Breaking the Rules

by Suzanne Brockmann

  At that, both Izzy and Dan turned in a unison that couldn’t have been more precise had it been choreographed, and they went in separate directions—Dan toward Lopez, and Izzy toward Tony V.

  It was clear that they didn’t need a debate or a discussion to agree they’d already spent far too freaking much time together today.

  Although the good news was that neither of them was walking away with a bloody nose.

  Of course, there was still a lot of daylight left.

  NEW YORK CITY

  THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2009

  Jennilyn LeMay was having a day.

  It had started when she got to work and realized that she’d gotten the mother of all runs in her pantyhose, and that she didn’t have a spare pair in her desk drawer.

  She’d only had time for the quickest trip to the drugstore on the next block over, but that proved ineffective. Unbelievably, they were completely out of queen-size in every color and every conceivable brand, as if the place had been descended upon by a drove of bargain-hunting opera singers. Best Jenn could find, way in the back behind the tube socks, was a pair of thick white tights that were labeled both queen-size and petite—clearly designed for two-hundred-pound height-challenged nurses, rather than giantesses like Jenn who weren’t quite six feet tall if they both lied and slouched.

  No doubt about it, as far as her hopes went for—quite literally—covering her ass, the fat lady was singing.

  While wearing seventy pairs of pantyhose.

  The store clerk helpfully went to the same rack that Jenn had already searched before informing her that they still had plenty of size large—maybe that would work. She then turned and looked at Jenn, squinting slightly as she appraised her, adding, “Probably not.”

  And yes, lady. You got it. There was no way in hell that Jenn was going to be able to squeeze herself into plain old regular large. And thanks a billion for the pre-coffee esteem-bludgeoning judgment.

  Sticking out her tongue and announcing, “My super-hot Navy SEAL boyfriend likes me just the way I am,” seemed a little childish. Especially since she’d been cautious about referring to Dan Gillman as her boyfriend to her friends and family—let alone acquaintances.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t fit the definition. He sent her an e-mail every day, when he could. Usually it was brief—Too tired to say more than hey … was a common one, along with Thanks for the package, and Dreamed about you again last night, wild woman … But sometimes he wrote her long, intimate e-mails about his highly dysfunctional family, about adventures he’d had growing up, about his plans for the future, about the unjust oppression of women that he witnessed every day, about a myriad of things that mattered to him.

  And she e-mailed him back, also every day. She sent packages to him, too, sometimes as often as twice a week.

  And yes, the first and only time they’d met they’d shared some ridiculously excellent sex along with a whole lot of intimate pillow talk. That, too, worked with the standard boyfriend/girlfriend definition.

  But when Dan had suddenly gotten all I love you, after helping to save Jenn’s life, well …

  She’d needed to be certain that it wasn’t just a heady mix of adrenaline and hormones talking, because she knew that she wasn’t his usual type. So she’d sent him away, telling him that if he were serious about their relationship he could prove it by coming back.

  Of course, days later he’d called to tell her that he was heading overseas, into one of the war zones. He couldn’t tell her where and he couldn’t tell her when he’d be back, but she knew from what he didn’t say that he was going to Afghanistan.

  There was no time for her to fly to California, to see him off. He was leaving immediately.

  Jenn had cried for a week, torn between knowing that she’d done the right thing, and regretting that she’d wasted the little time they might’ve spent together.

  But that still didn’t make Dan her boyfriend.

  So she said nothing to the store clerk. She just left, hoseless.

  There was another drugstore a mere three blocks away, but Jenn had no time to go there. She had a conference call that she had to take at 9:15, and another at 10, so she’d hidden her bare, winter-pale legs beneath her desk and hoped she wouldn’t be required to leave the office before her day ended at 8 p.m.

  It wasn’t an unrealistic hope. As New York State Assemblywoman Maria Bonavita’s chief of staff, Jenn spent most of her time in their New York City office using phone, e-mail, and fax to put out the little fires that sprang up in the course of a day.

