[Unbreakable 02.0] Rule Breaker

by Kat Bastion

  “Yes!” She extended a trembling left hand.

  Rising up, I slid the ring onto her finger, then pulled her in close. Gratitude flowed through me, warming my heart. Then I kissed her with all the passion I felt for her.

  When I bent down, crooked an elbow under her knees, and swept her up into my arms, she squealed. After hoisting her higher, I fumbled with the door latch. Then I strode through the small dining room and up the staircase.

  She clasped her hands behind my neck. “I knew you wanted to get into my pants.”

  “Actually, you out of them.”

  When we reached the landing, she pressed her face into my neck, then let out a deep breath. “You know this won’t ever be easy.” Doubt edged her tone.

  I paused at our door, then lowered her down. Her hesitant gaze met mine.

  Over the summer, everywhere we’d gone, either she’d caught stares or I had. Each time, I’d explained that people couldn’t take their eyes off her because of her breathtaking beauty, and when they bothered to look at me, it was because they couldn’t figure out how a scruffy guy like me ended up the lucky bastard who got to be with her.

  But the occasional heated altercations at the beaches had still happened, even with her brothers’ approval—they hadn’t gone everywhere with us and we didn’t want bodyguards anyway. And with my parents’ ambitions, we’d still made headlines: Senator’s Son Courts Hawaiian Beauty.

  We did our best to ignore it all. Every heckler. Every label. We fought for our happiness by living each day right in that moment—all we could do.

  But the doubt in her voice, in her eyes right there in the hallway? Proved we were still human.

  With unwavering conviction, I stared into her incredible dark eyes and locked on the clear hope radiating in their depths. “Since when has life every come easy for you or me? To us? We will always be worth every bit of the struggle if we keep true to our hearts.”

  “But my…father?” That she’d changed what she called him—distanced herself with one simple word—hadn’t escaped me.

  “Your makuakane already knows.”

  She straightened in surprise. “He does?”

  “Well, duh. I do things right. I asked him for your hand.”

  Shocked eyes blinked at me. “What did he say?”

  “No.”

  “And you defied him.” She huffed out a laugh.

  “Absolutely.” I fought a smile. “He followed up his refusal with all the ways he planned to torture me if any harm ever came to you. In excruciating detail. He mentioned my skin melting off over molten lava and my heart being extracted through my throat by ghostly night marchers.”

  “Wow.” Her expression turned horrified. “That’s…really bad.”

  “Nah.” I gave her a soft kiss. “Like daughter like father. All I heard in the subtext of his list of threats? His permission.” She had proprietary rights to the capital Y and exclamation points, but her father’s lowercase agreement with a conditional triple dots would work for me.

  “Now.” I unlocked the door, then crowded her inside the dark entryway before kicking the door shut behind me. “Let’s see about getting you out of those pants.”

  Almost an hour later, we relaxed back under a pile of bedding, plenty warm.

  Leilani snuggled up against me. “I dunnooo...this feels a lot like my comfort zone.”

  I draped an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. Her enchanting scent, plumeria mixed with wild island girl, wafted around me. “Huh.” She had a very good point. “We’ll have to find our adventure elsewhere, then…” My tone turned teasing; it wasn’t as if we couldn’t find plenty of adventure on our private mattress-playground.

  “Out there, somewhere.” Her voice slowed, developing a dreamy quality.

  I closed my eyes, imagining us on a random beach, staring up at a starry midnight sky. Neither one of us afraid of what the future might hold. In fact, exhilarated by it.

  “Across the ocean?” I kissed the top of her head, pulling her tighter against me.

  “With you,” she murmured.

  “Only way it’s happening.” Where I belonged—my home. No matter where our adventures took us.

  The barest nod moved against me. She pressed a gentle kiss to my chest, then whispered, “Riding the next wave…”

  Enjoy your sneak peek of Lawbreaker, the latest novel in The Unbreakable Series

  Lawbreaker

  Sneak Peek

  Shay…

  It’s real. What I mentally repeated for the millionth time. What I’d been trying to convince my doubting self for days. Because awesome things—good and pure and decent things—didn’t happen to people like me. Only—it had.

