Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  “What do you think about Brooke?”

  “What do I think about Brooke?” West’s face twists like he doesn’t understand the simple question. “She’s cool. Nothing not to like really.”

  “She is cool,” I agree. “She’s got my head in knots.”

  “Honestly, King? I don’t think she’s someone you should be messing around.”

  I draw a stoic mask over my expression. “That’s what it looks like I’m doing? Messing her around?”

  Running his hand over the top of his hair, West says disapprovingly, “Well, what are you doing? In all the time I’ve known you, Brooke doesn’t come off like someone you’d go for. I mean, you never have before. You like them short, silent, and blonder than Pamela Anderson. All perfectly fucking lovely girls, I’m sure, but you get rid of them before anyone can find out.”

  That feeling I’m quickly getting sick of regenerates, an undercurrent pulsing beneath my skin. I don’t like the person being described back to me, even when none of the details are new to me.

  West raises an eyebrow. “Have you gone and fucked up?”

  Tilting my head to one side, I scratch my neck with my pointer finger. “In so many words.”

  “I get why you would. And I can’t see her bringing Jen-sized levels of stress.” West sucks in air and then loudly blows it out. “This will set Jen off. You’re going to turn up missing on Dateline. I’ve got your back, though. I’ll put her name forward as the number one suspect.”

  Sounds about right. “Thanks, man.”

  “You know what we should do?” West sits on the corner of the coffee table, a huge smile on his face I don’t trust.

  “Nothing good ever comes from you saying that.”

  “We should all go out. Me, you, Brooke…”

  I can’t help laughing. “What’s her name, West? How can you not know her fucking name and you’ve got a close-up of her tits on your phone? And I know she knows your name, so you better find out what hers is before you blow your chance with her.”

  “I’ll find it out, don’t think about that. So?” West questions. “You down? I can take whatsherface out and you and Brooke can be my buffers. Then if shit goes south, it wasn’t a real date anyway.”

  “I’ll ask her,” I say. “But what if Brooke thinks it’s a real date, and I’m the one shit ends up going south for?”

  West couldn’t be any more dismissive, his brilliant idea already deeply rooted. “She won’t think that. And you can just tell her how it is, as long as she doesn’t share the wealth.”

  Guess I could do that. And it’s one more place we can be seen together and get those rumors spreading to Jen’s ears. “Fine. I’ll text her now.”

  Thanksgiving was spent hunched over my iPad, sketchbooks, and laptop for hours on end, finishing, correcting, and editing the next episode of Black Pearla to my Lo-fi soundtrack. Maddie ran over the script and dialogue for me, gave her approval and enthusiasm, and I uploaded close to two weeks behind schedule.

  It hadn’t taken long for the comment section to become flooded with praise from usernames I recognized and regularly interacted with, but complaints soon made their way into the mashup, and I did my best to ignore them and just keep going. Sure, it puts dents in my creativity, but I have my good and bad days, and negativity from people I don’t know won’t change or worsen the negative feelings I already have about myself.

  While the campus winds down for Thanksgiving break, I maximize my time and double down on my schoolwork, getting ahead in my homework while the opportunity’s presented itself. My dad’s been texting me nearly every day. The only other person at home with him is Mom, and this year Thanksgiving dinner was just the two of them.

  Secretly, I think they were pleased not to have to fuss over the holiday since I wasn’t going to be home for it. Mom always runs herself into the ground cooking for my aunties, uncles, and cousins, and she deserves the break. It’s a once-in-a-blue-moon type deal. Think my dad misses the company and the bustle of the family being around, so he’s probably spent quite a bit of time at his local sports pub watching the football and hockey with his buddies.

  Friday afternoon, I drive to work alone. Surreptitiously—like anyone can see me—I glance at my empty passenger seat, pouting over my missing best friend. My only expectations are for my shift to drag like hell, and I’m not looking forward to it one bit.

  That’s not technically the truth.

  There is one thing I’m looking forward to, but I’ve spent the last few days actively not thinking about it. I’m going to Roman’s game tomorrow, but his game later tonight is playing at Champ’s, and I intend to catch as much of it as my shift allows. Without Preston or anyone else noticing, of course.

