Breaking the Rules (7 page)

She pretended to not understand. “I sorry,” she said, making her voice higher pitched and singsong. “I not much speak American.”

He reached a hand into his pocket, which made her heart race, until he pulled it back out—and held out a bill with a giant five on it—as if he wanted her to take it.

“Just in case you ever get tired of eating other people’s leftovers,” he said.

She didn’t know what leftovers were, but just the same, Neesha couldn’t take it from him. If she took his money, she would be indebted. She shook her head.

“Look,” he said, “I’ve seen you. You find a group of people, usually a family with little kids. And you offer to clear their trays as if you work for the food court. But this is a self-serve place. You’re supposed to bus
your own trays—throw out your own trash. But little kids, they don’t always eat their entire Happy Meal, do they? So you throw out the garbage and eat what’s left.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t look at him.

“I’ve seen you do it,” he said. “It’s pretty freaking brilliant. I just thought you’d maybe want … something fresh to eat sometime.”

He was still holding out that bill.

She reached for it. Stopped. Looked up into those eerie eyes. “For this, I will
not
give blow job.”

The pretty boy laughed his surprise, but then stopped. “Oh, my God, you’re serious,” he said as he sat down in the chair across from her and lowered his voice. “You’re like, twelve. Are you …? Have you
really
 …?”

“I’m sixteen,” she told him, giving up her pretense of not being able to speak English well. After so many years, her accent was barely noticeable, too.

“You look twelve.”

Neesha shrugged. “I’m short.”

“I’m Ben,” the boy said. “And I don’t want a blow job.” He caught himself, smiled. “That’s not really true. I
do
want one, who doesn’t? But … not from you. Trust me.”

It didn’t make sense, and she
didn’t
trust him. “Then why do you give me money?”

“Because … you look like you need it more than I do. I’ve seen you here for about a week now, and you’re always wearing the same thing.” He looked down at his own clothes. “Of course, I’m one to talk. But I’m doing it as a statement. You’re not.”

He pushed the money across the table toward her and withdrew his hand.

Neesha found herself looking down at it. Wanting to take it.

Wondering what was the catch.

There was always a catch.

“When did you run away?” he asked, and she looked up at him, worried.

Ben smiled, which made him look like an angel, come down from heaven. “It’s not really that obvious. I mean, I know because I pay attention. But you really
should
get different clothes. Maybe just a few other shirts. The Salvation Army sells stuff for two bucks a bag. Do you know where that is?”

She shook her head, and he told her, but the address was meaningless. She knew only a few streets and not by their official names but by their landmarks. She’d learned to speak English by watching hour upon hour of TV back when she was a prisoner, after they’d taken away her books and papers and pencils. She’d learned from watching and listening, but she hadn’t learned to read it. Not yet, anyway. Not well enough to handle street signs.

“If you go there,” he told her, “you just have to be careful. Sometimes cops hang out, looking for runaways. Make sure you tell the ladies behind the counter that you’re looking for clothes for your sister’s birthday. And that you’re the same size. That you’re twins. That way they won’t flag you or ask too many questions.”

She pushed the bill back toward him. “I can’t,” she said. And she couldn’t—take his money, or his advice. As much as she would’ve loved to have a whole bagful of clean, fresh clothes, she couldn’t do it.

She started to stand up so she could walk away.

But he stood up, too, far more gracefully. He pushed his chair in and backed off.

“I’d run away, too, if I could,” he told her. “My stepfather is a son of a bitch, and my mother’s invisible. School’s a nightmare, and …” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. In a few months I’m moving to San Diego, to live with my brother and sister. Either that or … I don’t know, maybe I’ll be dead. One way or another, it’ll be an improvement. See you around.”

And with that, he walked away without looking back, leaving that five-dollar bill on the table.

So Neesha picked it up, and put it in her pocket.

I
love living in Germany, don’t you?” the Army nurse asked Izzy as they sat at the corner of the bar.

