Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  The staff have taken up residence in the VIP section of Champ’s, and the area’s crowded and slightly unbearable. Preston’s working, thank the Lord, and his main concern is licking Mark’s ass, making sure the ice buckets are stocked with champagne and the drinks arriving at the tables never run dry. He’s even hired staff from an agency to cover everyone who’s taken the night off to celebrate Mark’s birthday.

  Orange, black, and silver foil balloons rise to the ceiling, silver confetti dusting the black table surfaces and floor.

  Mark’s level-headed, but he’s one of the only ones. I was only here on Saturday night, and since then the old booths and tables in the VIP section have been ripped out, replaced with more modern, sleeker versions, and the carpet’s been pulled up, black quartz flooring in its place.

  “Are you going to do anything with the rest of the place?” I ask Mark, tipping my empty champagne glass from side to side between my thumb and finger.

  “One step at a time. Closing for renovations would hurt business. I’ve got people coming in next week to lay new flooring.” Mark heightens his gaze, shifting his eyes to his left.

  The heat from another body pours over my shoulder, warm breath sliding down my ear. I’ve barely got time to look up, silver Lycra shoved onto the tabletop in front of me in the shape of clothing.

  I tug at the shiny silver shorts/underwear hybrid. It’s neither one nor the other. The top’s bikini-style. Two silver triangle scraps of fabric that tie behind the neck and at the back.

  “Okay?” I say to Preston, scooping up the whatever it is and balling it into his two hands. “Why are you showing me?”

  “This is what you’ll be wearing next Friday night.” I blanket my expression, my toes curling at his dumbass, smug smirk. He dumps the outfit back onto the table. “Take it home with you tonight, and do not lose it.”

  Mark leans back in the booth, watching my exchange with Preston. “You don’t like it?”

  “I’m not wearing it,” I say. “Stripping down to nothing isn’t in my contract.” My blood’s boiling steadily from a simmer.

  “You didn’t sign a contract,” Preston says.

  “What would you rather wear?” Mark asks, sweeping over Preston’s assholery with little concern. He doesn’t even flicker a glance in his direction.

  I stab a finger at the thing that’s got me all worked up. “Not that.”

  “The shorts or the bra?”

  At least Mark’s acknowledging it is underwear and he isn’t brushing it under the carpet. “Both.”

  “Can we come to a compromise? You’re a good, reliable worker and a valued member of my team.” Mark flashes me a megawatt grin, optimizing his chiseled good looks. “And it’s my birthday. Let’s slip into the office for a few minutes and work something out.”

  I give Preston my own smug grin, forcing him out of my way and stepping out from the booth.

  In his office, Mark opens a long cupboard and takes out a handful of clear plastic bags. “I was prepared for some resistance. There may be something here you would be happier with.”

  In his tailored gray suit jacket and pants, Mark’s nothing like his club. He stinks of money, and he might not say it, but he’s from a whole other social circle. Upper-class. I can’t understand why it’s taken him this long to start pumping money into Champ’s when he makes no attempts to hide he has it.

  He rips into one of the bags and tugs out silver pants. They’re long and skinny, and my mind wanders to that episode of Friends with Ross greasing himself up with Vaseline, trying to squeeze out of his shrunken leather pants. Only I replace Ross with myself, and I’m trying to get into them not out of them.

  “Will the pants work for you?”

  “And I still wear the bra?”

  “I need a little give from you, Brooke. I’m running a business here, and pretty young girls are a vital part in my campaign. It’s nothing I haven’t been clear about. I’m trying to be fair with you.”

  I had issues with the bikini top, but I guess I could work through them. My issues with the panties-slash-underwear I could not. Not in a million years.

  I take the pants, earning a winning smile from Mark. “I’ll wear them.”

  Stashing the pants and the bikini top in my locker, I freshen up in the staff bathroom and then join Maddie at her booth. I might not be willing to don tiny underwear in front of a bar full of people, but I admire the way Maddie snatches her outfit from Preston and doesn’t even bat an eyelash.

