Breaking the Rules

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I think so,” Dan said, then swore. “I don’t know. She was really upset and I’m not sure exactly what happened. I think Greg pulled the weapon and made Ben go inside and … I don’t know what they were doing over there—she was saying something about the mall and the police but then her phone went dead. When I called her back I went right to voice mail. Jenn’s still trying to reach her, but we got nothing. We’re still in New York—”

  “Where was she when she called you?” Izzy interrupted, driving even faster, trying not to get bogged down by the most obvious reason that Eden wasn’t answering her phone. There were other possibilities besides her being too dead to pick up.

  “Outside of the house,” Dan told him. “You know, Ben’s and Ivette’s.”

  Izzy did know. He’d been there before. With Dan. In fact, Dan had tried to kick his ass in the front yard of that very house. Where Eden was right now. Where fucking Greg had a fucking handgun.

  “Greg’s a fucking idiot,” Dan said.

  “I know.” He was also a drunk. Always great when the deadly weapons were in the hands of the drunken fucking idiots.

  “So be careful,” Dan warned him. “You remember how to get over there?”

  “I do.”

  “Call me when you arrive,” Dan said, still doing his best imitation of the admiral of the fleet, but then added, “Please.” Probably only because Jennilyn was standing beside him and had given him a nudge. No doubt about it, the woman brought out the non-asshole-ish side of the fishboy.

  “I will,” Izzy said. And if Dan could play nice for Jenn’s benefit, Izzy could do the same. “Thanks for calling me.”

  There was a pause; then: “Thank you—for helping like this. I, um, really appreciate it, man.”

  Izzy hung up his phone, aware that somewhere to the south Satan was ice-skating while flying pigs did loop-de-loops overhead.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  It happened unbelievably quickly. Ben hadn’t been locked in his bedroom for more than twenty minutes when the deadbolt clicked and the door opened. He hadn’t expected the police.

  Eden’s various past run-ins with the law made her think of the men and women in blue as adversaries instead of allies. So it wasn’t in her nature to call 9-1-1 in an emergency.

  And Ben realized as the door opened wider that she hadn’t called. The two men and a woman who were standing in the hallway definitely weren’t police officers.

  “How are you, Benjamin?” the older of the two men asked.

  Ben stood up from where he’d been sitting on his bed, and backed away. His heart was pounding because he knew what this was, where they were from, and what they were here to do. “Considering I’m on the verge of being kidnapped by the Anti-Gay Squad, I’d say I’m pretty shitty.”

  “You watch your language, boy!” Greg had cleaned himself up for the occasion. He’d put on a clean shirt and combed his hair. He also held a cell phone in his hands instead of his gun.

  And that was how he’d called this terrorist cell. Ben had heard Greg’s voice out in the living room, not long after he’d ordered Ben into his room, told him to pack a bag, and thrown the deadbolt behind him.

  Ben couldn’t imagine that Greg had paid to have their phone turned back on, but apparently he’d invested in a disposable cell phone.

  He must’ve gotten it sometime in the past twenty-four hours, while Ben was gone. He’d been busy, since he’d also removed the deadbolt that Eden had put on the door, back when this was her bedroom. He’d reversed and reinstalled it, so that the latch was now on the outside and the keyhole was on the inside. So that someone could be locked in, instead of out, as Eden had intended.

  And Ben didn’t have the key. He also couldn’t get out the window. They were now both boarded up.

  “It’s not kidnapping, son,” the other man—the one who was in early twenties at most. “You’re ill, and your father here wants to help you.”

  Okay, there were so many things that were wrong about what he’d just said, including that son, Ben didn’t know where to start. “He’s not my father, and it’s definitely kidnapping—or didn’t he tell you that he locked me in here at gunpoint?”

  His words didn’t faze any of them. In fact, they all came farther into his room. The woman started going through his dresser and pulling out stacks of his clean socks, underwear, and T-shirts.

