Lawbreaker (Unbreakable Book 3)

by Kat Bastion

  With a short fuse on their golf-harassment, I left the others in my wake for them to chat up my forgone golf prospects. Years ago, I hadn’t been interested in some leisure sport loaded with pressure. Working hard as a bar owner to help the masses forget the insanity of their lives? More on par with my life than any course could’ve ever been.

  We played through the next several holes. The banter between the four of us stayed light. And Shay had reestablished her safe distance with me: no more knee-touching.

  But she did something even more incredible.

  With every shot she made, with each joke and teasing insult us guys lobbed back and forth, Shay had begun to slowly unfold like a wildflower exposed to its first rays of the sun.

  “Birdie, baby!” Her arms shot up into the air, delight brightening her face, about the shot Whoosh had made for our team, as if she’d sunk the fifteen-foot uphill putt herself.

  My chest burned a bit as I took in her sudden transformation. When she finally relaxed, actually let go, it was an incredible sight. And I felt lucky to get a glimpse of it.

  But a greedy part of my heart surfaced through that ache; I didn’t want just a glimpse.

  I want it all.

  Which made no sense.

  Women and me? Had never worked.

  Business and personal? Bad combination.

  Doesn’t matter. I want you anyway.

  Shay defied all logic. She’d become the exception.

  Then, on Hole Eleven she really let go. And took my heart with her.

  She lobbed her club at the green. “A fox just stole my ball!” The club hurtled end over end until it chunked up a sizable divot at the edge of the rough.

  None of us guys had been paying attention.

  “A fox.” Whoosh’s tone held disbelief as he looked off into the woods.

  “I swear. The damn thing trotted onto the green from those bushes, scooped up the ball like it’d found an egg, then bounded behind those trees.” She pointed in the direction of where her club had landed.

  Then she ripped off her sunglasses and charged up to me, fierceness in her gaze as she stared into my eyes. Then she shot a pointed look back toward the forest, like I’d invited her here, she’d been clearly wronged, and she expected me to do something about it.

  But all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around her.

  Instead, I teased her. Much safer in mixed company. “Uh-huh. Sure, it did.”

  Whoosh leaned his face in between us, then winked at her. “You’ve been outfoxed.”

  But a few holes later at the tee box, all hell almost broke loose. On Whoosh.

  “Seriously?” Shay gripped two edges of a laminated folding map in front of her face, my sunglasses folded in her hand, arms spread wide. “This thing’s a big circle?”

  I glanced over after launching my drive, the last of the four of us in our rotation. “The course?”

  She peeked up over the top edge. “Yeah.”

  “A figure eight, to be precise,” Cade righted the map for her.

  “A good walk spoiled.” Whoosh gazed at a cloud-dusted sky, channeling literary wisdom.

  Shay shot him an indignant look, then folded and dropped the map into our cart. “If you’re going to mock, the line forms here.”

  “I’m not mocking. I’m quoting Mark Twain.”

  She glanced at me for confirmation, not trusting Whoosh.

  Atta girl. I arched my brows but shook my head. “Not Mark Twain. The quote first appeared in The Saturday Evening Post in 1948 and they misattributed it to Twain. Twain died in 1910. Harry Leon Wilson said...”

  Cade held his clubhead up to his mouth like a microphone. “Golf has ‘too much walking for a good game and just enough game to spoil a good walk.’”

  Shay grinned. “Good ol’ Harry and I would’ve gotten along.”

  “Yeah, well, Mark Twain’s more romantic.” Whoosh appeared undaunted as he strolled closer to her, one lazy step after another. He held his club off to the side, the head grazing the tops of fresh-cut blades. “Seduction, Shay. The way to win the heart of the course is by smooth strokes and a gentle touch.” His explanation slowed, his voice growing lower and softer with every word.

  My thigh muscles tensed. My hand fisted at my side.

  Some crazed protective part of me wanted to lunge between them.

  And after my clear warning to him before we’d started play, I should’ve decked the guy.