  Finally. I’d done it.

  No more scraping and clawing and wanting.

  No more lying, cheating, conning…stealing.

  Even so, I flicked another glance at the nightclub’s front door, waiting for the inevitable to happen, expecting someone to turn my world upside down. Again. Distrust had become habit.

  No. I rejected the gnawing doubt. I had to believe. You earned this. You worked so hard for this chance.

  “It’s real.” The slow whisper fell from my lips, finally spoken aloud. “I’ve made it.” From my coveted position behind the bar, I coasted trembling fingertips over the cool metal of a brushed stainless steel bar top. Clean. Sanitized clean.

  The only rust in sight came not from decay and neglect; it had been placed with great care and intention. Ancient brick lined the walls behind worn leather booths along the far wall, but the aged patina and rough edges lent the joint a vibe all the customers drinking and laughing and dancing within it wanted.

  Loading Zone? A world away from a dingy back alley.

  Yet…not so far at all.

  We’d both come a long way: I’d seen the decrepit old warehouse in her former state for years. Had drifted by almost every night, loitering as I stared up at her ghostly form, wondering if someday she’d shine again. For her to no longer have broken windows, rotting wood, dirty brick…derelict—forgotten.

  And then to be a part of what breathed new life into her?

  For her to be an essential part of me in the same way?

  Kicked. Ass.

  The industrial vibe continued into other areas too, like in the employee “lounge”, where roughed concrete spanned the floors, reclaimed wood beams served as changing benches, and lockers bore the perfect amount of dented and slightly rusted. Six galvanized metal stools perched under a hammered zinc worktable that served as our own bar. Cold drinks came from a vintage Coca-Cola cooler. The two generous private shower stalls had repurposed tiles and roughhewn gliding doors that had been salvaged from a barn.

  Then there was the boss’s office. Yeah, the “off-limits” one. As if that’d ever stopped me. I’d been told the revered-by-one-and-all Benjamin Bishop was away on emergency. I’d found the door that guarded the forbidden space to be locked. All the more tempting. And perfect to get to know the absent mystery man in control of my fate—my way, on my terms. Covertly.

  What had I discovered?

  Blown-up pictures of challenging golf course holes hung at eye level. All had breathtaking scenery. Two captured ocean waves as they’d crashed against black rocks behind vibrant manicured greens in the foreground. Most had the same handsome dark-haired guy with a golf club in hand and a wide grin on his face. Some featured him alone. One had been posed with a few other guys, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

  A massive polished ebony desk spanned the larger side wall. On it, a square paperclip holder had been positioned exactly two inches from each side of its back-left corner. Two exposed vintage Edison bulbs stuck straight up from a funky galvanized steel light which stood perfectly centered along its back edge.

  One wide-barreled pen, made of wood that had light-and-dark stripes running lengthwise, rested off to the side, parallel to the desk edge. But it laid within reach of a man who would sit in the sage-green ergonomic
work chair parked under the desk, dead-center in the middle.

  Ordered.

  Perfect.

  So damn perfect, my fingers had itched to knock its owner off-balance.

  I’d left my mark before leaving: nudged the pen a little to the left, rotated the lamp a few degrees off-center. Had done both with the side of my thumb, not a fingerprint left behind—not my first time breaking-and-entering.

  I smiled, remembering how, as a final parting, I’d bumped the chair’s arm with my hip, swiveling it from its neatly tucked position.

  “Racked, Shay?” A solid smack echoed out. Five frosty pink manicured nails drummed once, pinky to thumb, on the shiny stainless steel of the servers’ station to my right.

  I blinked back into the here-and-now, then moved, my hands blurring as glasses clinked, liquids poured, and drinks loaded onto her tray beside the order screen: dirty martini, beer, scotch, three screaming-orgasm shots.

  After a quick once-over, I gave a firm nod. “Locked and loaded.” Staring at the mash-up of drinks, I flung my bar towel over my shoulder, then met Jillian’s impressed gaze to hazard my usual expected guess. “First date?” Yep. Smartass, through and through.