  “I’ll have a goddamn wedgie all night,” she grumbles to me. “I’m quitting this job. Just watch me.” A threat we’ve used and backpedaled on enough times it’s lost all meaning. The silver getup’s small enough Maddie shapes it into a ball and stuffs it to the bottom of her purse. “What the hell is he going to have us dress up as next?”

  The excuse this time is ‘Ring Girl’. I’ve saved a snack-size pot of yogurt and granola for when I get home but looks like that’s off the menu now.

  Later in the night, I’ve stopped caring about what I can and can’t eat, and the Ring Girl theme that’s out to destroy me. Floating on an alcoholic buzz that sweeps me well into midnight without noticing time creeping by. The hours pass like minutes, and I tip back the last of the pink champagne in my glass, Lisa quick to fill it up, the sweet fizz spilling over the sides and onto my fingers.

  When Maddie declares it’s time to go and she’s sick of Champ’s, I let her pull me along with her. Cool air whispers against my hot skin, an instant chill I shudder against as we tackle the sidewalk arm-in-arm, calling out good-byes to a few of the others as they separate and make their own way home.

  I look through the tall window of a cocktail bar, at the male singer strumming acoustic guitar in the corner, perched on a bar stool in front of a standing microphone.

  “One for the road?” Maddie pauses beside me to ask. “I can order us an Uber while we have a drink? And I can check Colin’s Facebook. See what he’s been up to and make sure he’s been behaving himself.”

  She’s already opening the door to the bar, and I follow her lead, stepping out of the foggy cold. As I’m searching for a table in the lowly lit bar, my gaze bouncing over occupied seats along the wall, the last face I expect to see in a nice, sophisticated place like this one bursts into sight.

  “Torre.” Booker’s mouth kicks up into a schoolboy grin. He’s looking smart, too. Long-sleeve black polo and black jeans that fit his lean physique in all the right places.

  “Booker. What are you doing here?” I don’t pay nearly as much attention to who’s sitting in the seat beside him, but there’s no escaping the intensity of his presence, and I’m sure he’s aware of that.

  Booker holds up his half-tumbler glass. “Two for one. And I’m checking out the barmaid.”

  “Ah. Guess that’s as good a reason as any.”

  “Sit down.” Under the table, Booker kicks the empty seat opposite to him, the chair legs juddering on the hardwood floor as it skids out. The jarring clatter attracts the mildly irritated attention of the people sitting at the table in front trying to enjoy the music.

  Booker meets their annoyed glances with an innocent shrug.

  Reluctantly, I sit down, lifting my eyes and acknowledging the other person at the table.

  At the last second, Luke’s stare moves from my chest to my face, a bold heat in his blue eyes he makes difficult to ignore. I feel overdressed in his gaze, exposed and susceptible to whatever he’s got up his sleeve. And he’s got something up there. I’m just not entirely sold on what that is yet.

  With a colorful drink in each hand, Maddie sits in the other available seat.

  “Hello,” she says offhandedly, opening her purse and slipping her cell phone out of the zip pocket in the satin lining.

  Booker’s perceptive gaze slants easily to me, one eyebrow raised as if to say, ‘see? What did I tell you?’

  I take no notice of him, putting the straw to my lips and sipping my cocktail. “Which barmaid?” I as
k, eyeing the staff pouring and serving drinks. Two women and one guy.

  “The redhead,” Booker says, staring at the barmaid while openly discussing her. He’s got no shame. But when her eyes accidently meet with his, and the smallest, cutest smile lingers on her lips, I realize he’s intentionally sending out signals of interest. And it might just be working.

  I nod, taking another sip of my fruity drink. It’s good. “Very pretty.”

  Booker gives me a long, indecipherable look. His expression is too thoughtful for anything I’m used to seeing on him, and I squirm under it in my seat. I’ve probably drank too much, and it doesn’t help that I zoomed past tired around two hours ago.

  My Sunday with Roman has left a sour taste in my mouth, and him being all cold with me for not telling him about Kimberly has bugged me every day since. How dare he make me feel guilty for keeping a friend’s secret. And at the same time, I feel guilty!

