprise, the guy laughed, the sound warm and charming, and shook his head.

  "No, he's at the bar getting our drinks. But I can certainly keep you company until he comes back."

  I frowned, trying to make sense of his words with one part of my brain while the other part tried to figure out if I minded the fact that he was still holding onto me. Not aggressively or even suggestively—his hands were on my shoulders and I thought maybe that was a good thing because I couldn't make the room stop spinning. And he had nice hands, too. Large and warm. Not like Nathan's, though. And he was attractive, in a cute kind of way that made me smile but didn't cause my heart to slam in my chest the way it did when I looked at Nathan.

  Which was a shame because it was obvious I'd become entirely too attached to Nathan in too short a time. What I needed was something to distract me.

  I was still trying to decide exactly what kind of distraction I really needed when someone came up behind me and eased me away from the guy holding onto me. I glanced over my shoulder at Jacqui and almost laughed at the mask of protective fierceness on her face. She wrapped one arm around my shoulders and offered the guy a brittle smile.

  "We were just leaving."

  Surprise flashed in the man's green eyes, the reaction there and gone so quickly I wondered if I imagined it. I looked closer, waiting for the judgment to appear next, but didn't see any and decided that whoever this guy was, he was okay in my book. He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, his mouth turned up in a crooked grin. "No problem. I just wanted to make sure she was okay."

  "She'll be fine."

  "I'm fine. I am. Just fine." I nodded, wondering if maybe I was trying too hard to convince them I was fine. For some reason, that struck me as funny and I started to laugh then stumbled sideways against Jacqui when two more men appeared beside the first one, the one who had stopped me from faceplanting in the middle of my mad dash to fresh air. I craved that fresh air now because I was suddenly certain I was hallucinating. Either that or I was having a severe case of wishful thinking because one of the men looked exactly like Nathan.

  Like, exactly like him.

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again to say something but Nathan's twin spoke before I could get a coherent word out.

  "Addy?"

  I blinked and shook my head, a surprised gasp falling from my open mouth when he reached for me.

  "Addy? What are you doing here?"

  I couldn't decide how to answer the question. Should I be nonchalant? Casual? Careless? Or should I be defensive and sarcastic and flippant? Jacqui looked at me then at Nathan, then back at me. A hardness I didn't quite understand filled her hazel eyes as she leaned close and spoke.

  "This is the guy who stood you up?"

  I nodded, still trying to figure out why she suddenly looked so angry. I still didn't understand, not even after she swung out with one arm and caught Nathan on the cheek with her fist.

  And everything after that...well, I'm still not sure what happened.

  Chapter Five

  Nathan

  The sharp scrape of metal against ice filled the air, the sound a comforting background noise that was always there. Soothing. Energizing. Invigorating. It was a sound I was so accustomed to that I only noticed it on a subconscious level, not really aware of it except when it wasn't there.

  Usually.

  Right now, I was aware of every single sound around me. The scrape of metal against ice raced along my spine and lodged at the base of my skull, the sound reminding me of the asshole kid in school who used to drag his nails up and down the chalkboard just to hear everyone else in class squeal in pain. My body's reaction to the sound now was just like it had been back then, only worse because I hadn't been hungover back when I was a kid. I also hadn't had a coaching staff yelling nonstop, telling me—telling all of us—to get our asses in gear and move.

  Like they somehow knew a handful of us had been out last night, indulging just a bit too much. Maybe we had, but not enough for anyone to really notice. And to be honest, I'd been hungover before—maybe too many times before—but I wasn't dragging ass from the hangover. It wasn't the lasting effects of alcohol that battered my body and made every muscle cry in pain when I moved. If it was just the alcohol, I could have survived. Hell, if it was just the alcohol, I would have sweated most of it out an hour ago, then chased the rest away with the copious amounts of electrolyte-laden drinks I'd been swilling all morning.

  No, it wasn't the alcohol, not this time.

  It was the fucking blow to my pride that hurt, along with the bruise I sported on the left side of my face—the same bruise that discolored and distorted the flesh of my cheek. Every time I moved, pain exploded in my face and raced along every nerve ending, from my cheek all the way down to the tips of my fingers and toes. That pain increased ten-fold when I remembered how I'd gotten the bruise.

  I'd had my ass kicked—technically or not technically, whatever the case might be and I wasn't in any frame of mind to finesse the technicalities—by a woman. One single punch had thrown me to the floor in an embarrassing heap, covered in sticky-sweet alcohol and wrapped in a haze of humiliation. The worst of it was, I'd seen it coming. I'd known, even before the woman had pulled her arm back, that I was getting hit. And I hadn't moved. Hadn't even flinched.

  Because I was too busy staring at Addy. At the expression on her face. At the emotion in her dark eyes. Surprise. Disappointment. Hurt. Things that I had put there because I'd been a callous bastard.

  Maybe I hadn't moved when I saw the punch coming because a part of me figured I deserved it. Maybe I still thought I deserved it. No maybe about it—I did. It didn't matter that Addy and I were just having fun. That the only thing between us was a one-night stand that neither one of us had bothered to end yet, not even after three weeks.

  Fun.

  Sex.

  No commitments.

  More sex.

  Yeah, sure. I'd been telling myself that for the last few weeks. Every single time we'd seen each other—which had been damn near every free minute either one of us had—I'd convinced myself it was just fun.

  So why was I besieged by guilt and sharp remorse?

  It sure as hell wasn't because I'd been sucker-punched. And it sure as hell wasn't because I'd been caught standing her up. That guilt had been with me all night, from the time I left this shit hole of a practice arena all the way up un
til I'd landed on my ass in the middle of a crowded bar. Maybe if I had called Addy to let her know—except I couldn't call her because I didn't have her number. Hell, I didn't even know her last name. Not because I didn't want to know, but because that was the silent agreement between us.

  Fun.

  Sex.

  No commitments.

  More sex.

  Yeah. Uh-huh. Sure.

  I was an ass and deserved everything I got. And that was why I hadn't moved when I saw the punch coming. That was why I'd stood there, not even flinching when a solid fist connected with the side of my face.

  I just hadn't expected it to hurt so damn much. And I sure as hell hadn't expected the sting of injury to combine with my own bitterness to create the fucking mess I currently was.

  Something solid slammed into my ankle, the sharp pain only slightly dulled by the leather upper of my skate. I looked down, frowned at the slab of rubber spinning on the ice by my foot, belatedly realized it was the puck. Yeah, because what else would it be? I was at fucking practice, where I was supposed to be sharpening my skills so we didn't look like complete asses when we hit the ice for our first preseason game in two weeks.

  Pretty sure that wasn't going to happen.

  I slammed the edge of the puck with the tip of my blade, spun around, and shot the puck back toward Logan Byrd, who was supposed to be playing defense for the Bourdons. His smirk was visible through the cage on his mask but I ignored it, just like I ignored the muttered digs from a handful of the other players. Everyone had heard what happened last night—not really a surprise—and they were taking turns riding me about it—also not a surprise.

  Whatever. Fuck it. Not like I hadn't been given shit before. I'd handle this the same way I usually handled everything else that annoyed the piss out of me: by ignoring it.

  I sucked in a deep breath of air, winced at the throbbing in my cheek, and pushed off with the edge of my skate. Cool air washed over my face as I gathered speed, my stick out in front of me, the blade sweeping across the ice. Tristan called out and I came to a stop, throwing snow with my skates as he passed the puck to me. I caught it with the stick, spun around, and raced toward the net. Five feet. Three. Two—