In truth, Izzy fricking hated fricking Germany. It was where his soon-to-be ex-wife Eden had run after her baby had been stillborn. She had a friend here—Anya Podlasli—who gave her room and board in exchange for help with child care. And every time Izzy had gone to try to see his wife, old stern-and-disapproving Anya with her tightly, Germanicly pursed lips, had turned him away.

The last time had been the final time, except now here he was, unexpectedly back in Germany, not far from where Eden was living. The urge to go visit her for one
final
final time was strong. Especially when the training exercises he’d gotten caught up in after his release from the hospital had ended a full two days before his flight back to Coronado and his next assignment as a BUD/S instructor. Whoo fricking hoo. Still, everyone had to take a turn, and it was his—spurred, no doubt, by the recent supposedly irresponsible behavior that had put him into the hospital, true, but had also saved Eden’s brother Danny’s life.

Not that Izzy had done what he’d done for Eden’s sake. He’d done it for himself and for Dan, and because sometimes rules needed to be broken.

And okay, yeah, he was a liar. He’d done it for Eden, too, because
he knew she’d already had too much pain and loss in her life, and try as he might, he couldn’t make himself stop caring about that, and about her.

But he
could
make himself accept the fact that his marriage to her was over, so instead of hopping a train and trying to see her one
final
final time, he’d put on some civvies and left the base. When he got off the bus, he’d started walking until he hit the first bar.

And when he’d found this one, he’d walked in and then found the first seemingly available woman and sat down beside her.

Love Germany? Sweetheart, he was counting the minutes before he could leave.

But telling this woman that wasn’t going to get him laid. And that was his goal here, tonight, wasn’t it? Sex with a convenient stranger, to pull him out of the purgatory in which he’d resided since Eden walked out of his life.

“I haven’t ever really lived here,” Izzy told the nurse. Damn, he’d already forgotten her name. Sylvia or Cindy or … Cynthia. That was it. A pretty name for an equally pretty woman, with her red curls and blue eyes. She was dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers on her feet—which should have been a warning to him. She wasn’t here trolling for a one-nighter, in her fuck-me shoes. She really was here for just a glass of wine. “I only drop in briefly, for visits.”

“You’re not stationed here?” Her disappointment in that news was almost palpable, and Izzy watched the integer for this evening’s potential orgasm count nosedive back to the solid zero it had been for most of the past year.

But it wasn’t disappointment he was feeling, it was relief. And that pissed him off. He didn’t want to not want sex. He didn’t want to feel as if his getting in a little recreational happy-fun was wrong—for any reason. But most of all, he didn’t want to look at a perfectly acceptable beautiful, sexy, and intelligent woman like fair Cynthia and think
why bother trying
simply because she couldn’t hold a candle to his soon-to-be-ex-wife.

There was a lot of room between his current state of not having any
sex at all and the unearthly bliss of being sent into sexual orbit via Eden. And the sooner he moved into that as-yet-unexplored territory between the two, the better.

So even though Cynthia was giving him all of the classic pre-shut-down,
this won’t work because you’re not stationed here
signs, he pushed aside his feeling of relief and went for it, firing the biggest gun he had in his possession.

“I’m a Navy SEAL,” he told her, and yes, her body language immediately changed from
I have to go find my friends
to
What friends, I never had any friends
.

So he embellished, heavy on the lighthearted flirtation. “We only come to Germany to let you and the doctors check the stitches we give ourselves. And to give you pointers to use in the OR.”

She laughed at that, and her eyes sparkled. She really
was
quite pretty. But not even half as pretty as Eden, of course.

Fuck
.

“And how
are
your stitches?” she asked. “Wait, don’t tell me—you need me to check them for you. Privately, of course, because you’re bashful.”

“I am.” Izzy made himself flirt back. See, he could do this. “But alas, this time I have none for you to check. I was here because I donated a little too much blood to a teammate out in the field. I needed a major resupply of my own.”

She sat back in her seat. “Oh, my God,” she said, her flirtatiousness instantly gone, her eyes wide. “
You’re
the one …? I heard about you.”