  “Nope.” She half-rolled her eyes, then kept her gaze stuck at the ceiling for a prayerful beat. “Bachelorette party.”

  “Ah. My condolences.” Our nightly joking came as easy ritualistic banter for me. What I’d learned from observing the privileged for years. How I’d gotten skilled at fitting in, climbing up, staking my claim in a world that didn’t hand out anything to anyone who didn’t fight hard for it.

  She winked long black lashes at me. “Piece o’ cake.” A veteran server. No doubt she had the challenging group in the palm of her hands.

  I knew the feeling–had learned my craft well. How to read people, play their weakness, manipulate a situation just enough to get what you want without their realizing they’d been played. How I’d survived. How I’d made it.

  To get here…

  Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. Ugh. Annoying. Doing my damnedest to be normal, to blend in, I blinked the irritating moisture back and sucked in a strengthening breath. Then I soaked in the fleeting moment; I knew how rare and precious the good ones were.

  What we’re lucky to get in our sucky world. Scraps of joy between all the suffering. Words echoed from ages ago on a bitter cold night, stomach clenched in ravenous hunger.

  But all that suffering and despair had changed, little by little. And the pinnacle to my arduous climb? Only a few short days ago, when I’d stepped foot on the hallowed ground beneath my feet...when I’d vowed to go legit.

  I’d used the last few dollars I’d squirreled away for myself to buy vintage jeans that hugged my hips under the tight T-shirt provided by Loading Zone, their bartenders’ uniform. My shoes had been worn only once on a one-night con job: black distressed-leather mules with a three-inch heel, comfortable and stylish.

  The new getup? All for a standard paycheck. The kind with acronyms like FICA, where the government apparently dipped invisible hands into what I’d toiled for. Long hours in exchange for far less pay than what I’d pinched with little sweat in the past. But working aboveboard was safe, one step closer to real…normal. And the renowned bar that I stood in wrapped itself around me like the pseudo-family it had long been rumored to be.

  “You workin’ or daydreamin’?” The loud crack of a bar-towel corner snapped a scant inch from my chin.

  “Workin’.”

  Definitely workin’.

  Worth it.

  Dropping my gaze with steady focus, I busied myself behind the bar, filling orders from customers packed two rows deep at the barstools. But I shot a quick glance at my towel-snapper and fellow bartender for the night.

  Cade. Good guy. Wicked smart. Master fighter and manipulator, but with a different moral code. He wouldn’t break the law. I would.

  “Stop,” I growled to myself under my breath, pissed at my runaway thoughts. Ingrained, my brain had randomly locked on to Cade, analyzed, filtered, and spat out gut instincts. Like I’d done with every mark. Only Cade wasn’t a mark. None of the new family surrounding me were.

  I berated myself with another needed self-correction. I had broken the law. Had. Past tense. Often. But that was before. “You’re done now.” I sharpened the harsh whisper with finality.

  My thoughts zeroed back in on the here-and-now. Family. Such a strange concept. Mine—the ragtag few who truly cared about me—protected me, had been pieced together from chance encounters, earned through selfless actions, trusted only to a point: all I’d ever allowed, with anyone.

  “Bomber,” Cade called out from the other end of our shared territory, his voice clear to me over the pumping music and shouted conversations.

  “Trick question.” They always were, the nightly pop quizzes he’d been drilling me with since day one. Not because Cade doubted my abilities, but because, as he’d explained on my first shift, he wanted to see me succeed, thrive. I wanted that too. “If you mean, the B-52 Bomber...”

  I glanced his way for clarification.

  He folded his arms, expression blanked.

  No clues. Because custom drink orders might not have any either. We had to decipher them. No server wanted to hump back to a customer through a dense and thirsty crowd for clarification.

  Yep. The B-52. But I didn’t need to take the easy way with my answer. Anyone could rattle off three ingredients. And he’d stumped me on at least one drink puzzle every night since I’d been tending. So, he wanted to test my abilities? Fine.

