The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)

by Jennifer Blackwood

  “Do what you need to do. I’ll be right here.” She gave a weak smile and the stab of letting her down speared through me.

  “You’re sure?” The hollowness of my question made me want to punch myself in the face. “I can wait until I get back home.”

  “No. This sounds really important.” She gave a reassuring pat to my thigh.

  I pulled my laptop out of my bag and cued it up, while Mom watched a movie. Her mood shifted from jovial to something I’d describe as Mommy Faking It mode. Ever since I was old enough to really read my mom’s emotions, or anyone’s really, she’d get this look on her face—her smile a little tighter, her eyes taking on a harsher edge, a faint sigh that she thought no one could hear, maybe even an utterance of for fuck’s sake when she thought I wasn’t in the room.

  Times this look made an appearance:

  1. Four-hour dance recitals

  2. When I told my kindergarten teacher that my mom had special toys just for her bedroom that she wouldn’t let me play with.

  3. Any time I asked her to sit through an episode of Toddlers in Tiaras

  4. When my first boyfriend picked me up for a date in a ‘77 Chevy truck with a mattress in the bed of the pickup.

  So, for the record, I, Lainey Taylor, am officially the world’s worst daughter for choosing work over my sick mom. Now that we had that straight, I could push guilt aside (sort of, maybe) and dig in to my slides. Spreadsheet after spreadsheet, I worked out an algorithm that projected the potential growth based off their followings and social media history.

  By the time nine rolled around, I had completed a quarter of the slides I needed to finish before tomorrow evening. I flexed my stiff legs and stretched my arms above my head.

  “Coffee break?” Mom asked, her tone hopeful.

  “Is that even a question?”

  She smiled, this time more genuine. “I’ll make some.” She patted my knee and leaned forward to get up from the couch.

  I waved her to sit back down. “Seriously, I can get it myself. You need your rest.”

  I went to tuck the blankets back around her feet, but she pushed them away and uprooted herself from the couch. A hurt that I’d never seen before was etched across her features. “I’m not a brittle old lady. I’m just as competent as I was before treatments, and I’d appreciate if you acted that way.”

  For a second, my speech failed me. I guess I had been treating her different since her diagnosis, but how was everything supposed to go back to normal when something inside her was trying to take her away from me? “I didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’re tired, and I was just trying to help.”

  “I know you mean well, but I want to take care of my daughter, so let me do my job, and you can do yours, okay?” She leveled a look at me that gave the clear vibe not to contradict her, or else.

  “Okay.” No use arguing with the woman I’d inherited my stubborn streak from.

  She disappeared into the kitchen and came out a few minutes later brandishing two mugs of black coffee. She placed the red mug on the end table next to me, and then she rejoined me on the couch.

  A soft sigh came from her end of the couch, and if I wasn’t so engrossed in numbers and patterns, I’d have noticed her stare burning a hole through the side of my head sooner.

  “I don’t like how hard they’re working you,” she said, not bothering to hide her lack of enthusiasm toward Starr Media.

  I shifted and put my laptop on the coffee table. “It’s part of the job. Can’t really help it.”

  “I just don’t want you to turn out like…” Her voice trailed off, but the meaning was there, whether she said the words or not.

  I smoothed a hand through my hair. Under any other circumstances, I’d let the comment slide, but I was ten PowerPoint slides past irritable and sure as heck didn’t like being lumped into the same category as my father just because I was overworked.

  I blinked hard and looked up at her. “Like what, Mom? Like Dad? Just because I work hard doesn’t mean I’m going to end up running off with someone and leaving my family.” As if I weren’t already medaling in the Shitty Daughter Olympics, this jab really put me in solid gold medal standing.

  The Faking It smile faded, replaced with a wobbly frown that wrung out my insides. She stared down at her coffee mug. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.” Her expression crumbled, right along with my spirit.

  “Mom, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, love bug.” She took another deep breath and closed her eyes, looking as if she was fighting to center herself. “I’m going to head to bed now. I’m pretty tired.” She gave my calf a squeeze, and left with another fake smile.