  But unfortunately today’s fire wasn’t little, and it required a face-to-face with some rightfully frustrated and angry constituents. And since Maria was in Albany, Jenn’s had to be the face they put out there. Because although her title was chief of staff, she was also Maria’s entire staff, not counting the unpaid college interns. There was no one else to send.

  So Jenn took her larger-than-large unhosiered legs, and her bespectacled face that Dan claimed was “cute” despite her Amazonian size, and headed for the boarded-up building that had served as a homeless shelter for veterans before the grease fire in the restaurant next door had done its damage.

  It had happened months earlier, in the coldest part of the winter—which had been devastating for the men who filled the shelter to capacity every night.

  But there were problems with the insurance payout, as well as safety issues, that kept the place locked up tight. The shelter’s organizers, led by a Vietnam veteran named Jack Ventano, had come to Maria’s office for help after weeks of runaround.

  She was trying to get them the assistance they needed to get their facility up and running again. But it wasn’t happening fast enough. And now Jack had called, demanding that Maria come take a tour of the place, to see firsthand the mold that was starting to grow on the water-damaged walls.

  Jenn had just gone into a CVS that was halfway to the shelter, and was searching the overhead signs for the hosiery aisle when her cell phone rang.

  It was Mick Callahan, a detective with the NYPD, and a friend of Jenn’s.

  She answered as she continued to scan and finally just made a choice to go down the narrow aisle to the back of the store. “Hello?”

  “Maria needs to get her ass down to the Vet Center,” Mick said in his gravelly, native New Yorker’s voice, without proper greeting or ceremony. “ASAP.”

  “She’s upstate, but I’m already on my way,” Jenn told him.

  “Hail a cab,” he told her. “And Mary, while you’re at it. You’re definitely gonna need divine intervention for this one.”

  She stopped, directly in front of a display of L’eggs. They had both her size and the color she’d hoped to find. Alleluia. “What’s going on?”

  “About seven of the vets have broken the lock on the door,” Mick told her grimly as she grabbed a pair and headed for the checkout, up front. “They’ve gone inside, with several crates of supplies. I think they’re going to lock themselves in until they get some action. We’ve been ordered to get them out, forcibly if necessary, but I’ve convinced the lieutenant to give you a chance to get down here and defuse the situation, but the clock’s ticking. Jenn, seriously, you need to be here. Now.”

  “I’m on my way.” There were seven people on line and one slow-moving, half-asleep cashier, so Jenn sighed and put the pantyhose in a clearly designated dump basket near the exit before going out to the street and hailing a cab.

  LAS VEGAS

  Eden Gillman Zanella stood in the shadows of the shallow wing, just offstage, and tried to calm her pounding heart.

  This was no big deal.

  She just had to walk out there and do this exactly the way she’d practiced. If she got this job, she’d be bringing home somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred dollars a night in tips.

  And even though working at the Burger King for minimum wage was more dignified, it would take her months to earn the same kind of money that she could make here in a week.


  Dignity was overrated, anyway.

  And the female body was just that—the female body. Yes, she’d be the first to agree that hers was exceptionally nice-looking. She couldn’t take any credit for that—it was an accident of birth.

  True, she’d worked it, hard, to get back to her pre-pregnancy weight, even in the aftermath of losing her baby. And she’d had to get a tattoo to hide the scar from the C-section that had saved her life.

  But she’d had a beautiful mother and a drop-dead handsome father, which didn’t necessarily mean Eden had to be exceptionally beautiful. But luck had been on her side, and she was.

  She had a classically beautiful face, with even features, big brown eyes and long, dark lashes. Her skin was smooth and clear, and she had thick, dark, shiny hair that fell halfway down her back.

  Of course, while a pretty face and great hair were valuable assets, they weren’t as important as the body she’d won in the genetics lottery. Tits and ass. It always came down to that bottom line, at least for men. And hers were world class—they had been ever since puberty hit.

