Breaking the Rules (18 page)

He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Jenn—”

She sat beside him on the bed, gently pushing him back down, and then running the decadent softness of her hands down his chest, across his abs, and then even lower …

“Ah, God …”

“Shh,” she said. “Lie still.”

“I thought it went massage,
then
happy ending.”

“Oh, come on, Gillman, haven’t you ever had dessert first?”

“I wasn’t complaining, LeMay,” he said, because he loved the way she laughed when he, too, called her by her last name. “Just wondering if I’d just had the world’s shortest massage.”

She laughed again. “Sounds to me like you’re complaining.”

“Nope,” he said. “Just trying to figure out how to ask for it again.”

“Lie still,” she warned. “Or I’ll stop …”

It felt unbelievably good, the way she was touching him, and he had to close his eyes and fight the urge to reach for her, too, because Jesus, he didn’t want her to stop. He wanted … He needed …

He felt her shift as she took off her glasses and put them on the end table. Then he felt the softness of her mouth as she kissed him, licked him, and he opened his eyes because he wanted to watch. And—shit—he’d inadvertently lifted his hips because he wanted more of what she was doing—more in every capacity.

She pulled back to look at him.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I love this—I do, but what I really want is … God, remember when we did it in the kitchen?”

“Kind of hard to forget,” she said, still stroking him with her hands as she smiled into his eyes.

“One second we were having a conversation,” he said. “And the next …”

“Trust me, I remember.”

“I want to do that again,” he said as she lowered her head and licked him with the very tip of her tongue. “It was crazy, like I couldn’t tell where you ended and I began.”

“I was the one with the face pressed up against the toaster,” Jenn said, quickly adding, “I’m not complaining. It was actually … really hot. Not the toaster. The sex.”

She was so beautiful—the soft curve of her cheek, the graceful shape of a mouth that seemed always on the verge of quirking into a smile, those incredible far-from-average light brown eyes …

The look she was giving him was admonishing again, which was sexy as hell combined with what she was doing with her mouth—shades of dominatrix. And he could feel his impending release building. All she’d have to keep doing was … oh God,
that …
And he knew he just needed to say the word—she loved open communication of all kinds, but there was more he wanted to say besides
yes, please, yes …

“No, baby,” he told her. “I’m not talking about the sex, although that was crazy, too. I’m talking about looking into your eyes and, I don’t know,
knowing
what you were feeling, because I was feeling it, too. And then … just letting it explode like that.”

It had scared the shit out of him at the time, and he’d told himself that it was just rocking great sex, when in truth there’d been a connection between them almost right from the start.

Not
right
from the start, because their relationship had begun with his intention to have a short-term fling. It hadn’t taken all that much to worm his way into her bed—he was a master when it came to seduction, and, for a wide variety of reasons, she was undeniably up for being seduced.

What he hadn’t counted on was liking her so damn much. Liking, and then falling in love …

“I missed you,” Dan breathed again, suddenly desperate for her to understand. “Jenni, I missed
you …
”

It was maybe the most romantic moment of his life, because she looked at him again and met his gaze, and he could tell that she believed him—believed him and loved him, and his heart actually lurched in his chest. He was just about to use the dreaded L-word—dreaded because the last time he’d told her he loved her, she’d accused him of overreacting to emotions caused only by her near-death experience.

But instead of saying it—
I love you
—when he opened his mouth he said, “Gahhh …”

Because, Jesus, he was coming, just like that, just
wham
—and he forced himself to remain relaxed, because the last thing he wanted was for Jenn to argue that they couldn’t risk doing this again, because he didn’t lie still. But she wasn’t going to, because he didn’t move at all and it was unreal the way his release blasted and roared through him in an overwhelmingly powerful sensation. He didn’t fight it, he didn’t try to ride it or steer it—he just let it be.

It was. He was.

And when it was over, it wasn’t really completely gone. It just changed into something calm and warm and he floated in a lovely place between waking and sleep.