  I stared from her retreating figure to my laptop and knocked my head back against the couch. I swallowed past the tightness in my throat and mashed my quivering lips together. Damn, I really hoped this presentation was worth souring what could have been an awesome weekend with my mom.

  …

  On Sunday, I drove home in the early misty morning. The feeling of disappointing my mom and the unpleasantness of getting in a fight for the first time since ninth grade when she wouldn’t let me shave the side of my head—Thank you, Mom, you were so right—hung heavy over me like the blanketing fog on I-5.

  A little past ten, I pulled into the parking garage of my apartment and rested my head against the back of my seat. Was it possible to have more than two places to call home? This was the first time since I’d moved to Seattle that I felt overwhelming relief to be at the apartment—a refuge in the chaotic whirlwind of work, dog walking, boss fantasizing, and mother disappointing.

  Zoey’s door was closed when I walked in. I lightened my tread, not wanting to wake her if she was still asleep, and when I got to my room, I dropped my duffel bag and flopped on my bed. Rarely was she still asleep at this hour, but maybe she had a late night with paperwork. I scrubbed my hands over my eyes, willing my aching body to find some energy so I could do a few last minute tweaks to Jackson’s presentation before I sent it off.

  I frowned, thinking about the weekend that was supposed to be filled with horrible movies and junk food. Instead, I’d ignored my mom, solidifying my standing as douchiest daughter on the west coast. The only plus side was that I’d had zero time to focus on Brogan.

  A knock came from my door a few seconds later, and it took every ounce of strength to pry my eyes open. Zoey stood in the doorway in a set of matching pink pajamas, her hair pulled back into a messy bun.

  “Never thought I’d see the day where I was up hours before you,” I said.

  “Yeah, well…” She wrung her hands together, and for the first time since she dropped my flatiron in the toilet in college, looked a little nervous.

  I sat up on my elbows, and a chill ran down my spine. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes.” She moved over to my bed and sat down. “If I tell you something, you have to promise not freak out, okay?”

  “Of course.” Few things could possibly freak me out, just clowns, walking over a wet spot on the floor while wearing socks, and fetal pig dissection (still scarred from tenth grade. Thanks a lot, Mr. Ellington). Doubtful she’d be doing any of these things in the next few minutes.

  “There’s a guy.”

  I lifted my brows. “I like the start of this story.”

  “And he’s kind of here right now.”

  As if her words summoned him, a tall guy with a square jaw, mussed hair, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips and no shirt—for good reasons, because holy abs—appeared in my doorway. “Zoey, I’m gonna take off.” He shook his hair off his forehead in a way that rivaled Sean Hunter from Boy Meets World, and if there weren’t Zoey’s feelings to consider, I’d stand up and break into a slow clap for that perfect little move.

  She sucked in her bottom lip and shot a sheepish look in my direction.

  “Please, take it off,” I muttered. Okay, so I couldn’t fully hold back.

  She s
macked my leg and turned to me, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take all the time you need. Bye, Shirtless Dude,” I called to the retreating guy.

  He smiled. “Bye, Roommate Whose Name I Don’t Know.” His deep voice rattled down my chest, and I had zero questions as to why Zoey had picked this guy. He was a walking, talking lady boner on a stick.

  She walked over to him, and he put his arm around her as they made their way across the hall, disappearing into her room.

  At least someone in this apartment was getting some.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Starr Media Handbook Rule #26

  Coworkers can be assholes.

  So that rule wasn’t in the rulebook, but I had every intention of adding it to the comments and suggestions box. If we actually had one, anyway. It wasn’t so much that I was mad Jackson assigned me work on my one weekend off. Oh, no. It was what tiny dictator grinch did afterward that reinforced the sentiment of my newly minted rule.

  Brogan had called an all-employee meeting Monday morning.

