Breaking the Rules

by Suzanne Brockmann

  But she was giving him hero-worship eyes again, and he knew that the shower-after-dinner thing was optional. She was ready and willing to do him right here on the kitchen table.

  Of course the wine she was chugging was probably adding to her super-friendly do me even if you’re grubby factor. She poured herself another healthy glass and drank about half of it in one fortifying gulp as she turned to stir what looked like a mix of onions and mushrooms that were sautéing in a pan on the stove. The chicken was cooking on one of those little George Foreman grills, plugged into a power adapter to make it compatible with the German electrical system.

  Lettuce and other vegetables for a salad were out on the counter and Izzy said, “Oh, good, let me help,” mostly in an effort to put down that god-awful glass of wine.

  “Oh, thanks,” she said. “The knives are—”

  “I got it,” he said, already finding one—it had a yellow handle, natch—and reaching to take a cutting board from where it hung on the wall. He started to cut up a pepper.

  “Whenever the teddy bear count gets to ten,” she told him, “I take them over to the soldiers at the hospital. The kids send me about one a week, so it doesn’t take long.”

  “That’s nice,” Izzy said, mentally wincing at his word choice as they fell back into an awkward silence. It was then that he noticed a framed photo of what had to be Cynthia, pre-kindergarten, with her parents. “Are you an only child?”

  “I am now,” she said. “My little brother died in Iraq, back in 2003.”

  Ah, crap. “I’m sorry,” Izzy said.

  “It’s been … hard,” she said. Understatement of the century.

  And Izzy put down the knife, because come on. There was no way he was going to have sex with this woman and walk away. Which meant there was no way he was going to have sex with her, period, the end, because walking away was a given.

  “So,” he said as he turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. “I saw the birthday cards and, um, I’m just kind of thinking, you know, turning thirty can be kind of hard for some people. Traumatic, even. Some people go a little crazy. Do things they normally wouldn’t do …”

  She laughed. “Well, that’s me. Because I never do this.” She looked up from stirring what had become a very decadent-smelling sauce to smile ruefully at him. “Never.”

  No shit, Sherlock. “I can understand you wanting to get yourself a birthday present,” Izzy told her. “And as far as presents go, I’m pretty exceptional.” He’d meant it as a joke, but she didn’t laugh. Terrific. “I mean, only if you go for that kind of one-night-then-good-bye thing. I really meant what I said about that. That wasn’t code or some kind of doublespeak for maybe I’ll stick around. Or maybe I’ll call you in a few days. Because I won’t. Not a chance. I’m coming off of a fabulously, devastatingly broken heart and … On top of that, I’ve got a strong hunch that we’re actually pretty incompatible. And as long as you’re getting yourself a present, well … I would’ve thought you’d know yourself a little better.” He straightened up. “So I’m thinking I should just let myself out, if that’s okay.”

  “Wait.” She took the pan off the burner and caught his arm before he could leave the kitchen. And again, just like back in the bar, he had to really work to resist the urge to pull free. “You’re just … So sweet.”

  “Hardly,” he said.

  “No, you are,” she said, and she stood on her toes and kissed him.

  She tasted like that wine and he pulled away. She only thought she knew what she wanted. “I gotta go.”

  Izzy let himself out and ran down the stairs to the street.

  He walked all the way back to the base, cursing himself with every step he took, for being the pussy that he was.

  Because, God, his stomach hurt from still wanting—always wanting—Eden.

  LAS VEGAS

  MONDAY, MAY 4, 2009

  The boy who wore makeup—the one named Ben—was in trouble.

  He staggered slightly as he came out of the shop that sold absurdly expensive coffee, and he sat down right on the floor, just out of the busy stream of mall traffic.

  Neesha moved closer, eating the McFlurry that had been left behind by an impatient woman with three extremely ill-behaved children, and it was only then that she realized Ben was crying.

  That wasn’t good.