  I didn’t have to.

  The instant Whoosh stepped within swinging distance, Shay planted the fat titanium clubhead of her driver square into his sternum so hard he coughed.

  The slick-talking womanizer blinked in surprise.

  His shocked gaze lowered in comedic slow motion to the shining black impediment blocking his way. Wet clippings of grass smudged the white fabric of his shirt.

  Shay’s eyes narrowed. “The only seduction happening here is you with your course.”

  He held his hands up in surrender, as if the club were a submachine gun that’d been dug into his chest. He gave a nod. “Only the course.”

  She lowered her weapon. “Good.”

  You’re both damn right good.

  Cade clapped Whoosh on the shoulder, then leaned close, as if about to impart secret advice. “She’s sprawled out and waiting for you. But will you bring game enough to tame her? Eighteen holes. Any man’s dream.” They turned and began to walk onto the fairway.

  The tension faded from the moment.

  And I didn’t have to kill my old friend.

  But Shay didn’t move when the guys played on.

  Concerned, I closed the distanced between us.

  Her gaze remained unfocused, fixed on some random section of clipped turf a few yards from her feet.

  I took a risk and stepped into her line of sight, within club-stabbing distance.

  But she didn’t step back.

  She didn’t slam a block of titanium against my chest either.

  I took her hesitation as permission. Hell, it isn’t a no.

  Her breaths grew faster, shallower. Eyes dilated, they began to widen. She slid my sunglasses back on and swallowed hard.

  No need for her to slam a golf club between us. Every subtle sign screamed that she was a microsecond from bolting.

  Not that it mattered; I couldn’t stop myself. Some urgent need drove me, pushed me on.

  I took another step closer, tested our new boundary.

  She tested too: Trembling fingertips skated over my hands, up my arms. Her face tilted up.

  Under her black baseball hat, my sunglasses obscured those expressive green eyes. A part of me wanted to rip them back off, read her true self, connect with the most vulnerable part of her. But her body language already spoke volumes: those full lips barely parted, her slight frame leaning against me.

  I bent my head down, aching to kiss her.

  Her warm breaths coasted over my chin, my lips.

  We drifted together. But right before we made contact, her body tightened, then shifted.

  A gentle weight pressed onto my chest.

  I glanced down.

  Her flattened palms rested between us. “You should play in next Saturday’s tournament.”

  Bewildered by the change in direction, I blinked. “I should?”

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, as if she’d found her balance, had gained solid footing again. “Are you good at it?”

  “Golf? Or tournaments?” Thanks to the ever-helpful Cade, she already knew I was a scratch player. But maybe she wanted to hear what I thought.

  “Both.” Her voice was quiet, tone resolute. She’d latched onto that kernel of info and wasn’t letting go.

  She also hadn’t pulled away. The woman who’d distanced herself for days had rocketed from touching knees in a golf cart to a full-body press on the course.

  And I didn’t want her to move. But she’d only stepped out on the ledge because I dangled out there too. My turn to answer her questions, give her a
reason to stay there.

  Honesty. “I hold my own.” I went further, wrapped my arms around her.

  “Do you like it?”

  I like you. “Golf’s okay. The game’s gotten a whole lot better with you in it.”

  She tilted her head a little, as if my candor barely brushed the surface. Then her expression brightened a little, brows raising. “Could you win?”

  I sighed, admitting defeat to a better opponent; the focused woman in my arms seemed hell-bent on a mission. “Depends on who’s playing.”

  “What would you win?”

  “Gotta play to win. And I’m not playing.”

  A frown tugged at her lips. “But...suppose you did play, hypothetically. What would you win?”

  Damn, I hated that frown. Even more than I hated where the conversation had detoured. “Hypothetically...” I caved a little, wanted to keep her in my arms a few seconds longer. I stared above her shoulder out toward the sky, thinking. “The tournament a week from Saturday is an annual club event. This year’s purse is eight million. About a million and a half will go to the winner.”

  “Holy shit. That’s an obscene amount of money.”