  “Can you do shooters for an hour or so?” Preston collars me in his office to ask. I’ve been on my feet since five o’clock, and there isn’t an empty table in the place.

  “Already?” I sip from the straw in my glass of water, trying not to gulp it in front of my boss and make myself breathless. Two hours into my shift and I want to go home. Screw Roman’s game, I can listen to it at home on the Warriors radio station.

  “Face-off’s in five minutes. Now’s the best time to start wetting some pallets.”

  Ew. Gross.

  “Put some makeup on or something,” Preston adds as a clever afterthought, striding to his office door because he’s always acting like he’s the busiest person in the world just to make himself feel important. “T-shirts are in the second drawer on the right in my desk.”

  I almost swallow an ice cube. “I have to change?”

  “Yes.” Preston pulls back the cuff of his shirtsleeve and checks the face of his clunky watch. “And you’ve got roughly eighty seconds to do it.”

  Yanking open his drawer when he’s gone, I cuss up a storm, pulling shirts out and finding one that will fit me. I stuff the rest back in—Preston can fold these himself—and lock myself in the accessible bathroom to change.

  This shirt’s similar to the standard one I wear to work. The color’s black instead of orange, the hem cuts off two inches under my bra, and the fit is shockingly tight, with Champ’s splayed across the top of my breasts in silver sequins, two silver-sequined shooter glasses over each breast where my nipples are.

  How brilliantly original.

  I claim a narrow victory in the high-waisted black shorts I’m wearing, so they eat up some skin at least. And I’ve been so effortlessly strict with myself, I’ve found a new, quiet confidence that wasn’t there before, and it makes parading around this bar in clothing I’m not usually comfortable in considerably less painful and humiliating. My clothes are smaller, my body’s smaller. Even those evil voices have started to shrink. They haven’t gone away, but the reduction to background noise is a welcome change from the echoing internal abuse I face day after day, sometimes keeping me awake at night.

  Preston’s only going to push it when he notices I haven’t already done it, so I switch out my black flats for silver strappy heels. Posing as shooter girl for the night, I’ll be doing more shit-talking than walking around, so I shouldn’t end up in too much pain.

  To keep him completely off my back, I pull out my ponytail and let my hair down. It’s got that weird line across the middle from my hair tie, so I dive into the staff room and run the flatiron over it until it’s poker straight, then I tuck it behind my ears, slap on some clear lip gloss, and It’s time to get to work.

  Lisa loads my tray with all kinds of funky-looking shooters. Green, pink, luminescent, glittery. Milky (yuck), and I start making the rounds, singling out younger groups of rowdy guys and girls dressed in Warriors jerseys and teal and black face paint.

  “How much?” One guy yells in my face, my hair rustling around my ears from his extreme breath. His mouth’s like a freaking wind tunnel.

  “Two dollars,” I yell back, just because I’m feeling extra awkward tonight. “You want one?”

  Nodding, he shoves his hand into the back pocket in hi
s jeans. “I’ll take six.”

  Excellent.

  I hand the shots off to him.

  “Gimme two of those vials.” The guy points to the skinny plastic tubes filled with black liquid.

  He gives me a twenty and tells me to the keep the change, which I happily do. “Thank you.”

  My night goes like that for longer than an hour, and when I make eye-contact with Preston over the bar, he makes this motion with his hand to convey that I keep going and not go over there.

  I press my lips together, then turn my attention away from him.

  I’m crowded by so many people at one time, I’ve missed most of the hockey game, other than rushed glimpses of the screen between handing out shots and taking the money. I used the excuse of needing a glass of water when they interviewed Roman on the ice after the first period. He was the first and only goal scorer so far, sweat dripping from his dark hair and running into his eyes as he’d stood breathing heavily into his headset and patiently answered questions about certain shifts in the game and how they intended on keeping the pace when they returned for the second period.

  I think I might have smiled the whole way through it.

  The game ended with a Warriors shutout, but I don’t know anything more specific than that.