  She’d watched the relentless dance between the young people who spent most of their afternoons and evenings at the mall. There were two types—shoppers and walkers. The shoppers came in with a destination in mind, and left soon after, carrying heavy bags of clothing and merchandise.

  The walkers were shopping, too, but not for anything that could be bought with money or carried away in bags. They were shopping for power. They were there to reinforce that power, and to be entertained by those who were weaker than they were. They traveled in packs, surrounded by the more moderately powerful who worshipped them, and they all kept constantly moving, searching for their prey.

  And it wouldn’t be long until one of the packs spotted Ben sitting there.

  Crying.

  The weakest of the weak.

  As Neesha ate her McFlurry, she knew that she should cross the stream of foot traffic to Ben, to tell him he was in danger. But that five-dollar bill he’d given her still made her leery.

  But then he looked up and saw her. Wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, he pulled himself to his feet. He had two plastic bags with him, and as he wove his way through the ladies with baby strollers, he held one of them out to her.

  Of course she was already backing away.

  “This is for you,” he said, his words surprising her completely. He didn’t try to come too close, which wasn’t a surprise. He knew she was skittish. He just set the bag on the table that she’d moved behind so that something was between them, and then he backed off.

  “It’s clothes,” he said, when she didn’t move toward it. “One of my sisters’. It was her stuff. She’s kind of gotten bigger, so … I washed it so you’d have something clean to wear.”

  “I’m not giving you a blow job,” Neesha said.

  “He doesn’t want one from you, shortcake, he wants one from me.” The boy who startled them both was taller and broader than Ben. He was older by a few years, too. And he was surrounded by three of his minions.

  The pack had arrived.

  But Ben didn’t look away from Neesha. He just briefly closed his eyes. “I’m having a really bad day, Tim. My brother is a Navy SEAL, and I just found out he’s been injured in Afghanistan, so back off, okay?”

  She didn’t know what that was—a Navy SEAL—but the pack leader did.

  “A SEAL?” he said. “Yeah, right. Wait, don’t tell me—he’s gay, too.”

  Gay she knew. She’d watched plenty of episodes of Will & Grace. And she knew that some men came to the prison where she’d been kept, to entertain themselves not with girls or women, but with other men.

  “Just leave me alone,” Ben said wearily. “Or kiss me on the mouth and pledge your undying love, because this is getting old.”

  That was not the way the prey addressed the powerful, and the boy named Tim was not happy about that. But a mall security guard had noticed the tension and was heading toward them, which made the pack shift and shuffle their feet, impatient to be off.

  And Neesha shifted, too, because she worked very hard to keep the guards from noticing her.

  Ben understood, because he pushed the gift he’d brought toward her and whispered, “Go.”

  On impulse she gestured for him to follow, because the pack was moving, changing, too, heading toward the counter where delicious-smelling cookies were sold.

  She could only assume they tasted as good as they smelled, because no one ever didn’t finish one of them.

  And Ben hefted the other bag he was carrying and let her lead him toward the sanctuary she’d found some weeks ago. A place where packs of kids and men seldom went—the mall’s maternity clothing store.<
br />
  But halfway there, out of sight of both the guard and the pack, he stopped her. “This is going to sound like bullshit,” he said, “but do you still have that five dollars I gave you? I had a fight with my stepfather, and my wallet must’ve fallen out of my pants. I don’t have any money and my sister’s not at work—she works at that coffee place? She told me she’d be on for this shift, but she’s not there and … See, I took the insulin from my refrigerator, but I didn’t take any needles, but there’re needles—and a phone—at my sister’s apartment, and I really should’ve just gone there, but I thought she’d be here at work and …” He took a deep breath. “Bottom line, I’m freaking out because I think my brother Danny might be dead. I have to get over to my sister’s apartment, but I’m feeling really sick—I have diabetes, so it happens sometimes—and I don’t think I can walk that far. Even if I take the bus, I’m not sure I can get there without your help, and I definitely can’t get there without that five dollars to pay the bus fare.”