  “Please don’t touch my stuff,” Ben said, but she didn’t stop.

  “He did what he felt he needed to do,” the older man told him as the woman found his clean pair of black jeans on the shelf in his closet. “On our website, we encourage parents not to flinch from expressing their love for their children—forcefully if necessary.”

  “I said don’t touch my stuff!” Ben got louder and even took a step toward the woman, and just like that it was all over.

  The two men rushed him and he didn’t have time to do more than flail as he tried to fight them off. They were bigger and stronger, and they easily muscled him to the floor before he even drew in enough breath to scream.

  Then, Jesus, he was too surprised to scream as the pair of them unfastened his pants and pulled them down, flipping him over to expose his bare ass to the world—and was he the only one here who was picking up on the irony of this? Homoerotic, much, anyone?

  But then he realized that the older man had a syringe, and then he did scream as the man gave him a shot, right in the butt.

  “What the hell?” Ben said as the older man released him, as the younger one helped him pull his pants back up—and quite possibly copped a feel in the process—before he, too, let Ben go.

  As he scrambled to his feet, buttoning his jeans, zipping his fly, it didn’t make sense that Eden wasn’t there—he expected her to come charging down the hall, at any minute, coming to his rescue.

  But then his legs didn’t hold him. They felt so leaden and weak. Or maybe the very air was heavy because once he crumpled on the floor he couldn’t seem to hold his head up either and his arms didn’t work and as he looked up at Greg’s friends from the grimy bedroom carpeting he knew he’d lost.

  It was worse than being tased.

  Whatever was in that syringe made it impossible to stand or even to speak.

  And they all smiled at him as he fought the inability to move, as he tried to form two distinct words. Fuck and you.

  “A few months with us,” the woman said cheerfully, as if they hadn’t just drugged him against his will, as she put his clothes into plastic grocery bags, “and your need to mourn will come to an end. When you feel better about yourself and about the path you’re taking in life, you’ll wear bright colors again. And that’s a promise.”

  I’d do that, Ben wanted to say, if I could just live with my sister, because I know that she loves me. Do you know where she is …?

  But he didn’t get the words out before the woman and the entire room faded to gray.

  Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops. That was all it took for Eden to run down to the convenience store on the corner and spend four jillion dollars on a cell-phone charger cord that she wasn’t even sure would work.

  She ran all the way back to Greg and Ivette’s house, struggling to get the plastic package open, intending to go around to the side of the garage, where she knew there was an outdoor power outlet. She and her friend Tiffany used to huddle there on the cracked concrete, in the shade, with the ancient boom box that had been donated by the church—as was nearly everything they owned—plugged in and blasting.

  But, now, as she approached the house, she realized that a car was parked out in front. And while it wasn’t impossible that, after her cell-phone battery had died, her brother had made a few calls and found a friend or teammate in the vicinity, it seemed unlikely that this car belonged to a Navy SEAL. Large and black, it was an older-model sedan, and as she got closer, she saw it was heavy with the Jesus bumperstickers.

  It was then, while Eden was still three or four houses away, that a woman came out of the front
door, carrying two plastic grocery bags. She was followed by two men who were carrying …

  “Ben!” Eden shouted, her lungs burning as she ran even faster. “What did you do to him?”

  Her little brother was clearly unconscious, one of his arms hanging down limply, his head lolling back.

  And, Lord, Greg was out on the front steps now, pointing toward her and shouting something in his nasal-thin voice, and they all moved faster. The woman opened the rear door, and the two men together pushed and pulled Ben inside, one of them climbing into the back with him. The woman was already in the passenger seat, and the second man climbed in behind the wheel, just as Eden reached the car.

  She heard the doors lock as she reached for the handle, and she saw alarm on the woman’s face as she looked out the car window and up at Eden.

  She was Ivette’s age, but she had what Eden and Ben had always thought of as hairdo hair. It was cut short, and she’d spent time blowing it dry into a style most often worn by sitcom grandmothers, instead of just pulling it back into a haphazard and messy ponytail, the way Ivette usually did.