  I need to speak with him and clear the air. Because whatever he thinks about me, I was only thinking about Kimberly. And squealing to her brother is an absolute no-no. I wouldn’t do that to Maddie or any of my friends, so why does Roman expect me to do it to Kimberly?

  And now I’m mad at him for having me think about him when he isn’t here and I’m fairly confident he’s been intentionally staying out of my way.

  After one more drink neither of us needed, Maddie orders an Uber, and Luke and Booker decide they’re heading out, too.

  With a not-so-subtle drawn-out glance in the redhead’s direction, Booker cops the smoothest, most well-rehearsed smile in flirting history. The redhead pulls her lower lip over her teeth and smiles back.

  “Yep. She likes you,” I say to Booker. We’re huddled on the misty sidewalk, bathed in the artificial warmth of slanting light from inside the bar. “Are you going to see her again? Or are you sticking with the creepy side-eyes and cunning grins?”

  Standing between me and Maddie, Booker tugs his hands from the pockets in his jeans and slings his arms across mine and Maddie’s shoulders. “That would be giving away my strategy. Can’t have the enemy stealing my moves.”

  “Yeah,” Maddie drolls in a dull tone. “Because we need to steal your moves to get dates.”

  “Brooke doesn’t date.” Booker puts it out there as a statement, unbending in his conclusion.

  “I date,” I say, lifting his stupid arm off me and stepping into my own space. What I’ve actually done is stepped right into Luke’s.

  “Good news for me, then.”

  “Brooke,” Booker groans. Maddie stays tucked under his arm, her smaller body pressed tightly to his, unwilling to give up her only source of heat. “Do us all a fucking solid and tell him you’ll go out with him. I’m sick of hearing him whining about you all the fucking time. Not even game days are sacred.”

  I press my lips over a smile, risking a glance upward at Luke. He doesn’t display a flicker of embarrassment over Booker publicly outing him, so I doubt there’s much truth to it. But still. It’s nice to hear.

  Stepping closer, Luke’s hand drops to my waist, and he hooks his thumb into the belt loop on my jeans. “Can I take you to my place? Just for a drink and to talk.”

  Talk? I haven’t been keeping strict track of the time, but there can’t be enough hours left in the night for talking, drinking, and catching a couple hours of sleep.

  A white car pulls up, ambushing me into a hurried answer.

  “Brooke.” Maddie slips from underneath Booker’s arm and heads over to the car. “This is ours. Are you coming?”

  Luke’s hands on me, the many, many drinks I’ve had, and the distance Roman’s wedged between us swirl harmoniously into a chaotic current I struggle to think through.

  “I’ll take you home in the morning,” Luke says, no pressure in his voice.

  “If you want to go with him,” Maddie says, “then go with him. But call me when you get there? Or text me?”

  I’m nodding without realizing I’ve made up my mind, but there’s nothing good about the way my decision makes me feel.

  Maddie leaves alone in our Uber, and Booker shares a taxi with me and Luke. I miss having him as a buffer when the taxi makes a stop at his house first.

  He vises my shoulder with the palm of his hand, his parting good-bye a look that lasts so long I almost stumble out of the car after him.

  The taxi’s pulling back onto the road as Booker jogs up the sidewalk, and a sinking sensation anchors my stomach. Without the encouragement of alcohol, I doubt I’d be where I am now.

  No. I know I wouldn’t be. Even losing my balance on the tipsy ledge, I’m questioning myself and what I want. I’m jittery, my nerves bouncing from restraint.

  Luke calms me with a hand on my thigh, his other hand at my back as he plays with my hair. He makes it perfectly clear he wants to kiss me, but I’m not drunk enough to make out in front of the driver. I’m sure he doesn’t want to see that either.

  My phone shrills in my purse as I’m stepping out of the taxi, my surroundings unfamiliar in this part of Skahlake.

  I answer the call, registering too late that it’s Roman and not Maddie on the other end, completely blanking over the caller ID.

  “Where are you?” His tone’s curt, and he doesn’t sound happy.

  “Out,” I reply, adopting the same curtness Roman’s using on me.

