Bad Rules (A Wild Minds Novel)

by Charlotte West

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Slightly out of breath, mostly from rage, I said, “I’m equalizing.”

  Lix flicked one of the NASA tees. “You’re just making more work for the employees.”

  I shrugged. “Falling the patriarchy is never easy.” Everyone pays a price. Lix didn’t reply. It was probably best he didn’t. We meandered for a while, passing the women’s section and a rack of turtlenecks. Lix’s face screwed up. “Ugh.”

  “I like turtlenecks. Gloria Steinem wore turtlenecks.”

  “Course you do. Black turtlenecks are good for bad girls.”

  I smiled. He so got me. His warped sense of humor, his constant cleaning and organizing masked a highly perceptive man. He had a keen intelligence, but one disrupted once in a while by seriously manic thoughts and behavior.

  We arrived at the onesies. We stood stock-still. It might as well have been the Great Wall of China. The selection seemed insurmountable. Grey. Blue. Pink. Long sleeves. Short sleeves. Buttons. Snaps. What to choose? If wrong, we faced another Addy meltdown. Despite my tenure as a doula, I’d forgotten how fragile pregnant women could be. Fragile and terrifying. My eyes did their best impression of huge saucers. “I’m getting her white ones. They’re gender neutral.”

  Lix nodded. “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “The biggest design flaw in ostriches is the skinny neck. You could strangle like six at once.”

  I groaned. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  He shrugged a beefy shoulder. I chose a pack of onesies and we moved to check out. No more interruptions, thank goodness. We were near the register, almost home free, when a camera flashed.

  “Excuse me?” a tinny, unsure voice said, followed by a giggle.

  “You’ve done it this time, Crazy.” I frowned at him, not understanding. “Rearranging shit. No one is above the law.” He turned from me. “I’m sorry, officer. My friend here—”

  “Oh my god, are you Felix Hernandez?” The officer turned out to be a girl, maybe fifteen or so. She stepped from her group of friends. “I’m your biggest fan!” The girl smiled, mouth full of shiny braces. Poor thing.

  “Stella!” one of her friends chastised.

  Stella, I presumed, corrected herself. “I mean we’re your biggest fans. My friends and I.”

  Lix seemed startled and a little uncomfortable with the attention. Ha! Served him right.

  A pen was thrust into his hand along with a crumpled piece of paper. This drew the attention of more people. Murmurs began. A crowd grew. More cameras flashed. I stepped away from Lix. The big man was on his own. I hated the limelight. When Ash and I were together, the band wasn’t big yet. We tromped all over Europe unrecognizable. I liked my anonymity, easier to commit crimes that way. Just kidding. Kind of. Another flash in my eyes blinded me. I staggered and tripped over some unknown object. My knee banged into something hard with a sharp corner, and my ass hit the floor. The onesies tumbled from my hand.

  “Shit.” I heard Lix’s voice. His hand was on my elbow. “You okay?” he asked, studying me carefully.

  “Yeah.” I dusted off my bruised derriere. “I’m fine.” Just a little embarrassed. And scared. I was not used to this kind of attention. Overwhelming was an understatement. My chest felt tight, as if a rubber band had been placed around it.

  He tucked me against his side. The crowd pressed in. I leaned into him, grateful to let Lix take the reins and maneuver us out of there. More flashes. More cameras clicking. Girls and one or two guys tried to shove their numbers at Lix. He ignored them all and bowed his head. I did the same. Together we bulldozed through the legions.

  Insanity.

  Lix’s phone was out of his pocket. He was calling someone requesting an “extraction.” Whatever the fuck that was. I felt as if I’d been transported into another reality. A James Bond film. I waited for men in all black to begin rappelling from the rafters. We rushed from the store.

  “The onesies!” I cried out, digging in my heels.

  The crowd gained momentum. For each camera flash, three more joined. I ducked from Lix’s side, darting back through the masses. They didn’t really care about me. It was Lix they wanted. Also, they weren’t expecting a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound blonde to shoot through them. I swiped up the precious onesies. I wouldn’t let Addy down. I considered this a sacred duty. Like Frodo Baggins, this was my ring. I held my loot aloft and squeezed back through to Lix’s side. So what if I accidentally on purpose stepped on some toes? Served them right, invading someone’s personal space like that.

  “Fuck, you really are crazy.” Lix’s fingers dug into my hip. Together we made a small, impenetrable wall and exited the store. Fresh air had never felt so good. I breathed deep. Lix ushered me into a dark SUV with chrome wheels. The interior of the car was set up more like a limousine, with two rows of seats facing each other. A custom-made Escalade. That must have cost a small fortune.

  Hands slammed against the glass. Chanting began. Lix. Lix. Lix. Minutes later, the Escalade pulled out into traffic. The onesies in my hands trembled. Someone gently pried the crinkled plastic from my grip.

  “It’s okay, lass. Breathe for me.” I blinked. My gaze met startling green eyes. They reminded me of mossy fields. This was Addy’s murse. He’d come to rescue us. Everything Addy has said about him was true. Like every red-blooded woman, I had a thing for men in uniform. Heroes. And the man in front of me was the epitome of one. He wasn’t wearing a uniform or a costume, but I could easily picture him in one. I landed on Thor. Chris Hemsworth had nothing on this guy.

  “You saved us,” I breathed.

  “Ah, fuck, not another one. What do you do every morning, Kelly? Bathe in pheromones or some shit?” Lix cranked beside me. He’d cracked open a bottle of hand sanitizer and began liberally applying it, wiping the alcoholic concoction up to his forearms.

  Kelly—beautiful, beautiful, Kelly—half smiled, and I swear I swooned.

  “Ash isn’t going to like this. He isn’t going to like this at all,” Lix said.