  Just as I’m putting loose change into my money belt, a hand reaches out and a finger pokes me in my belly. Flinching away from the invasion, my gaze flies up and I give the handsy asshole the stink eye.

  Only, it’s not an asshole. It’s Luke Cole, and I relax when it’s clear I’m not being touched up and he was just trying to get my attention.

  Before I can say hello or erase the disfavor from my expression, he’s walking away, his cocky smirk lingering on me until he blends in and becomes part of the crowd.

  Preston lets me off work early, at ten p.m. On my way to the staff room, a hand snags around mine from one of the booths, pulling me across the floor as I seek out the culprit among the seated group.

  “Where are you running off to?” Luke slides along the booth seat, coaxing me down into the empty spot he’s left open for me on the end. Clusters of empty beer bottles occupy the table, but Luke looks like he’s all there, and his beer goggles haven’t been fastened on just yet.

  “Home,” I tell him, casting my gaze across the booth. A smile breaks loose when I see Booker on the other side, his back up against the wall while he showers a girl in his boozy attention.

  “Can you stay?” Luke leans in and asks. “I’ve been watching you all night.”

  Laughter slips into my voice. “That’s not creepy at all.”

  “You don’t call or text.” Luke skips over me calling him creepy, or maybe he isn’t listening. “Did you delete my phone number?”

  “I never saved it.” Was that too honest?

  Sliding his arm around to my lower back, I’m hit with the rich spice of his cologne, and whatever aftershave he’s used on his cleanly shaven jaw. “Because you’re not interested?” The look in his eyes is a division of puzzling intrigue and incomprehension. And for someone who can’t read whether I’m into him or not, he’s sitting awfully close. Everyone around the table carries on their conversations without awareness I’ve joined them.

  Luke’s fingers glide over my waist in feathery touches, something I’ve never been able to handle. On belly-induced laughter, I pull away from him and brush his hand off me. “Interested in what?” I ask, jumping back to his question to distract him from my moving away.

  “I’m trying to get to know you.” His smile’s incredulous, and he’s looking at me like I’m fascinating to him and he can’t comprehend why I won’t just bite the bait, flop onto my back, and let him reel me in.

  “Torre!”

  My gaze shifts to Booker. He smiles lopsidedly, instructing everyone out of his path to exit the booth and walk to where I’m sitting. “Cole, I’ll bring her back.” Booker holds out his hand, and I slip mine in, not questioning where he’s taking me.

  I should have, because it’s the dancefloor, and the music’s mellow tonight.

  Curling his fingers around mine, Booker pulls me against him, and even though this is one of my worst nightmares come to life, and no alcohol has entered my system, I let him lead the slow dance.

  “Cole’s coming after you hard,” he says over the music, his hands slipping to well below my back as mine settle on his shoulders. “Did you pick that up on your own or are you making him work for it?”

  “I’m not making him work for anything. I’ve also got no interest in notching his bed post, so if that’s what he thinks of me, now’s the time to move along and woo someone else.”

  Booker glances over my head. “Say he wants more than to just bone down,” he says conversationally.

  “Do you know that?”

  “Naw.” Booker’s eyes rest on me, his glassy and mildly unfocused from alcohol. “He’s coming on strong, though. If that were me, I wouldn’t go after one girl so heavy if all I wanted was to twist up the sheets.” A roguish grin crosses his mouth. “I wouldn’t have to.”

  I roll my eyes, bombarded with all sorts of images. “How nice for you. We should celebrate that one day.”

  The corner of Booker’s mouth lifts, his focus cutting away from me and staying there. I turn my head and follow his gaze, inwardly groaning when I see Luke approaching.

  Booker steps away and Luke takes his place. Now would be a good time to clear up I don’t dance in public when I’m sober, but nobody seems interested in that, and my inner voice isn’t anywhere near as loud as my outer voice. I can be big, bad and brutal, but mostly in my head.