But then he felt Jenn shift, felt the mattress give and then bounce back into place as she flipped a blanket up and over them both, as she stretched out beside him on the bed.

He opened his eyes and turned his head and …

Jenn smiled at him from where she lay, her head on the other pillow. And the feeling of calm intensified, and for the first time since Dan could remember, he felt completely at peace.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered, and reached an arm out from beneath that blanket to gently cover his eyes and force them to close—not that she needed to try very hard. “Go to sleep.”

Ben’s heart sank as the police car he was riding in approached his house.

Eden was nowhere to be seen. She must not have gotten his message.

Greg’s ancient car was in the driveway, however, which meant that
he
was home.

This was going to be butt ugly.

“This one?” the police officer who was driving asked, peering out the windshield at their crappy shithole of a house in this crappy shithole of a neighborhood.

“Yeah,” Ben said, ashamed at what his two uniformed escorts saw.

Broken glass adorned the dust bowl of the front “yard,” shimmering in the afternoon light. The window it had come from was still boarded up with plywood that wasn’t weathering well after nearly a year of being exposed to the hot desert sun.

The steps leading up to the front door were cracked and chipped, and the metal decoration on the bottom of the screen had come off on one side and hung at a defeated angle.

The windows that weren’t broken displayed sorry-looking, mismatched, and badly hung curtains, blinds that were broken and bent, or an unsightly mix of both.

The paint was peeling, particularly on the windowsills, and the roof was sagging and discolored, with a badly attached blue plastic tarp that was covering a leak in an ineffective tangle.

And that was just
their
house. The others weren’t much better-looking.

Back when it was a new development, in 1969, this little enclave of winding streets and shiny houses had been called Pedergast Gardens. Ben had written a report on it for school after finding one of the original blueprints for their house up in the crawl-space attic, slipped in behind a now-sagging beam.

Thirty-six years later, the shine was long gone and the entire place devoid of anything even remotely gardenlike, as residents used their limited and shrinking funds for food and electricity, instead of paint, new roofs, or water for the landscaping. Some of their neighboring houses had been boarded up and condemned, and some had been decorated with deceptively festive-colored crime-scene tape.

But compared to their post-Katrina housing, it was home, sweet home. Or at least it had been for a very brief time, back when Ben was
younger and too dumb to recognize that Greg was an asshat, and that he himself was doomed and already circling the drain.

The police officer parked on the street, out front, as Ben sat in the cage in the back and breathed. Inhale. Exhale. This was going to suck. Maybe he could seek asylum with the police. Confess that he’d failed to mention his evil stepfather, who was going to beat the shit out of him as soon as the cops drove away.

He should, at least, ask what the law was in regard to self-defense. If Greg hit him, he could hit Greg back. He knew that much. But how could he prove it if, after the fact, Greg accused
him
of throwing the first punch?

There were no handles on the inside of the door, so Ben had to wait until the second cop—the stern-faced woman with the cold, unsympathetic eyes—opened it for him, letting him out into the hot, still, afternoon air.

The male officer seemed nicer, more human, but he apparently wasn’t even getting out of the car, leaving his partner to complete this assignment.

And really, on the scale of horrible to really horrible, she was better than what he’d expected and dreaded—i.e., being driven home by the detectives who’d questioned him about Neesha in the mall.

But neither the bald nor the sunglasses-wearing cop had showed up at the police station.

And no one else so much as mentioned Neesha, or the fact that she was missing.

Which had been a little weird.

So Ben hadn’t brought the subject up, not with anyone.

“You know how when you go to the hospital and the doctor or the nurse takes you aside to make sure you really did just fall off your bike,” Ben said to the policewoman, about to launch into a description of life with Greg, when he heard a shout from down the street.

“Hey! Ben!”

It was Eden, coming to his rescue, thank you,
thank you
, baby Jesus.