  “That I don’t need.”

  “If you won, would you donate the money to Cade’s mom’s foundation? The one that helps at-risk kids?” Her voice softened. A quiet plea lay heavy in the undertones.

  “Without doubt.” Where I would’ve wanted the money to go even if Shay hadn’t asked—if I played.

  But there were plenty of sane reasons not to play in the club’s tournament. I’d been there before. My tormenters had too. And I wanted to rehash that shit with them again like I wanted to take a sand wedge to the head.

  “I’d like you to play.”

  We all have unrealistic wishes.

  My hold tightened around her, then I cast my crazy wish. “I’d like you to go out with me.”

  Didn’t need to see her eyes behind those dark lenses. Her dropped jaw telegraphed that I’d stunned her with my decision to be blunt.

  “What happened to strictly business?”

  “That was before...” You in my arms. Your knee against mine. And so much longer ago than that.

  “Before...”

  “You.”

  She leaned back a little, but didn’t break my hold. Then she finally pulled my sunglasses off her face. Piercing green eyes stared up at me. “I thought that was a hard-and-fast rule.”

  “For you? They’re all made to be broken.”

  She searched my eyes, then the corners of her mouth twitched up as she gave a slight headshake. “Well, look at you. Breaking the Laws of Ben.”

  Laws of Ben? She saw me as an outsider to her world, the place where laws were broken and the crisp lines of right and wrong were blurred—out of necessity. She’d thought I didn’t bend, couldn’t understand, wouldn’t see her as worthy, as an equal to those in my world.

  You’re wrong. On all counts.

  “Only for you.”

  She took a deep breath. Exhaled even slower. “So...will you play?”

  Will you go out with me? The question burned on my tongue, but I didn’t ask it.

  Even though she’d relentlessly pursued her goal, I saw wisdom in pulling back with mine. Because her hesitation about me couldn’t have been more evident. And I didn’t want her to say yes just to get me to play in a golf tournament.

  No strings attached, I wanted her to want me. And I needed her to know it came from her.

  “Might be too late.” Sure as hell hoped so. Then letting Shay down wouldn’t be all my fault.

  “Too late for what, lovebirds” —Cade strode by, arms gestured up in a what the fuck with a nine iron in his hand— “holding up play? Way too late. Whoosh and I already played through. Meet us at the next tee if you’re still in the game.” He began to hike a shortcut toward the woods that led to the next hole.

  “Too late for Ben to play in next Saturday’s tournament?” Shay called out after him. She still stood in my arms, apparently unspooked by the intrusion or his label.

  Cade turned with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Nope. Sign-ups till Friday. Two slots left.”

  She glanced back up at me with a hope-filled gaze and pressed her fingertips a little harder against my chest.

  Done. Me—and any argument I might’ve had—done and gone.

  “Yeah, I’ll play.” My defeated tone came on instinct. Because to give her what she wanted came at a high personal price.

  But the wide smile on her face before she broke out of my arms? Made my heart soar.

  When she turned and began to head back to our cart, I made one last play. Couldn’t help myself. I needed a reward to motivate me through the obstacle course, one just for me. “But only if you go to the gala with me.”

  She spun around and planted her hands on her hips. But instead of being mad, her brows drew down in confusion. “Gala?”

  Players from the foursome after us parked their two carts behind ours. They filed in front of Shay, each nodding or waving to us in turn as they went. Shay and I returned their polite greeting, tolerating the interruption we’d caused to happen.

  Then I closed the distance between us, to a few feet, as far as I dared. “Black-tie soirée after the tournament. Your star player will need a date.”

  Her face hardened as she shook her head. “I don’t do black tie.”

  You do now.

  Defiance flashed in her eyes, daring me.

  I couldn’t resist the bait. “I play, you play. Think of all the at-risk kids we’ll help, together.”

  Bingo. Her expression brightened like an Edison bulb had flicked on: I’d hit her hot button. And whether or not she liked the deal, she sealed it with a silent decisive nod, then slid the sunglasses back on.