  After everyone took their seats at the boardroom table, Jackson set up the projector and pulled up the presentation we’d made. I should have known something was off when I glanced over to his computer and noticed my name had been left off the title page, with only Jackson’s name appearing in bold black letters.

  Jackson shifted uncomfortably and grimaced, which on his face looked like he maybe had one too many of those soy lattes and was auditioning for a starring role on a Pepto commercial. I rolled my eyes. Whatever. Once we got to my portion of the slides, I’d take over and get my five minutes of presenting and proper brownnosing, and move one step further toward solidifying my position in the company. Badda-bing Badda-boom, Brogan wouldn’t know what hit him.

  Marta and Eric from accounting started off the meeting, and staff members worked their way around the table with news each person brought from their specific division. Since Jackson sat next to Brogan, we were the last two to present our information.

  I shuffled my notecards in my hands and the damp edges started to curl around the curve of my palm. Okay, so I was a few steps beyond a little bout of stage fright. This was the first time I’d done a presentation not talking out of my ass, and at this point, the notecards were merely just a security blanket in case I fumbled over my wording. Zoey would truly be proud of my preparation, except for the fact that these technically were her notecards. She was too busy talking on the phone to Shirtless Dude for me to ask to borrow some, but the girl was an office supply junkie—I doubted three notecards would really put her out. Just in case, I’d buy her an extra pack next time we were at Costco.

  As soon as Zelda sat down, Brogan pointed to Jackson. “Go ahead,” he said. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the table, almost seeming to tap out a tune. If I were to bet, I’d guess it was a song from one of his thousands of records lining the walls in his office. Is that what he did when everyone left for the night? I could picture him leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes while the pop and crackle of some sweet baroque melody on the record player flooded the corner office. That delicious mouth would be slack and completely kissable.

  I shook my head, erasing those thoughts. Game time, Lainey. Focus that sixty-thousand-dollar education on these next few minutes and make the impending doom of paying off your student debt worth something.

  Jackson started the presentation, giving all the facts and data to suggest that we were behind on our quarterly quota and a few ways to improve on our losses. He pressed the clicker and moved to the next slide, which was the Gizzara account—my slides. I pushed my seat out to stand next to him, but he continued on with the presentation, not giving me a chance to take over.

  “As I was saying”—he paused and glared at me, as if daring me to say something—“Gizzara’s clients are not using our services to the full extent.” He continued, but all I could hear was I, world’s tenth worst human being (there had to be a couple handfuls worth of assholes worse than him, I prayed) can’t think of any good ideas on my own, so I must steal them from my smart, sweet, innocent coworker who currently wants to throat-punch the crap out of me, the insufferable first assistant.

  I was still frozen in a pre-standing half-crouched position. I waited a few more seconds, thinking maybe Jackson was going to intro me, to somehow make up for this. Because even I had a hard time believing the “Et tu, Brute” level that he’d just stooped to. Was that a knife sticking out of my back or just the stab of cold hard betrayal? Either way, I could officially mark him off my list of people to catch me during a trust fall exercise.

  Brogan shifted his attention to me, and his eyebrows pushed together as he took in my hunchback position. I sunk back into my seat and chewed on the inside of my cheek to keep from both verbally and physically maiming Jackson. What a frigging jerk.

  The point about adding more services than just social media management to the company to diversify was one that I was proudest of. I glanced over at Brogan as Jackson said this and a thrill shot through me as he nodded along, clearly pleased. Pleased at my work, I internally screamed. My work that was being passed off as someone else’s, unfortunately.

  As Jackson got to the end of the slides, Brogan stood up, his chair cutting through the silence of the room. “This is excellent work, Jackson. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you.” Jackson beamed.

  I clenched my jaw and kept waiting for the Yes, and Lainey came up with everything, and yes, I do hide my bald spot by combing my hair to one side!—something to redeem what he’d just done to me, because under all that Dolce and Gabbana cologne, I’d like to believe his heart wasn’t two sizes too small—but it never came. My eyes narrowed as I turned toward Jackson, and he gave a shrug and apologetic smile.

