Breaking the Rules

by Tinthia Clemant

  “Beware of missing chances; otherwise it may be altogether too late someday.”

  Franz Liszt

  The crew was long gone when St. John did a walk-through of the work site. He’d been in a foul mood all day, and it wasn’t getting any better. For some asinine reason, he’d thought Shannon would text him: maybe to thank him for the lawyer’s number.

  He double-checked the machinery, picked up stray pieces of trash, and swore when he found the keys left in one of the Bobcats. He’d grown tired of the construction end of the business, and on days like the one he’d just had, he would gladly pay someone to take his place. Thanks to the crap surveyor’s report, all the trees he’d designated to remain would need to come down. When the development was finished, it would look like one of MacMillan’s, and that was seriously pissing him off. He prided himself on the amount of natural vegetation his neighborhoods retained. It cost him a pretty penny to build this way, but it was worth it. Not this time though. If he worked around the trees, he’d lose a bundle. It would be cheaper to mow them down and plant new ones. He was getting too old for this crap.

  He’d been fifteen when he put on his first hard hat. Back then, his job had been collecting the construction crew’s empty lunch wrappers, and here he was at fifty-one, still doing the same damn thing. If it hadn’t been for Merry, he’d have left Wexford in his rear-view mirror as soon as he earned his driver’s license. She’d needed him, so he stayed, especially since his half-brother had been useless—still was, for that matter. It would have been nice if things had turned out differently with Malcolm, but they hadn’t, so why dwell on it?

  St. John entered the office trailer and unlocked the cabinet behind his chair. He removed a bottle of whiskey, dropped into his desk chair, and rubbed his face. Meredith had died five years ago, so what was he still doing in Wexford? He could be sitting on a porch overlooking fat, white sheep dotting emerald slopes instead of muttering to himself about his fucking brother.

  Thinking about his land in Scotland kicked up thoughts of Shannon. Her eyes were the same color as the grass the sheep grazed on—deep, vivid green. He’d like a chance to look into those eyes again. Talk to her, smell her…touch her. If he ever got his chance, the first thing he planned to do was bury his face and fingers in her hair and drown in the black waves. Then he’d kiss her lips. And the rest of her.

  He emptied his glass and refilled it. What was he doing? Why was he torturing himself when nothing was going to happen with Shannon? Not with Denise and Justin in the way.

  “Let it go,” he mumbled as he bent and exchanged his steel-toed work boots for a cleaner pair of Timberlands and propped his feet on the two-drawer filing cabinet, and ignored the ringing of his cell.

  “Not going to happen,” he muttered. Whoever was calling would leave a message. It was Friday afternoon, and he was off the clock. After he finished his drink, he planned on going home, taking a shower, throwing a steak on the grill, and getting drunk. Maybe he’d walk Sadie, or he might just sit and toss a stick for her. That’s one of the things he loved about his dog—she was grateful with what he had to give and understood that sometimes the well was empty, and it was useless begging for more.

  Women never seemed to get things like that; they just didn’t get there were times when a man didn’t have anything to give. His last two wives had been like that. Great in bed but needy and whiny, always demanding more, like a couple of bottomless pits.

  He raised his drink and saluted the air. He’d divorce them all over again if given the chance.

  Was Shannon like his wives had been? Taking and taking until she bled Baldos dry, and that’s why she was divorcing him?

  St. John finished his whiskey and slammed the glass against the desk, the sound connecting with the metal surface echoing in the trailer. Whether she was or wasn’t shouldn’t concern him, but just for the record, he didn’t think she was.

  Goddamn it, he needed a way to push her out of his head for good this time. His date last night had worked for a few hours, but the effects had worn off by midmorning. He could try again. Skip the steak and head up to Manchester. Jimbo was on the schedule at the bar, but it couldn’t hurt to check in. It was Friday night, and the place would be hopping, guaranteeing someone willing to help him forget the witch. As his father had always said, ‘Women are like buses: every few minutes another one comes along.’