She was on foot, and soaked with perspiration, her hair bedraggled—looking as if she’d run most of the way over here from wherever it was she’d been working.

“I’m so sorry I was delayed,” she called in an odd mix of half shout, half whisper, with her voice pitched slightly higher than usual, and Ben knew she was trying her best to keep Greg from hearing her or recognizing her if he did hear voices from out in the street.

And sure enough, when she came closer, she still spoke quietly in that higher voice. “Are you all right?” she asked him, the very picture of the concerned older sister.

He nodded and she hugged him tightly and said, “Thank the Lord,” even as she pinched him in the side. “Thank you, Officer, for bringing him safely home,” she added as she released him. “It’s been a rough few days. Our older brother, Danny, is a Navy SEAL, serving in Afghanistan. We just found out he’d been injured, but we didn’t know how badly, or even if he was still alive. Long story short, he was shot and he nearly died—but he’s going to be okay. Still … The stress took its toll on all of us, I’m afraid.”

The police officer softened—just a bit. She expressed her sympathy and then droned on and on, all about that not
really
being a good excuse for cutting school, about the dangers of running away from a police officer, about the value of this program called Scared Straight—yeah, no irony there—run by a local church, where teenagers were taken to a high-security penitentiary where they had conversations with lifers. It was a good program, particularly for boys his age, blah blah blah.

Ben tuned out, his focus on the house, checking the windows and the door. The longer they stood out here talking, the greater the chances were that Greg would stagger into the kitchen for another gin and lemonade, see them, and come outside.

He would take one look at Eden and start to scream. He’d hated her while she lived here, but he’d hated her even more after she was gone.

Eden showed the cop her ID—a passport that was several years old,
with Gillman still listed as her last name and this address as her place of residence. She apologized to the police officer about twenty more times, and Ben himself even threw in a few contrite-sounding
I’m sorries
.

And then they were done.

Except after the police officer climbed back into the cruiser, it hovered there at the side of the road. And Ben saw that she was watching them.

“Oh, Lord,” Eden said even as she smiled and waved. “I think she’s waiting for us to go inside. Do you have your keys?”

He did, but: “I’m
not
going in there.”

“You don’t have to,” Eden said. “Just unlock the door for me and sit on the steps and pout, like I just told you there’d be no TV after dinner for the next five hundred years.”

“
You’re
going inside,” Ben said.

She nodded. She wasn’t kidding. “Someone’s got to. Come on. Do it. Unlock the door. Let’s get this over with so we can get out of here. Being back like this is giving me a rash.”

Ben took his keys from his pocket as he climbed the crap stairs and opened the crap screen door, wincing as it gave an unavoidable screech.

“It’s okay,” Eden murmured, standing at his shoulder as he put the key in the door and unbolted the lock. “Greg’s probably asleep. Besides, together we can definitely kick his ass.”

“This wasn’t entirely my fault—the thing with the police,” Ben had an overpowering urge to explain before she went inside. As if she were going to die or never come back out again. “I went to the mall to find Neesha, and these cops—not the ones who dropped me off but others—detectives, in regular clothes? They were there, looking for her, too. They had a picture of her. One of the mall guards saw me with her. That’s why they stopped me.”

Eden looked at him, with her hand on the doorknob. “Seriously?”

“It was beyond weird, Eed,” he said. “They said she was a runaway—that she was mentally ill, but I don’t believe it. Yeah, she
told me this crazy story about being sold into kind of a slavery—as a sex slave, I’m pretty sure. And maybe she really does have PTSD or something, but whoever she was living with? If she really was adopted? One of her adoptive parents was doing something wrong. I’m sure of it. Still, after I was at the police station? Nothing. No questions about her, no pictures. The detectives weren’t even there. It was all about cutting school and running away from the police.”

“Maybe they were satisfied that you didn’t know where she was,” she suggested, then took a deep breath. “I’m going to be right inside. Open the door again when they’re gone, okay?”

Ben nodded and slumped down onto the top step.