Breaking the Rules Page 5

  Besides, she needed a second job—a cover job so that she didn’t have to tell Ben where she was really working—and this place, with its Internet café and public computers, would be perfect.

  She glanced at her brother. “How’s Ivette?”

  He shook his head. “She’s been working nights for a while—some new job. I haven’t seen her that much.”

  “Sandy?” she asked about their older sister.

  “She went back in.”

  To rehab. “That’s good,” Eden said.

  But Ben shrugged. “It was that or jail.”

  “Who’s got the kids?” Eden asked.

  “Ron’s mother, because, well, Ron is in jail.”

  “That’s good,” Eden said, both about Ron’s mother and Ron’s being in jail. Sandy’s ex-husband was a twisted son of a bitch who drank even more than Sandy did, and the kids wouldn’t have been safe with him. “His mom seemed … nice.”

  “She lent Ivette and Greg some of the money they needed to send me to brainwashing camp in June.” His smile was a twist of his lips. “She donated it to the church. I’m a church project—send the gay kid away to teach him how to be straight—how about that?”

  “No one’s going to send you anywhere,” Eden told him. It was the reason she’d come back to this godforsaken place.

  “Can we really pull this off?” Ben asked, the anxiety in his eyes making him look eleven again. And in a flash, she was back in New Orleans, at the Superdome.

  Back then, she’d failed him. This time, she wouldn’t.

  “We can,” she told him with far more bravado than she felt, because so much of her plan was riding on their brother Danny-the-magnificent—the Navy SEAL. Who still hadn’t answered her latest e-mail. She had no idea what she was going to do if he told her no, or to go screw herself. To avoid that scenario, she had to make sure she paid him back every penny she’d ever owed him, before she asked him to make this new sacrifice. Which was why she was debuting tonight as D’Amato’s newest stripper. “I’m going to get you out of here, Boo-Boo, I promise. California will be better. You’ll love living in San Diego.”

  Her use of his childhood nickname made him smile, and again she was struck by how handsome he’d become. But oh Lord, while she was certain that living in San Diego would be better for Ben, she wasn’t convinced it wasn’t going to be hell on earth for her. Living on edge, near the Navy base in Coronado, afraid that any moment she might run into Izzy or one of his friends …

  But unless she could convince Danny to transfer to the East Coast, she was going to have to make it work. She would make it work. For Ben’s sake.

  Because he was going to that ex-gay camp over her dead body.

  “While I’m doing this,” she told Ben, pointing down to her application, “use their computer and jump online. I need to find a place to live. Preferably a furnished sublet, dirt cheap, month-to-month lease. It’s got to be big enough for you to be able to crash there whenever you want, so make sure it’s a one-bedroom not a studio.” He stood up, his chair scraping across the floor, but she stopped him with a hand on his skinny wrist. “And it needs to be far enough from Ivette and Greg’s so that they don’t stumble across me. Got it?”

  Ben nodded, and they both got down to work.

  LANDSTUHL, GERMANY

  FRIDAY, 17 APRIL 2009

  Jennilyn was there.

  At first, Dan thought he was dreaming.

  It was a really vivid dream, though. It was so real that he actually smelled her—the sweetness of her shampoo and that lotion she used to keep her hands soft. It brought him instantly back to her tiny New York City apartment, and those few days they’d spent, locked in there, together. Alone.

  Most of the time, they’d been alone.

  And naked.

  And he was going to go with that—his memories of the last time he’d made love to her, and just float away again for a while, wrapped in the warmth and safety of a pain-free place filled with pleasure and lightness, when he heard her voice.

  “No, that’s okay,” she said, as clearly as if she were standing next to him. “I don’t mind seeing it. I’d like to. I’d … like to be able to help him take care of it, so …”

  He felt the coolness of air on his nether regions, and then Jenn’s voice said, “Oh,” as if she’d been holding her breath and had exhaled it all at once.

  She was holding his hand in his dream, he realized. Her grip had tightened, and it felt so real and solid, he almost didn’t want to wake up because he really liked the fact that she was there. He tried to tighten his grip on her, afraid she would slip away, but for some reason, in this particular dream, his arms and legs felt heavy and uncooperative. He really had to work to do it.

  But then she said, all in a rush, “Oh, my God, I think he just squeezed my hand. Dan … Danny, are you awake?”

  “I’m awake in my dream, but my eyes won’t open,” he tried to tell her, but the words didn’t come out very clearly. In fact, it sounded more like a moan.

  “Are you hurting him?” he heard Jenn ask, her voice sharper. “Does he need more painkiller?”