  And after years of getting leered at wherever she went, she was now on the verge of getting paid for the very same thing.

  Mostly the same thing.

  The song that had been playing—some generic 1970s disco—finally faded out and there was a smattering of applause from the crowd of losers and lowlifes who were out there getting wasted on a Thursday morning at eight o’clock.

  The woman—billed as Chestee von Schnaps—who’d been on that stage came stomping off in disgust. “Four fucking dollars,” she said, to no one in particular. “The morning shift is bullshit.” She stopped to put a finger practically up Eden’s nose, oblivious to the fact that she was still mostly naked, with breasts that were nearly the size of basketballs. “You—new girl. Make sure that cocksucker Alan gives you breakfast. You work this bullshit shift, you make sure you at least get fed, you hear me?”

  Were those things real?

  “You hear me?” the woman repeated, and Eden nodded, even though Alan hadn’t said a thing about meals. This was not a woman with whom anyone would dare to disagree.

  “I’m Nic. What’s your stage name?” she asked, appraising Eden.

  Her stage name. Instead of admitting that she didn’t have one yet, Eden blurted out the first thing that came into her head. “Jennilyn LeMay.” It was her brother Danny’s new girlfriend’s name, and right from the first moment she’d heard it—in an e-mail from her other brother Ben—Eden had thought it sounded like a stripper name.

  The large-breasted woman seemed satisfied with that information, because she nodded and stomped away.

  And okay. Now Eden was in a panic, because the CD that she’d given the DJ had started, which was her cue to take the stage.

  She’d always thought she was well endowed, but compared to the twin basketballs … Holy crap. This audience was going to look at her and laugh.

  “Go!” someone whispered as they put two strong hands on her back and pushed her out from behind the curtain.

  Where, oh sweet Lord, she froze.

  She’d thought, with the lights, that she wouldn’t be able to see the audience, but they were lit, too. And she realized that Alan, the manager who was considering hiring her, had told her as much. It’s the eye contact that’ll get you the biggest tips, he’d told her, when offering her pointers.

  “Dance,” someone shouted, because she was just standing there, gaping at them, as her life all but flashed before her eyes.

  All the crap she’d been through, all the garbage, all the pain. And Izzy, who’d married her when she was pregnant, even though he wasn’t the father of her child … Don’t think about Pinkie, don’t think about Izzy …

  But she couldn’t help thinking about them both—the baby and the lover that she’d lost. What would either of them think to see her here, now? But Pinkie was dead, and Izzy was gone.

  Eden could see Alan in the back, in the DJ’s booth, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Get off the stage,” someone else yelled.

  She was blowing this. She needed this money. And it really was no big deal. She’d been putting on shows for men ever since she’d realized that if she washed her face and wore one of those silly dresses that her grandmother bought for her, her chances of being bought an ice cream rose exponentially. What was she, three, when she’d learned that? This was just a variation on that exact same theme.

  She could see a man in the audience who could’ve been the brother of Mr. Henderson, her high school chemistry teacher, who’d let her know that a visit to him at home could significantly raise her grade for the semester. And there, at another table, was a man who had the same sleaze and smarm level as Mr. Leavitt, the sanctimonious father of one of her many high school boyfriends. He’d disapproved of his son dating her, but had turned around and propositioned her one night when he’d “accidentally” bumped into her at the video store, where he damn well knew that she worked.

  And, there. Over there was a look-alike for John Franklin, who, at nearly four years her senior, had pledged his undying love before taking her virginity in the back of his car when she was only fourteen. He’d immediately dumped her—laughing because she’d been stupid enough to believe him.

  This place was crawling with predators, with men who wanted a piece of her—and not the part that held her brain. But they weren’t just in here, they were outside as well, scattered across and around and all over the world.

  And she would have to put up with their unwanted attention and inappropriate comments while she worked for slave wages at BK or Micky D’s, or even just walked down the street.