  Dancing with Luke feels miles different from dancing with Booker, and my limbs are too loose, my pulse doing its own thing because he’s making me nervous without needing a reason. I find Luke incredibly attractive, but he’s carrying that playboy reputation I don’t want to embarrass myself over. I know he likes me, I’m not stupid, but how far that like stretches probably doesn’t go beyond his bed. Or anyone’s bed. Maybe the bathroom or in a wooded area. I’m being judgmental, I know, and it’s an ugly quality, but my gut’s trying to communicate something to me without a sprinkling of proof, and I can’t make up my mind who I should listen to. I could give him a chance, but where does that leave Roman and the bet? It feels too much of a sticky situation to get myself caught up in.

  The acoustic guitar strings carry the song nearer to its end, and Luke’s stare is intense as he draws my lower body to his with one hand on my back and one on my neck. He’s so smooth, and maybe that’s what’s got me on high alert. He’s the veteran and I’m his rookie, and It’s going to require plenty of training before I’m up to his standard.

  I know he’s going to kiss me before he dips his head, his lips hovering over mine. He leaves me just enough time for my heart to judder in anticipation, and whatever he sees in my eyes he must like, because he sweeps the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and uses his hand on the back of my neck to bring me closer to his mouth.

  But I can’t commit. My lips a hair’s breadth from his, I pull back, ducking my head with a light smile caused by embarrassment.

  “Okay,” Luke says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “How about we start off with me giving you my number again and you saving it this time?”

  That’s reasonable.

  “I can do that.”

  Relieved to be off the dancefloor, I grab my phone from my coat pocket in the staff room and Luke programs in his contact.

  “Don’t leave yet.” He lays his hand on my thigh when I move to shuffle out from the booth. There’s something about him that calls out to me, and turning him down, for a brief, wild second, seems preposterous. Burning an hour before bed with Kimberly is just as good as hanging around here though.

  “My roommate’s expecting me.” The fabrication rolls off my tongue sounding totally plausible. Besides, who’s to say she isn’t waiting up for me?

  My desire to get away doesn’t faze Luke. Nothing does.
>
  “One day you’ll run out of excuses to run.”

  I smile and stand up. “Not today.”

  Face tipped to the ceiling, Maddie drops another fat, red grape into her mouth. “I am bummed I’m not coming with you, but I’m also kinda not.”

  “Colin’s going to be at Champ’s tonight, isn’t he?” I can read my best friend better than anyone, and there’s only one reason in existence she would choose work over literally anything else.

  She grins at me, then pops in another grape. “So Hunter Matthew tells me. He’s so sweet, by the way.”

  I leave that comment alone because Maddie knows it isn’t going to happen. She just wants any excuse to get closer to Colin.

  “How do I look?” Kimberly twirls into the living room in a Warriors jersey and thigh-high suede black boots with six inches of tooth-pick heel.

  “Those boots are incredible,” I say, lifting my eyes to the rest of her. Roman won’t like it, but this is a free world, and Kimberly can wear whatever the hell she can afford. “You’re wearing shorts under there, right?”

  She flips up the front of the jersey. “I am.”

  “You look like my next girlfriend,” Maddie tells her. She eats the last grape and walks to the kitchen with the plastic container. “Let’s take a picture for my story before you guys go!”

  In my regular stonewash skinny jeans, and Warriors T-shirt I’ve tucked into the waistband, I feel like I’m letting the team down. My black, lace-up booties have got nothing on Kimberly’s, but they’re still beautiful, and I absolutely adore them.

  When Maddie returns, fluffing her hair with her camera phone pointed on us, she records a quick story, blowing a kiss and wishing the Warriors luck. It’s all for Colin, obviously. And as gorgeous as Madison is in the flesh, she looks even more gorgeous in pictures and videos. Me? I consider it a win if I even look female. I couldn’t take a quality, non-cringe picture if my own kidnapping ransom depended on it. Even if I had one job, and that was to smile and not look constipated, I would fail disastrously at it.

  Kimberly and I put on our coats and we’re out the door. My phone dings in my pocket. There’s no rush to see who the text’s from because Luke’s been busy wearing out my number since he woke up this morning.