  I followed her as she walked ahead to our cart. But the front pocket of my shorts vibrated as my phone jolted to life.

  Cade. I punched the button.

  “Yo, Mark Twain. You still documentin’ the scenery? Or we hittin’ balls?”

  “Get off my ass. It’s only been five minutes.” I put the cart in gear and took off. “We needed to settle a debate.”

  Cade chuckled. “Who won?”

  “Shay.”

  “And Ben!” she shouted, clearly hearing Cade over the slight electric whine of the cart.

  We’d missed an entire hole-and-a-half of play, but caught up with the guys at the sixteenth.

  On the eighteenth green, after Cade and I had putted, while Whoosh and Shay took their turns, Cade squared up next to me, shoulder to shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”

  We stared at Shay while she sank a perfect putt. “I have no fucking clue.”

  Her arms shot into the air as she turned our way, pure joy on her face.

  Cade nodded. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

  I glanced at him, then back at Shay. “It is?”

  Had he witnessed the change in her too?

  “Not for her, Mark Twain. For you.”

  Shay…

  What am I doing here?

  Golfing. With three rich guys who I had issues stealing from.

  One, edging closer to me than I’d ever let a man get before. Too close.

  Ben, what have you dragged me into?

  An entire tournament of outrageously wealthy club members was about to descend around me. A street-kid’s dream target-rich environment. The needle on my analyzing-people meter vibrated at baseline, winding up to explode into redline.

  “Here’s all your top shelfs: whites, darks, exotics.” Ben gestured at the lineup behind the bar, oblivious to my identity crisis. But I still watched with intent focus, listened to every word. “Tools are here.” He tugged out a linen-lined wooden crate from under the center of the stainless steel counter, then tucked it back. “Barware, stemware.” His brief nod directed the location of each item as he gave me the thirty-second rundown. “Everything’ll be restocked by the club’s busboys, as needed.”

/>   The busboys. From the country club itself. “There’s no ‘nineteenth hole’ here?” I’d heard two older men mention that they planned to “hit it” for drinks after the tournament.

  “For the next few hours? You’re the nineteenth hole.”

  No big. I’d handled more customers on each of my slow first Wednesday and Thursday nights at Loading Zone. And thanks to Cade’s intense training, I could handle anything those country-clubbers tried to toss at me.

  But the fully stocked set-up they’d built on the grass beside the walkway surprised me. “Glass? Outside?” I picked up one of the lowballs, then twisted the short tumbler as I held it up.

  Sunlight caught the deep etchings in the glass’s pattern, refracting a prism of delicate rainbows onto the rough edges of his face.

  “Crystal.” His dark gaze landed on me. “Only the best with Invitation Only, even outside.” When I made no comment, he stared hard at the dark lenses of his sunglasses. As if with some kind of X-ray vision he tried to see my eyes, read my thoughts. His eyes narrowed a fraction. “That mandate isn’t just from Invitation Only; it’s club policy. Traditionalists don’t do paper and plastic.”

  Traditionalists. Interesting label the mega-rich slapped on themselves.

  “Any questions?”

  The sudden intensity of his gaze caught me off guard.

  My brain flashed back to mere moments ago, when he’d held me in his arms, when I’d felt his strong heartbeat under my fingertips.

  I sucked in a steadying breath. A million questions. But none I was brave enough to ask.

  His gaze softened. Like he knew I struggled. And maybe he knew because he struggled too. With gentleness, he eased his sunglasses from my face. Then he slid them back over his beautiful charcoal eyes.

  Silent on the matter, on every matter apparently, I gave him a headshake. “No. I got this.” Everything got figured out eventually, one way or another.

  Those dark sunglasses dipped down an inch. I could no longer see his assessing eyes, but I knew they watched me closely.

  After another beat, he gave a short nod. “If you need anything, I’ll be over there on the patio with the guys.” He tipped his head toward where Cade and Whoosh sat at a round table at the back in the shade, nearest the clubhouse.