  She had wide blue eyes and a fleshy face with a lipsticked mouth that made an almost perfect O as Eden used her handbag as a cudgel and swung it.

  It didn’t break the window. It didn’t even crack it. It just thudded ineffectively as the car’s engine started with a roar.

  Eden moved then, sobbing with her anger, scrambling to put herself in front of the car, to keep them from pulling away.

  “That’s my brother,” she heard herself saying. “Don’t you goddamn take my brother! He doesn’t want to go with you!”

  The man behind the steering wheel could’ve been cast as the grandpa in the same sitcom with the woman. He had the same kind of too-many-cheeseburgers-and-not-enough-vegetables faces, with big bushy brows over eyes that looked pensive and sad.

  The woman was frightened, and the man in the backseat who was leaning over into the front was angry, his mouth contorting as he said something Eden couldn’t hear, his eyes dark and burning with hatred as he glared at her. But the man who was driving was neither scared nor angry, so Eden aimed her words at him, imploring him.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Ben,” she said. “Please, don’t take him away from me. Please, don’t do this …”

  But the man put the car into reverse. And putting his arm up along the back of the seat, he turned and looked out of the rear window and backed away down the street.

  Eden ran after them, screaming now, cursing them, but he was going too fast, even backward like that, and he quickly pulled away. He swung the rear of the car into one of the neighbors’ driveways, jerking to a stop before zooming off with a squeal of tires.

  Leaving Eden standing alone, still sobbing and gasping for breath, in the middle of the road, watching until the sedan turned the corner, just as the police car had done earlier.

  And when she turned back to look at the house, Greg had already gone inside, the door shut tightly behind him.

  With a roar, Eden ran for the house, for the open garage, where a collection of broken rakes and garden tools were in a cobwebby corner. They’d been there all those years ago, when the Gillman/Fortune family had moved in. Eden and Ben had been the only ones to touch them, that first winter, when they’d planted a flower garden in Deshawndra’s honor.

  But like Deshawndra, the flowers hadn’t lived for long. As soon as spring arrived, they’d wilted and then dried up in the heat.

  There was a pickax lying on the concrete floor—Eden had used it in an attempt to break up the rock-hard ground before they’d given up and bought a window box.

  She grabbed it now—screw the deadly spiders who lived in this hellhole—and ran with it to the front of the house.

  Where she threw her handbag onto the dusty yard after untangling it from her arm, and hefting the heavy pickax up to her waist, she spun with it once, twice … And then she hurled it, like the discuses she’d thrown in gym back in high school, toward the living-room window.

  But it was too heavy and it didn’t travel far enough. Instead of hitting the window with a crash, it landed in the dirt in front of the house with a thud.

  She was going to have to use the direct approach, swinging it up and over her head, closing her eyes against the spray of shattering glass. She ran to pick it up and try again.

  As Izzy watched Eden throw a freaking pickax toward the living-room window of the house that Dan Gillman’s mother shared with her creepy husband Greg and Dan’s brother Ben, all he could think—aside from Nice form, but you’re a little too far back—was that Greg was in there with a weapon.

  So he drove the rental right up onto the lawn, and he opened the car door before he even hit the brakes. He had the engine off and was out and sliding over the sizzling-hot hood a heartbeat after that. In another heartbeat, he’d locked his arms around Eden before she’d picked up the ax again, and he pulled her back, behind the shelter of the car.

  She fought him—she was unbelievably angry—and he had to keep her down by lying on top of her in the dust, repeating, “I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m on your side,” over and over until it penetrated.

  Until she stopped struggling and looked up at him as if she couldn’t believe her own eyes. “Izzy?”

  He could totally relate. This was off the charts in Unexpected-Land, and he, too, was experiencing some serious what-the-fuck. And not just from the visual of being nose-to-nose, but from the physical sensation of having their legs entangled, of using his hips and stomach and chest to pin her down, her wrists in each one of his hands, pulled up over her head.