  Then another voice: “Honey, he’s got plenty in his system. Trust me, he doesn’t feel a thing.”

  “No one’s hurting me,” he tried to tell Jenni, but again it came out slurred together, and it reminded him of the monster singing “Puttin’ on the Ritz” in Young Frankenstein, which made him laugh.

  “Shh, Dan, it’s all right. You’re all right,” Jenn said, her voice so sharp and clear even though she was whispering. He could almost feel her breath against his cheek.

  And even though he knew it might end this dream too soon, he forced his eyes to open.

  And there she was. Jennilyn. Gazing down at him with such concern on her face and tears brimming in her seemingly average but in truth astonishingly pretty brown eyes.

  “I’m okay,” he told her, laboring over each word to make it come out relatively clearly, since she obviously didn’t like his Young Frankenstein imitation.

  Her tears overflowed and she used the hand that wasn’t holding tightly to his to reach behind her glasses and impatiently brush them away. As far as dreams went, this one sucked. Making Jenn cry was something he tried his hardest not to do.

  But she was pretending she wasn’t crying, so he went with it.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” she said, too. “Welcome back.”

  “Where’ve I been?” Dan again took his time with the question, also noting that they weren’t in her apartment, and that she had her clothes on, which was a shame. It had been months now, and the only time he got some was in his dreams.

  He couldn’t figure out where they were. There were lights that were too bright overhead, and he had to squint to keep his head from exploding. This certainly wasn’t the enlisted men’s barracks, in San Diego, where he kept a locker and sometimes crashed at night, when friends like Lopez, Jenkins, and Silverman tired of him surfing their living-room couches.

  “You’ve actually covered quite a lot of ground over the past few days,” Jenn told him.

  It was then that he noticed she wasn’t the only woman standing next to the side of his bed. There was a blonde on his other side, pulling a blanket back up and over his legs, and activating a blood pressure cuff that squeezed his arm.

  A nurse, which meant—shit—he was in a hospital.

  “I’m not dreaming, am I?” he asked Jenn, who shook her head.

  No.

  She’d come all this way. Wherever he was, he knew it wasn’t Manhattan. Her being here involved air travel and time off from work.

  “Is it bad?” he asked as he suddenly remembered. The car bomb. The sniper. The woman and child. The blood exploding out of his leg …

  His leg …

  But he lifted the blanket and saw that it was still there—heavily bandaged at his thigh. And great, he had some kind of catheter tube coming out of his dick, which bothered him far more to look at than any bandag
ed or unbandaged wound ever would, so he put the blanket back down so he wouldn’t hurl.

  “You’re okay,” Jenn was telling him as more tears spilled from her eyes. “Your waking up was the last big hurdle.”

  “I’m sorry I scared you, baby,” Dan tried to tell her, fighting the sudden nausea. But the best way was to close his eyes, which gave his body some kind of disconnect signal, which he then had to fight in order to stay awake.

  She leaned over and kissed him, her mouth soft against his, her fingers gentle in his hair. “It’s okay if you go back to sleep now,” she whispered.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he tried to tell her, but he was back to sounding like Frankenstein’s comical monster.

  “It’s okay,” Jenn said again. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  And he surrendered to the darkness.

  LAS VEGAS

  MONDAY, APRIL 20, 2009

  The boy who wore makeup was in the shopping mall again.

  Neesha pretended that she didn’t see him, didn’t notice him.

  So many people stared at him—she knew what that was like. She got stared at sometimes if she didn’t find a place to wash up or clean her clothes in the sink. Sometimes she just got stared at because she looked a little different from almost everyone else in this city.

  But now, today, the boy who wore black liner around his eyes and black polish on his fingernails was watching her, and the ice of fear slipped through her.

  Maybe he worked for Mr. Nelson or Todd. Maybe he’d been sent to bring her back.

  But he didn’t look the type. He didn’t look old enough, either, even though he was quite tall.

  Neesha could feel his gaze upon her and she forced herself to stay seated even as he pushed his own chair back and stood up. She sat even as he began to walk toward her. If she had to, she could run.

  He shifted slightly, as if he were going to walk right past, but then, at the last moment, when she was sure she was safe, he stopped.

  And despite her resolve to not look at him, she found herself doing just that.

  He was beautiful, with pale eyes the color of the open sky and skin that was much lighter than hers. “You don’t really work here, do you?” he said.

  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.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  LANDSTUHL, GERMANY

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  MONDAY, 4 MAY 2009

  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 wh
at 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.