  Or she could get rich off of them, working here, taking advantage of the fact that she had the ultimate power. She had what they wanted, and they could look, but they could not touch. Not unless they wanted to slip a five- or, no, a ten-dollar bill into the elastic strap of the red satin thong she’d bought just yesterday, as an investment for her and Ben’s future. And even then, they had to watch their hands because the bouncers would kick their asses out of there if they even so much as copped a feel. No, if she so much as claimed they’d copped a feel.

  She had the power. And she liked having it. She always had. She’d just had to learn not to trade too much for the proverbial ice cream—and never, ever confuse need and lust with real love.

  She’d tried real love once—or she thought she had, and that had ended horribly. Don’t think about Izzy, don’t think about Izzy …

  Money—she had to think about the money. She needed money—lots of money—and she needed it fast, in order to get Ben out of their stepfather’s odious grasp. And here, at D’Amato’s, with the stage and the lights and the men in the audience with the hungry eyes, she had the power to get it.

  Eden forced herself to breathe and to not think about Izzy, or Pinkie, or even her little brother Ben as she walked to the front edge of the stage and called to the DJ. “I’m sorry, Vaughn, will you start that again?”

  The DJ—a big black man—glanced at Alan, the manager, who was still shaking his head.

  So Eden spoke directly to the predators who’d come there to see women get naked. “I’m a little shy,” she told them, looking from one to the next, to the next, to the next, and on and on, around the room—eye contact. She was good at that. She made her voice a mix of sweet-young-thing and girl-gone-wild. She was good at that, too. “This is my first time. You guys all want to be here for my very first time, don’t you? Will you help me out and ask Vaughn to start the music over?”

  And now they were shouting at Vaughn, but they didn’t need to, because Alan was already on board, looking at her and smiling. He gave Vaughn a nod.

  And this time? When the music began?

  Eden danced.

  And when she left the stage, it was with a hundred and seventy dollars in tips—ten-dollar bills only.

  Not bad for a bullshit morning crowd.

  And needless to say, she got the job.r />
  CHAPTER

  TWO

  AFGHANISTAN

  THURSDAY, 16 APRIL 2009

  Dan was helping a pair of very young and very female Marine privates get the wounded off the toppled bus. One of them was inside, pushing a frightened woman and her wailing two-year-old out of the window and into the other marine’s arms.

  That second private—blond and cute in a Heidi of Wisconsin way—handed the child to Dan, who was on the ground. She then scrambled down herself to help with the woman, who was no lightweight.

  The civilian was bleeding from a gash on her forehead, but she seemed more concerned with keeping her headscarf on. Her little boy was terrified, though, sobbing as he stood waiting for her, his arms outstretched.

  “Your mommy’s going to be all right,” Dan told him, trying various dialects, but the boy didn’t stop crying even when his mother clasped him tightly in her arms.

  “You should see the medic about your head,” the blond marine tried to tell the woman, pointing over to where Lopez had set up his triage, where the first ambulance had finally arrived, bringing medical supplies. But it was clear she didn’t speak English. The marine—the name S. Anderson was on her jacket—looked at Dan. “I’m sorry, sir, can you tell her—”

  “I’m not an officer,” Dan told her, then used his rudimentary language skills to point to Lopez and say doctor.

  The woman nodded and thanked them both profusely, her boy’s head tucked beneath her chin.

  “But you’re a SEAL,” S. Anderson said as she scrambled back onto the bus. “There should be some form of address for SEALs that trumps sir. Maybe Your Highness or Oh, Great One?”

  She was flirting with him, marine-style, which meant she was already getting back to work.

  And Dan wasn’t quite sure what to say. I have a girlfriend that I really love seemed weird and presumptuous. After all, if S. Anderson had been a man, he might’ve said the same thing, and Dan would’ve laughed and replied, “Great One sounds about right.”