  Neesha looked at him. She didn’t understand half of what he’d said. Insulin? Needles? Diabetes she’d heard about. She’d seen commercials on TV. Find the cure! And she understood a dead brother and a missing sister. She also got I’m feeling really sick, and she could see for herself that Ben was struggling, even just to stay up on his feet.

  So she dug the five-dollar bill he’d given to her out of her pocket and held it out for him.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking it from her and pocketing it himself. “Bus stops at the lower level, center entrance.”

  He faltered and she moved toward him, to keep him from falling. And they walked that way toward the escalators, her arm around his waist, his around her shoulders. He was heavier than he looked, for someone so skinny. But she was stronger than she looked, so it was okay.

  And for the first time since she could remember, she was being touched by someone who didn’t want sex from her. At least she hoped that was true. She found herself praying she wasn’t wrong, that this wasn’t some kind of trap. That she would go with him and … “You smell like oranges.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “I know.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Ben sat on the floor of the little hallway between Eden’s bathroom, bedroom, kitchen, and living room as Neesha cleaned his puke out of the bathtub.

  “You really don’t have to do that,” he said.

  “The sooner it’s gone, the sooner it’ll stop smelling so bad,” she said.

  “You could just leave,” he pointed out.

  She stopped swishing the water down the drain and looked at him, her little-girl face wary and alert. “Do you wish me to leave? Now that you’re all right …?”

  “No, I’m just saying,” he said. “You’re going above and beyond. I’m just … Thank you. That’s what I’m trying to say. Most people find a reason to leave when I puke like that. They get grossed out.”

  “You didn’t do it on purpose,” she pointed out. “Some people stick their finger down their throat and do it on purpose.”

  “You mean, like being bulimic?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s when you make yourself throw up after you eat so you don’t gain weight.”

  She was amazed. “You would do this?”

  Ben laughed. “Ew. No. What planet are you from, anyway? And what other reason would someone have to make themselves throw up, besides not wanting to get fat? I mean, I guess maybe if they accidentally swallowed poison, or too many sleeping pills …”

  Neesha turned off the water and dried her hands on one of the towels hanging on the wall rack. “For some,” she told him, “it brings sexual pleasure.”

  And now it was Ben’s turn to gape. “Seriously? To make themselves puke? While they’re …?”

  “Or to be … puked on,” she said. “Is that right, puked?”

  She was asking about the verb tense and he nodded. “That’s just wrong.” He stopped himself. “And okay, just because I’m not … I mean, there are people who would say that being gay is wrong. So maybe I shouldn’t judge. I mean, if everyone involved wants to be involved … Although please note I’m not volunteering anytime soon.”

  “But if not?” she asked. “What if someone doesn’t want to … be involved?”

  Ben sat up. “Neesha, do you have some kind of weird boyfriend, or maybe it’s your mother’s boyfriend …?”

  “My mother’s dead,” she told him. “She died a long time ago, when I was eight.” She took a deep breath, and let it out in a rush before she went on. “And after she died, I was sold to a man who brought me here and … I was kept … locked up and … It was bad.”

  Ben stared at her, his heart in his throat, praying that she would laugh or at least smile and say something like, Wow, look at your face. You actually believed me, Mr. Naive …

  But she didn’t. Instead she said, “A few weeks ago, I ran away. I escaped. But I didn’t know where to go for help and … I’m certain they’re looking for me.”

  “Wow,” Ben said. “Okay. Wow. Neesha, if this is a joke—”

  She looked at him. “You think I’m trying to be funny?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “Are you? I mean, it’s the twenty-first century. People don’t sell other people anymore.”

  She just looked steadily back at him.

  “You said you’re sixteen,” he started.

  “Eight years,” she said. “Three months. And thirteen days. That’s how long I was there. It got easier keeping track after I learned to count in English.”