  His father had been an asshole, and since he was quoting the asshole, that made him one too.

  “Well, this asshole is out of here.” He planted his boots on the floor and stood. Screw Manchester, he was going to stay home and get plastered.

  After setting the trailer’s alarm, he locked the door and headed for his truck. Nobody needed him, and then he remembered that someone had called him a few minutes earlier. Before starting the engine, he removed his cell. The call had come from Denise.

  “Not tonight, Denise.” He hooked the phone to the dashboard and drove out of the work site. Home sweet home, he was on his way.

  He’d only driven a few feet when the Bluetooth connection caught the new incoming call. He grumbled and stabbed the speaker button on the steering wheel. “What’s up, Denise?”

  Voices of screaming kids blasted the cab’s interior. “St. John, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, make it quick.”

  “Are you still in Salem?”

  It would be easy to lie and say no, but that would make him a complete jerk and break one of his most cherished rules. “Just leaving the site now.”

  “I need a favor.”

  The words ‘of course you do’ were poised at the edge of his tongue and ready to take a swan dive out of his mouth. When did Denise not need a favor? “What is it?”

  Her hesitation annoyed the piss out of him, especially since he had to listen to the high-pitched wail of a kid who must have been sucking on her phone.

  “Can you swing by Canobie Lake?” she asked.

  Did the tilt of the earth go off kilter? Denise Boyle was asking him to a family outing? “Thanks, I appreciate it, but I’m dog tired. Some other time.”

  “What are you talking about? Oh, no, I’m not inviting you over; I need you to pick up a stranded mom. She was on the field trip and got left at the park.”

  And there it was; the truth shall set him free. “I’m not a fucking taxi service, Denise. Call the woman’s husband.”

  He held the phone away from his ear and let her finish screaming at a kid named Harry.

  When she returned, she was out of breath. “You there?”

  “Yes. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘you can catch more flies with honey instead of vinegar’?”

  “You try spending the day with a million eight-year-olds and see how you do. So, will you go?”

  “Sorry, not tonight. Call somebody else.”

  “Come on, St. John. You’ll be driving by the park anyway, and she’s heading to the same town as you. It will only add another five, maybe ten, minutes to your ride.” She ended her request by yelling, “Leave her alone.”

  “Are you talking to me or the kids?”

  “You. How about if I reduce my commission on the Lakeview property?”

  “Nice try, but if Jesus Christ asked you to take a cut, you’d still say no.”

  “Fine, just do it because you’re a great guy.”

  “My, how your tune has changed. The other day you compared me to a dog.”

  “Harry, what did I just say? Thanks, St. John, but here’s the thing: I’m only asking you because there’s no one else. If I learn you got cute with her, I’ll be on you like flies on you-know-what. Harry, put that down.”

  The call dropped, and St. John slammed the steering wheel. What the fuck had that been about? Do what to who? So now she thought he’d hit on some random mother? He had a good mind to ignore the request and let whoever was waiting at the park figure out her own ride home.

  “Aw, for fuck sake.” He slammed the wheel again and cut the truck to the left.

&n
bsp; In under six minutes, a series of side streets delivered him to the park’s main gate and a line of cars. He turned and looked behind his truck. It wasn’t too late; he could still get out and be on his way. He shifted into reverse.

  “Of all the fucking…”

  He shifted back into drive and merged with the line of cars.

  The traffic moved at a snail’s pace along the lot’s perimeter road. Parking attendants barely out of diapers waved red flags for people needing to park. It amazed him. He couldn’t get grown men to figure out how to use the porta-potty, so how did Canobie, with its arsenal of teenagers, run like a well-oiled machine? Life wasn’t fair.

  He had no intention of parking, only wanting to get whoever he was getting and get the hell out. If the woman wasn’t at the front gate, good luck to her.

  ‘I’m only asking you because there’s no one else.’ Those had been Denise’s words. She was a peach. She’d called him as a last resort. Why? What mother would she rather he not be near?