  Current list of most hated things:

  3. Mildew on my shower wall

  2. Uber rides with sketch drivers

  1. Jackson friggin’ Wells

  I shot him a look and rolled my shoulders back. Maybe if I stared hard enough I might actually burn a hole through his skull.

  “We’ll start implementing those ideas tomorrow.” Brogan turned to me. “Lainey.”

  My heart floated in my chest. Maybe he’d realize that this was my work. Not that he had any reason to, because he’d never seen a project from me cross his desk, but one could hope.

  I stopped grimacing at Jackson and turned to our boss. “Yes?”

  “Do you think you can set all this up? I’ll have Jackson walk you through the steps.”

  My eye twitched. “I think I can handle that,” I said, slow and measured.

  What was that about a side order of spit to go along with Jackson’s next soy latte?

  Unlike some people, I wasn’t about to be a rat in front of the whole office. My hands curled into fists, and I chewed on the inside of my lip until I was sure a WWE style death fight wouldn’t ensue in the conference room, complete with spandex and death metal music.

  What reality was I living in where I assumed my name would be on that presentation? Wake up and smell the coffee, Lainey Taylor. You’re not in the goodie gumdrop forest, you’re in the big leagues. And big leagues meant bigger pricks. There’d be no making this mistake again.

  Brogan adjourned the meeting, and everyone filed out into the lobby. The only people left were Brogan, the Grinch, and me.

  “You didn’t have anything you wanted to add?” Brogan prompted me, expectant.

  Um, yeah, your second in command is a fink who deserves a million paper cuts on his tongue as penance. “I agreed with the presentation. I didn’t really have anything to add to it.”

  Brogan turned to me and frowned, a look of true disappointment etched on his face. “You can really learn a lot from him. I suggest spending more time together on projects so you can see what it takes to get ahead in this company.”

  I nodded. “Oh, yes, I’m learning so much.” I turned my gaze to Jackson, and he looked away, much like a dog who’d disobeyed his
owner and gotten caught. Then again, Bruce had the decency to look me in the eye when he peed on my shoes. Bottom of the barrel in terms of the pecking order in the company or not, my name deserved to be on that presentation and Jackson knew it.

  Brogan joined the rest of the staff in the lobby to celebrate Tonya’s birthday. I sat back down at the conference table and laid my palms on the surface, staring at the grain in the cherry wood. I didn’t trust myself not to climb over the table and hit Jackson over the head with his damn laptop. I stared him down, not moving from my position.

  The silence that spanned between us was charged with the anger that was now freely flowing from every inch of my skin.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about that, but Brogan’s really been breathing down my neck lately.”

  I blinked at him. “You’re sorry.” That was the first time he’d ever uttered that word in my direction. I laughed because a) the apology fit him as well as a cheap Men’s Warehouse suit and b) it was much better than the alternative—throwing my chair at him, or worse, giving him any clue that it had, in fact, hurt me. My gaze narrowed into a glare. “Save it for someone who cares.”

  I packed up my laptop and brushed past him, and as soon as I crossed the threshold into the main office, I let it go. No good could come from holding a grudge. As my mom always said, While you’re carrying a grudge, the other guy’s out dancing. Jackson was doing the frickin’ Mambo Number Five, and I wasn’t going to spend another minute sulking. Time to come up with a plan.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #98

  Cookies do solve all problems.

  Brogan was sitting on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table, when I brought Bruce back from his walk on Wednesday. It had been two days since the infamous Meeting of Betrayal and I’d had time to cool down.

  “I thought you had a meeting until nine?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbled and continued to sift through the paperwork spread across the cushions.

  “That good, huh?”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch, his arms behind his head for support. The fabric of his shirt stretched over his chest, and for a split second my breath hitched. Even when he wasn’t trying, it was like his body pulled me under a spell. A brain power outage spell. “Worse,” he said. “So, so much worse,” he muttered to himself.