  Ben still couldn’t wrap his brain around any of it. “So you were, what? Some guy’s slave? Did you have to, like, clean his house and, I don’t know, pick his cotton?” Even as he asked the question, he knew he was way off base.

  And even though she didn’t speak, he saw the answer in her eyes, and in an echo of her earlier words that now rang in his head. For some, it brings sexual pleasure.

  She turned away abruptly.

  “Wait,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet and followed. “Neesha, if this is true, you have to go to the police.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll send me away,” she said fiercely. “I’m illegal, okay?”

  “Oh, shit,” Ben said.

  “I shouldn’t have told you anything,” she said. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone!”

  “Neesha, I don’t think—”

  She picked up her bag and started for the door.

  “Wait, okay?” he said again. “I promise I won’t tell, if you don’t want me to. I just don’t know how I can help, without at least talking to my sister.”

  Or to Danny, who would definitely know what to do. Except he could well be dead. Please, powers of the universe, don’t let Danny be dead …

  “Why don’t you stay, for a little while?” Ben asked, looking up from where he’d crouched with his head between his legs, to counter the wave of dizziness. “My sister’ll come home eventually. You can meet her. And if you want to … We can tell her. But only if you want to.”

  Neesha stood there, uncertain.

  “Okay,” Ben said. “I’m not going to tackle you to the ground and make you stay. So … If you want to go, go. If you want to stay. Great. I’ve got to check my blood again, and maybe have a snack. You’re welcome to have something, too. Or you could take a shower if you want. Wash your hair. But only if you want to, okay?”

  Neesha nodded. And put the bag down. She was going to stay.

  When the bigger conventions came to town, headliners came in from out of town to take the main stage, even on a Monday, leaving the newer girls like Eden working the poles on the edges of the room.

  Still, the club was in a good location, and when those predominantly male-populated conventions arrived, it stayed packed pretty much 24/7, with the biggest lull being the hangover hours between 4 and 7 a.m.

  At seven, things picked up a
gain, because the club’s restaurant served a convention special breakfast, and the combination of bacon, eggs, and bare breasts was too good for some men to pass up.

  Today, Eden had worked a double shift—late night and daytime—because one of the girls had called in sick, and the place was jumping.

  She didn’t mind. It put her that much closer to her goal of being able to pay Danny back all that money that she’d borrowed from him through the years. That was her master plan. First, pay her older brother back, and only then ask him to step in and help her gain custody of Ben.

  Danny was significantly older. He had a steady job. True, it was in the military, which meant he went TDY—temporary duty, usually overseas—at the drop of a hat. But that was a good thing, because there was no way in hell he would want to live in the same apartment as Eden for any longer than he had to. He hated her.

  But her plan would work, because Danny didn’t hate Ben. And since he wasn’t an idiot, he’d quickly see that setting up their little brother in an apartment with Eden would be far better than subjecting him to Greg’s abuse until he turned eighteen.

  Unless, of course, Dan was in agreement with Greg, and thought Ben would benefit from being sent to one of those brainwashing, ex-gay torture camps …

  In which case, Eden would be on her own.

  Or not. Because she was still married to Izzy Zanella. And she suspected—no, she knew—that he’d be ready and willing to come to her rescue. He was that kind of a man.

  The reliable kind, who liked playing the hero.

  Eden had thought she’d spotted him this afternoon. There’d been a tall man with military-short hair and rough, craggy features sitting and watching her with his face in the shadows as she feigned ecstasy while caressing the pole.

  At first her heart nearly stopped, especially when he stood up and proved to be extremely similar to her ex-husband in height and weight. But he didn’t move toward her. He was only going to get another drink from the bar, and as he stepped into the light, she saw that he wasn’t Izzy. He wasn’t even close. But she spent the remainder of her time fantasizing about it—what she would do and say if Izzy did walk through those doors.