  He let a grin happen. Maybe he should park the truck after all.

  He pulled out of the traffic and parked. He jumped from the driver’s seat and sprinted in the direction of the entrance, allowing himself a minute to catch his breath while he scanned the faces of the people. He didn’t see Shannon, and he let his grin drop as he tried to figure out who he was supposed to be getting. A family moved from in front of a bench, and somewhere in his mind, a chorus of angels sang.

  He mouthed, ‘Thank you, Denise,’ and added a grin.

  She didn’t notice him at first, but when she did and smiled, his stomach flipped into a somersault. All the day’s frustrations melted off his shoulders, and he widened his grin.

  Then her smile faded, taking with it his jubilation.

  Chapter 11

  “It is obvious that we can no more explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind.”

  T. S. Eliot

  Shannon removed the smile that had sprung to her lips at seeing St. John walking her way. Even in his plaster-stained jeans and soiled work shirt, he exuded the same bewitching draw as the other day. Her heart galloped. She nibbled on her bottom lip and let his blue eyes hold her. How was it that she was the witch, and yet he managed to cast a spell on her?

  He arrived in front of her, his hand pushing the renegade strand of hair off his forehead, and nodded at the empty spot on the bench. “Is that seat taken?”

  She shielded her eyes from the sun and shook her head. An aroma of sweat and musk compounded her confusion about his appearance at the park, but instead of posing that all-important question, she asked, “How are you?”

  The lopsided grin returned, and he sat, spurring her heart to double its pace.

  “I’m good, thanks.” He swept his gaze over her outfit, hair, and back to her face. “You look really nice.”

  She fingered the scarf tied around her head, more to keep her fingers occupied than anything else. Otherwise, they’d have buried themselves in his hair. “I’ve just spent a whole day chasing first graders, so I doubt that, but thank you just the same. What are you doing here?”

  “This is where I spend my Friday afternoons,” he said and rested against the booth, his hands inside his jeans’ front pockets. “Nothing gets me going like a woman dragging a screaming kid in tow.”

  One such woman passed in front of the bench, the red-faced toddler she pulled by the hand wailing.

  Shannon nodded their way. “How’d that work for you?”

  “Instant woody,” St. John offered.

  He laughed, and she joined in. She enjoyed his laugh—the rolling tone of it. It was a sound she could get used to hearing.

  A fragment of her vision teased her mind: Chad running toward a black truck, St. John stepping into view. She drew in a breath and licked at a drop of perspiration on her upper lip. His mouth was dangerously close, and she smelled the whiskey on his breath. Just a taste. That was all she wanted. One long, sumptuous taste.

  She shook her head and looked away and across the parking lot. She hadn’t even begun to clean up her current mess of a life, and here she was, potentially adding more chaos into the mix.

  “Seriously, St. John,” she said, once again giving him her full attention. “Why are you here?”

  His chuckle indicated her abruptness hadn’t bothered him. “Denise called. Said you missed the bus because you were having too much fun in the arcade.”

  “You’re a hoot, but get back to the part about Dee. Why would she send you to get me? Wasn’t she the one who said you should leave me alone?”

  “I think what she said was that you should stay away from me, but I gave up long ago trying to figure out how her mind works.”

  When he stared at her and added, “Maybe she realizes she can’t stop the inevitable,” the air flew from her lungs. She found her lower lip and tugged on it with her teeth. She didn’t want to talk; she wanted to dip her toes in the blue pools that were his eyes and submerge herself.

  Someone released an air horn and jarred her out of her stupor. She shifted and adjusted the folds of her skirt, looking down at her lap. When she couldn’t resist any longer she found his eyes again and said, “You’re forgetting I’m a married woman.”

  “That’s not something I’m likely to forget.” He wiped at the bead of sweat slipping down the side of her neck. “You see that’s my number one rule: Never get involved with a married woman. However…” He brought his finger to his lips and brushed it over his bottom lip. “For you I’ll make an exception.”