  “I know you don’t mean a Cherry Bomb, which is cachaça, Brazil’s premium liquor distilled from sugarcane.” Yep. He asked? I provided the mountain of information I’d been studying. “Plus an ounce of kirsch also known as kirschwasser, a German cherry brandy, a splash of fresh lime juice, and topped with club soda.”

  I paused for effect, then raised my brows as I continued on with my explanation while still filling drink orders. “You might’ve tried to con me into thinking an Irish Car Bomb, also known as an Irish Bomb, but I doubt it. We don’t have it on our menu; it’s insulting to the Irish.” And some bars got into trouble with it. Got nothing to do with the Irish. It’s an American-invented drink, with the only thing Irish about it its ingredients. “But if a customer wanted one, I’d layer the shot glass with Jameson Irish Whiskey poured over Baileys Irish Cream, all to be ‘bombed’ in front of the customer into a glass of Guinness Stout.” The resulting eruption of foam? Guaranteed crowd-pleaser.

  I tilted my head. “Incidentally, if we had ice cream—”

  His brows hiked a fraction. “We don’t have ice cream.”

  “If we did...I make a mean Irish Bomb Float. A long pour of Jameson into a pint glass, add two scoops of Ben & Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide, topped off with twelve ounces of Guinness Stout.” Deadly calories. Maximum yum.

  “But you said ‘bomber’, so I’m thinkin’ you want the B-52 Bomber, which, according to my education” —and he had no idea said education was my own brand of bartending self-training— “is a layered shooter supposedly invented by a bartender-fan of The B-52’s band.”

  Cade’s eyes sparked with amusement.

  Knew it. “Kahlúa.” For the dark coffee liqueur support at the bottom. “Baileys.” The creamy pillow in the middle. “And Grand Marnier.” The decadent aged orange liqueur capped on top. “In that order.”

  He gave me a brief nod. All the praise I’d get. But I caught a glimpse of pride in his eyes.

  Not that I needed a gold star. Hadn’t gotten approval from anyone in a long time. Years.

  Yet a little bit of unsolicited recognition at a job well done? Felt...nice.

  Cade’s challenges and praise made me want to stick with it because each night proved an opportunity to grow, to better myself. The company itself did that too, which was rare. It’s what made the place family. We didn’t only belong to the bar. The bar was ours too: To work at Loading Zone meant we got a piece
of the action, a percentage of the profits. If we loved what we did, and took care of the customers so they had an amazing experience, the company coffers didn’t just get fatter, our own wallets did too.

  And I liked that.

  People taking care of their own.

  What I’d done most of my life.

  Without another word or glance, Cade turned and disappeared to his section of the bar, before rackin’ and packin’ ’em.

  “School’s out for the night,” I murmured, okay with my relative independence. Probably wouldn’t talk to one another for hours, if Friday nights were like I’d heard.

  Back to the grind. Drink orders flew over the bar’s electronic system. Music blared. Bodies danced. Our third bartender came on shift with a chin-up greeting to Cade and me before he took responsibility for the far end.

  And in between nonstop mixing drinks for servers or fielding orders from the anxious throng at the bar, I still flicked the occasional glance at the door.

  Waiting.

  Wondering.

  Then doubt trickled in. Because I’d been there before, that warm fuzzy place where good things happened. Calm comfort sank into my chest to the point where happiness lulled me into feeling safe, complacent.

  That fairy-tale illusion had put me at risk long ago.

  Never again.

  And so, distrust had become second nature.

  I’d probably go decades into a decent and good life, and I’d still be watching the door, waiting for something bad to happen—expecting someone to snatch it all away.

  Recognizing the deep-rooted fear, miniscule but real all the same, helped me cope. But with a solid grip on my survival instincts, I tucked the steady awareness into the back of my mind and dove into the present.

  By muscle memory, I served up drinks, one after another. Margaritas. Manhattans. Whiskey neat. Bourbon sour.

  At some point over the course of the busy next hour, my restless mind drifted from drinks back out into the place around me, then toward Cade at my left. The rundown of his good makeup flashed again, that damned analysis-mode kicking in, no matter how I tried to mute it.