  Luke levels a questioning look at me. I wander farther away from him, pointing to a row of bushes by the side of the house and yard he’s standing in front of.

  “You went home with him?” It’s a question, but Roman asks it in a resigned tone like he’s already made his mind up about the answer. He couldn’t possibly know. Who could have told him? “Get in a cab to my apartment and I’ll pay for it.”

  “Why?” I hear myself asking. “You told me I can see whoever I want to and that’s what I’m doing. How do you even know I’m with him?”

  “Doesn’t matter how. But I know you don’t really want to be there. You’re making a mistake. Don’t go through with it.”

  “Through with what? He wants to talk and have a drink.” Even as I hear my own voice, I’m doubting myself as hard as I’m doubting Luke.

  “B, just listen to me.”

  “I did listen to you.” I lose control of my voice, and it rises with my blood levels. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Calling me after two-point-five days of walking by me on campus and acting like he doesn’t know me from fucking Adam when he’s the reason our paths crossed in the first place?

  I bring it down an octave, not wanting to wake every sleeping house in the neighborhood. Walking aimlessly along the sidewalk, I stick close to the line of bushes, darkness pooling around me as I distance myself from the house lights. “Is that the only reason you called? Because Luke’s waiting for me.”

  Roman makes an exhausted sound. “B, don’t. Let me pick you up. I’ll leave now if you tell me where you are.”

  “No thank you,” I say in my coldest, detached tone. “Luke said he’ll take me home in the morning.” That last parting shot was underhanded, but Roman deserves it. I’m barely hanging on here, and now he’s calling me and telling me what to do when he’s got my head and my heart in tangled knots and every one of my emotions in the clutches of his fist. One squeeze and I’m done for. He’s calling all the plays because he has all the power and control. I handed mine over when the bet stopped being a bet and I started to fall a little bit in love with him. He’s bleeding me dry.

  “Brooke, please.” It’s as close as he’ll allow himself to begging. “If you’re with him because of me, then I’m sorry. I had no place blaming you for something that wasn’t your fault.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” I turn around, the threat of tears blurring the edges of my vision. Luke’s blocking the open doorway, bright light spilling onto the path that leads up to it. He leans a shoulder against the jamb, his hands in his pockets. He’s changed into a pair of Gray Nike shorts, so I’ve obviously been out here for too long. “I
have to go,” I say to Roman. I tap the screen and end the call, cutting off his voice.

  I’m here now. It’s too late to back out and let him win.

  Luke doesn’t want to talk. I’ve got two feet in the door and he’s dragging me upstairs, repeatedly reminding me to stay silent because the three other people he shares a house with are all asleep and he doesn’t want to disturb them or embarrass me by having them see me here.

  The steady reminders feel more for Luke’s benefit than mine, but I do as he tells me because I don’t want to be caught out either.

  Snapping off the light in the upstairs hallway, Luke opens a door to one of the bedrooms and pulls me inside. In the dark, a wedge of foggy moonlight between badly drawn curtains penetrates the gloom, and the scarce furniture rises in clumping shadows around the room.

  Luke walks to his dressing table and picks something up. Moonlight glints off the flat side of the silver packet, and he presses his thumbs through the foil surface. I take a few steps closer, frowning when two white pills pop out of their holes and land in a quiet clatter on the smooth wood surface.

  “What’s that?” I ask, that sinking feeling plunging into a flat-out deadweight.

  “Just a little something to heighten the experience.” Luke swigs water from a clear plastic bottle, then offers it to me. “You want some?”

  I shake my head at the water and whatever drug he’s just ingested right in front of me. Glancing at the closed door, I briefly consider how much of an idiot I would look if I bolted now without saying a word. I’m so inexperienced, though, and still tremendously intimidated by someone as popular as Luke that I stay rooted to the floor.

  I don’t fight him off when he puts his hands on my waist and kisses me on the mouth, parting my lips and tasting my tongue with his.

  In the least romantic scenario I could have envisioned, Luke breaks the kiss to retrieve a strip of condoms from the single drawer in his bedside table, ripping a square off and pushing down the front of his shorts to roll on the condom over his erection.