  She chose to ignore the deafening alarm bells clanging in her head and focused on the warm sensation in her groin. “You’re putting yourself on a slippery slope. First, it’ll be rule number one, then others will follow. Before long, you’ll have nothing but anarchy. Tell me, what’s rule number two?”

  His grin widened. “Never get involved with a woman who lives in Wexford, and, since you’re asking, rule three is never, ever give a second night.”

  “Do all your conquests ask for second nights?”

  He frowned but his blue eyes still held their playful sparkle. “You see, that’s how rumors get started; I don’t have conquests. Everyone’s a willing participant.”

  She bet they were. “You’re a cocky bastard, I’ll give you that.”

  “Guilty as charged. Let’s talk about your rules. Any I should know about?”

  “Just one.”

  “And?” He arched an eyebrow in a way of punctuating the question.

  “Never again allow anyone close enough to hurt me.”

  “Good rule. That’s actually number four on my list.”

  He kept touching her arm, each pass of his fingers delivering electric pulses over her skin.

  “It seems we’re on the same page,” he added, “Now what?”

  “I tell you I’m flattered but you don’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hades at getting under my skirt.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  The pirate grin flashed and in her mind she lay on the deck of a ship, the sunbaked planks scratching the bare skin of her back as he moved on top of her.

  She stood abruptly, the movement releasing a thin stream of warmth onto the crotch of her thong. “I’d like to leave now.”

  “Then let’s go.” He jumped to his feet and took hold of her bag’s straps. “Here, let me carry that.”

  “No thank you. I’m fine.”

  “I know you are.”

  For a moment they both stayed attached to the bag. He notched an eyebrow, and she let go.

  In the truck, Shannon rested against the leather seat, and St. John thrummed the steering wheel, keeping time with a Garth Brooks song playing on the radio.

  She cast a quick glance his way. What monsters taunted him and forced him to create his rules?

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for coming to get me.”

  “My pleasure.” He moved his hand as if to reach f
or hers but quickly pulled it away. “So, how’d you miss the bus? Aren’t the chaperons supposed to be the ones watching the time?”

  “You’re full of jokes today, aren’t you? For your information, I was about to get on the bus when Leeann, two e’s-two n’s, threw a grenade at me.”

  St. John’s eyes widened. “Leeann what?”

  “Two e’s-two n’s. That’s how she introduces herself. Haven’t you ever noticed? Shannon switched her voice into a syrupy-sounding trill. “‘I’m Leeann—two e’s-two n’s—Chambers.’”

  Robust laughter escaped St. John. “You’re right. I’ve never thought about it. I admit she is unique.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “She has her moments.”

  Shannon explained about Chad’s missing towel, and she told St. John about Leeann’s treatment of Raylan Griffin.

  St. John’s expression soured. “I know the Griffin family; they’re good people. I also know there’s more than a few residents who would like to run them out of Wexford.”

  “Why? They’re not hurting anyone.”

  St. John switched off the radio. “You need to understand, Shannon, Wexford is a town of snobs. When people spend close to a million dollars for a house, they see families like the Griffins as eyesores on the landscape.”

  “I get that, but many of the residents who are behaving badly aren’t new to town. They’ve been living here, alongside the Griffins, their entire lives.”

  “That doesn’t matter. People would like nothing more than to run what they call the riffraff out of town.”

  Shannon folded her arms and added a sound of disgust. “Honestly, sometimes I can’t stand people. When my divorce is final, I’m taking Chad and getting out of Wexford.”

  “Unless you move to Mars, you’re still going to have to deal with assholes. That’s just how life is. How did the conversation go, about the divorce? I’ll wager Justin wasn’t too keen on the idea.”

  “It didn’t go as expected.”

  “Chickened out, eh.”

  She faced him with an angry glare. “I didn’t chicken out,” she inserted between his chuckles.