Read Online Breaking the Rules by Suzanne Brockmann - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
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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.
But goddamnit, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life pining for someone he couldn’t have.
So when Cynthia reached out to touch him again, when she said, “Hey, have you had dinner? Because I’ve got some chicken I was going to grill, back at my place …” When she gathered up her purse and jacket and gestured for him to follow her out the door …
Izzy didn’t say no.
L AS V EGAS
M ONDAY , M AY 4, 2009
The house was quiet when Ben came home from school, and he made a point to close the screen door behind him as quietly as possible, since that was one of his stepfather Greg’s pet peeves.
Close that door like a human being, not like the wild animal that you are, boy …
Mondays sucked more than usual because Greg wouldn’t drink on Sundays, and although he was a mean drunk, he was still plenty mean when he was sober, and his going without made him crazy, too.
And his Sunday self-prohibition extended until Monday at 5 p.m., at which point a stiff drink or five were finally allowed, according to the Rules of Greg’s World. Greg compensated for Monday’s hellishness by sleeping away as much of the day as possible.
Ben usually stayed away most of Monday, because waking Greg up would get him hit or spat on, which was disgusting.
It was hard to know which was worse—Monday afternoon orMonday night, as crazy slid into a drunken mean that was wide awake into the wee hours of the morning.
He’d only come home to pick up the clothes he’d found last night, while rummaging through a box of Sandy’s things that had been shoved into the attic. There were a whole pile of shirts from her pre-childbearing years that she’d never wear again, and Ben had tossed them into the washing machine so they wouldn’t smell musty when he gave them to the runaway who hung out at the mall.
He moved noiselessly down the hall to his bedroom and grabbed the bag that he’d put them in, then swung into the kitchen to scrounge for a snack or at least a small glass of OJ to keep his blood sugar level and …
The letter was open and on the counter, addressed to Mrs. Ivette Fortune. It was from the Department of the U.S. Navy, and—holy shit—they were writing to inform her of their failed attempts to contact her via phone and e-mail regarding her son, Petty Officer First Class Daniel Gillman, who had—God, no!—recently been seriously injured.
But the letter didn’t provide details and—fuck—it was dated April 20. There was a phone number to call for more information, along with
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.
But goddamnit, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life pining for someone he couldn’t have.
So when Cynthia reached out to touch him again, when she said, “Hey, have you had dinner? Because I’ve got some chicken I was going to grill, back at my place …” When she gathered up her purse and jacket and gestured for him to follow her out the door …
Izzy didn’t say no.
L AS V EGAS
M ONDAY , M AY 4, 2009
The house was quiet when Ben came home from school, and he made a point to close the screen door behind him as quietly as possible, since that was one of his stepfather Greg’s pet peeves.
Close that door like a human being, not like the wild animal that you are, boy …
Mondays sucked more than usual because Greg wouldn’t drink on Sundays, and although he was a mean drunk, he was still plenty mean when he was sober, and his going without made him crazy, too.
And his Sunday self-prohibition extended until Monday at 5 p.m., at which point a stiff drink or five were finally allowed, according to the Rules of Greg’s World. Greg compensated for Monday’s hellishness by sleeping away as much of the day as possible.
Ben usually stayed away most of Monday, because waking Greg up would get him hit or spat on, which was disgusting.
It was hard to know which was worse—Monday afternoon orMonday night, as crazy slid into a drunken mean that was wide awake into the wee hours of the morning.
He’d only come home to pick up the clothes he’d found last night, while rummaging through a box of Sandy’s things that had been shoved into the attic. There were a whole pile of shirts from her pre-childbearing years that she’d never wear again, and Ben had tossed them into the washing machine so they wouldn’t smell musty when he gave them to the runaway who hung out at the mall.
He moved noiselessly down the hall to his bedroom and grabbed the bag that he’d put them in, then swung into the kitchen to scrounge for a snack or at least a small glass of OJ to keep his blood sugar level and …
The letter was open and on the counter, addressed to Mrs. Ivette Fortune. It was from the Department of the U.S. Navy, and—holy shit—they were writing to inform her of their failed attempts to contact her via phone and e-mail regarding her son, Petty Officer First Class Daniel Gillman, who had—God, no!—recently been seriously injured.
But the letter didn’t provide details and—fuck—it was dated April 20. There was a phone number to call for more information, along with
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