  Last time he’d had this much contact with her, she’d been round and pregnant. Now she was an intriguing mix of soft breasts and solid muscle—she had to be strong to be able to do that routine he’d seen her do earlier today, on that pole in the strip club.

  And even though he was done with her, and he’d said his last good-bye mere hours ago in the club where she was paid to get naked, he could feel his body responding to her, especially when she breathed, “Thank God you’re here!”

  And now she was struggling to get her hands free for another reason entirely—to throw her arms around his neck and hold him even closer.

  Which he let her do.

  And yeah, his freaking pitiful body was too stupid to recognize that her thankful and grateful reaction to his presence had everything to do with her little brother’s disappearance and nothing to do with her desire to have him drill her, right there, on the rock-hard dust.

  He scrambled to sit up, because he knew if he didn’t, she wouldn’t fail to notice—on account of the fact that her thigh was pressed tightly between his legs.

  “Sorry,” she said, “sorry,” as he disentangled them, and great. She’d definitely noticed, because now she was embarrassed, too. But then she added, “I didn’t mean to, you know, attack you like that …”

  “You didn’t,” he said. “And I didn’t mean to, um …”

  He didn’t have to finish his sentence, which was a good thing, because he wasn’t sure how to end it. Get a chubby because you’re so fucking hot? Reveal myself for the shallow loser that you now know me to be, since even after the piss-poor way you’ve treated me, I still get a boner whenever I’m within three yards of you and would obviously shag you, if the opportunity arose, at the drop of a hat?

  But he just let his words trail off as she said, “They took Ben,” in a voice that quavered. And as she pulled back, she pushed her hair from her face with a shaking hand. And Izzy realized that she was drenched with perspiration, as if she’d just run a marathon. “I couldn’t stop them.” Her face twisted, like a little kid who was about to cry. “I tried, but I couldn’t, and I’m so stupid, because I didn’t get the license-plate number.” She was furious, mostly with herself. But just like the first time they’d met, she was loath to cry in front of him. “I didn’t even look to find out the state, and I have no idea who they were or where they took him, but Greg knows,
the bastard, and I’m going to make him tell me if it’s the last thing I do!”

  She tried to stand up, apparently determined to return to her attempt to put a hole through that window and climb inside to throw down with Greg—regardless of his weaponry and her lack of same. Izzy grabbed hold of the waistband of her jeans and yanked and she plopped back down in the dust beside him.

  “I’m not quite up to speed,” he said. “Do you mind slowing down just a little and filling me in on exactly what happened between your phone call with Danny and your Thor, Mighty God of War impression?”

  “Did Danny call you?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t that far out of town, so …”

  “You were leaving.” She didn’t ask it as a question. It was a statement that she wanted confirmed.

  “I was,” he said. “I mean, I got what I came for. You know, a chance to see you. See for myself that you’re okay.”

  She gazed up at him with those eyes that he’d dreamed about, giving him that look that generally meant she was trying her damnedest to read his mind, but in truth didn’t have a clue as to what he was thinking.

  “I’m working as a stripper,” she finally said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I did make note of that, the clues being somewhat obvious.” He cleared his throat. “So what happened? You were here with Ben, but Greg was locked and loaded …?”

  “Greg said he’d shoot me if Ben didn’t go into the house,” Eden told him. “And Ben believed him and he went inside. I called Danny, and I should’ve called 9-1-1. I don’t know why I didn’t, I’m so stupid—”

  “Whoa,” Izzy said. “You’ll have plenty of time later to beat yourself up over any alleged mistakes. Right now I’m looking for the facts.”

  “Fact: I should have called the police, instead I called Danny, and while I was talking to him, my cell phone battery died. There’s something wrong with it. I should’ve taken it back to the store weeks ago, but I didn’t.” Eden was brutal when it came to self-recrimination.