“Uh-oh, that’s never good,” he said, going for the laugh and getting it.

“But it was in a good way,” she corrected him. “You saved your friend’s life. I was in awe when I heard what you did.”

“In awe, like, you couldn’t believe someone could be that stupid?” he asked.

She laughed again at his
stupid
, and agreed. “Stupid, but heroic. Even more so because you knew what you were doing. SEALs are a lot
of things, but their stupidity usually doesn’t come from ignorance. So I’ll go with heroic. I’m glad I got to meet you.”

“And to think,” Izzy said, “you could have met me a few weeks ago. What a shame you didn’t kick down my door to give me a sponge bath when you had your chance.”

She laughed again. “Because Army nurses—unlike Navy SEALs—
always
get to choose their assignments.”

“Then it was bad luck that kept us apart,” Izzy said, sighing melodramatically.

“Bad luck and Major MacGregor,” Cynthia agreed as she laughed, adding, “But … good luck that we both came here tonight.”

“Sharing a drink,” Izzy mused, holding out one hand, then putting out his other, as if weighing the options. “Being given a sponge bath …” He shook his head. “Sorry, not quite the same thing.”

Cynthia’s eyes sparkled again as she mimicked him with her hands. “In the hospital, on duty,” she said as she held out one, then added for the other, “In a bar, with the whole night free …”

He was in like Flynn.

And weird that he should think that.
In like Flynn
was actually a reference to Errol Flynn, the movie star of the 1930s, who was so dashing and daring it was perceived that no woman would ever turn him down. Dude had been so freaking hot that that expression still lived on, halfway around the world from Hollywood, and well into the twenty-first century.

And okay. It wasn’t as if all Izzy had to do was hold out his hand, and this woman would take it and lead him home to her place. He was going to have to work for it. But there was work and there was work, and this job wasn’t going to be difficult. Like most women, she just wanted a little effort on his part. She wanted him to make her laugh. She wanted a little substance along with the spark of attraction.

Which he was already delivering, as well as another drink. As he caught the bartender’s eye and motioned for another beer for himself and a glass of wine for the lady, he supposed that
in like Flynn
had
hung around so long because it rhymed. If the guy’s name had been Errol Floyd, he probably would have been forgotten.

As Cynthia accepted a refill of her wine with a smile, as she picked up the long-stemmed glass and took a sip, Izzy knew that it was weird that he should be thinking about the origin of an expression like
in like Flynn
, instead of inventorying the number of condoms he had on his person and imagining this woman’s long, graceful hands and elegant lips on his body instead of that wineglass.

None. He had exactly zero condoms on him.

Because, truth was, he’d come to this bar tonight with no intention of actually getting any. And he may have been in like Flynn with Cynthia-the-nurse, but he absolutely couldn’t imagine going back to her apartment and then having to talk to her afterward.

He could imagine the sex.

That was easy to do. And if he could’ve just stood up and pulled her into some random back room and, without further ado or conversation, nailed her and then walked away, he might’ve done it.

Maybe.

But maybe not. Because he liked her.

And she wasn’t here for a casual encounter, the way he was. She was looking for a boyfriend.

“It was really nice meeting you,” Izzy told her as he paid his tab and pushed away his untouched second glass of beer and climbed down off of that bar stool. “But I’ve got to go.”

She was completely confused, so he tried to explain. “I can’t do this,” he told her. “The timing’s wrong. I’m leaving in a few days and … you don’t want that, and … I don’t either.”

Cynthia stopped him with a hand on his arm. “The timing’s never right during a war.”

And great. Now he’d moved, in her eyes, from hero to superhero. He couldn’t have delivered a line more perfectly designed to convince her to break her rules if he’d tried. And sure enough, she was ready to write him a permission slip for a completely no-strings encounter—
which should have given him cause to have to work to keep his happy dance completely hidden from her view.

Instead he felt a wave of panic—and then of both shame and anger. Because he didn’t want to go home with her. In fact, the way she was touching him made him feel claustrophobic, and he shifted so that her hand fell away.