  Kelly cupped my cheek. “I think you’re going to be okay. Just a little scared.”

  I nodded mutely. Yes, I had been frightened. Maybe Kelly should hold me. We stared at each other for a moment. Was that angels I heard singing? The Scotsman out and out smiled. I stupidly smiled back. “You were very brave,” he said, his voice a soft burr.

  I swallowed. My smile cranked up a notch. All too often, the first thing men commented on was something regarding my looks. As a little girl, I aspired to be beautiful. Most do. It’s not our fault. Society imposes the most unreasonable standards. I dressed up. I played with my nanny’s makeup. Women are conditioned to believe that beauty equals exceptionalism. And when you don’t feel or look beautiful, it can make you doubt yourself. The truth is, beauty doesn’t matter. Every woman’s identity extends far beyond the exterior.

  I realized the hypocrisy in my thoughts. Moments ago, I’d been objectifying Kelly. Even going so far as imagining him as a caped crusader. Just my way of equalizing, I justified. Kind of like viewing pictures of accomplished males on the internet and trolling the comments: He sucks as an astronaut, but he’s hot. I’d sit on his face. Which I never did. Okay, maybe once. Twice, max.

  We arrived home without further incident. Lix was first out of the car. No doubt a scalding-hot shower was in his future. I carried the onesies up to Addy, finding her in the nursery, mirrored-dresser drawers pulled all the way open. She smiled sheepishly, taking them from me. “Sorry. I totally forgot I have a ton of these. I don’t need them after all.”

  I stared at her for a moment, collected myself. The smile I presented felt painful, brittle. “No problem. It was no trouble.” I was almost maimed and killed. No biggie. Anything for you, Addy. “Glad it all worked out.”

  Four o’clock and I couldn’t sleep. I’d tossed and turned for an hour and a half before giving up. Presently, I was staring at the ceiling, which was about as exciting as w
atching paint dry, or Russell Crowe sing in Les Miserables. With a groan, I threw the covers back. Maybe a bathroom break would help. I dragged my ass to the ensuite lavatory. The bathroom was a dream. Steam shower, tub big enough for two or three, and expensive toiletries. My bestie had given me a room fit for a queen or a king. It was easy to forgive her for onesie-gate.

  Once done, I was still awake and grumpy. I wrapped myself up in a holey and well-worn sweater. So what if I’d bought it in Europe with Ash? It’s not like it reminded me of him. I’d decided to keep it purely for comfort reasons. Didn’t matter that it had smelled like him weeks after I’d left him. Or that I cried just a little bit when I finally had to have it dry-cleaned. I sighed. Nighttime was weird. Surreal. Even awake, it felt like you were dreaming sometimes. In the dark, in the quiet, it was too easy to think of things. To miss things, certain people, to be exact.

  Might as well snoop around the house a little, get my mind off its melancholy. Perhaps nibble on some of that leftover macaroni and cheese from dinner. The recipe called for milk, didn’t it? And milk helped you sleep. Made perfect sense to me. I wandered the halls in no hurry to get the kitchen. I’d work up my appetite.

  Goodness the house was large. Blue light filtering through a cracked door crossed my pathway. Probably one of the boys watching television. I’d learned that Addy and War’s home acted as a base for the band. Someone was always coming and going. A real free-for-all, it was.

  Muted feminine laughter followed. “C’mon, baby.” I recognized Asher’s voice. A flaming arrow pierced my heart. He was in there with a woman. My inner masochist had me moving forward. My steps felt heavy as I approached the door. I didn’t want to see but couldn’t make myself turn around. I drew a deep breath and pushed the door open just a little farther. A king-sized bed dominated the space. Asher lay passed out on top of the covers, fast asleep and fully dressed, a half-empty bottle of booze close by, a phone held loosely in his palm. On that screen, a video played, but I couldn’t see of what. I stepped into the room. Ash was a heavy sleeper. This combined with alcohol had the effect of horse tranquilizers.

  More recorded laughter.

  “C’mon, baby.” Asher’s voice again. Whatever he’d been watching, it’d been on a loop. A sickening feeling tightened my gut.

  Thick carpeting padded my steps. The lines of his face cut sharp, unforgiving angles. Even in his sleep, the man brooded. Damn, if I didn’t still find it sexy. Long dark lashes lay against his cheeks. So unfair, women paid thousands of dollars for lashes like that. His lips were slightly parted. He’d never know if I bent and kissed him. My god, I was turning into a creeper.

  I blinked, turned my head, and focused on the screen. A single breath whooshed from my lungs. It was me. Younger and happier, but me. The day Warren and Addy got married. We were on the beach. The sun was at my back. He was supposed to be filming the couple’s first dance. But instead, he’d been shooting me. Water lapped at my heels. “C’mon, baby,” he cajoled, earning him a smile. The video stopped and started over. How long had he been watching the one-minute film?

  Ash rustled. The phone slipped from his hand and onto the bed. I turned it off, unwilling to hear my happier self any longer.

  “Lily.” I startled. Had I been caught? The big man slept on, eyes firmly closed. Better get out of here while the getting was good. I hesitated. It was chilly in the room. Addy kept the air conditioning at a cool sixty-five degrees. “I have a little furnace attached to me,” she’d explained when I’d complained about the frigid temperature. Bunched at the bottom of the bed was a cashmere throw. I grabbed it and spread it over Asher.

  A drunken eye popped open. “Lily?” he whispered.

  Oh, I’d woken the beast. “Sleep tight, Asher. Hope you have nightmares.” My face warmed with renewed anger. I couldn’t soften. Never forget. Never forgive.

  His face creased in pain. “Best dream I’ve had in years.” His heavy lids closed.

  I left the room. If he’d drunk that whole bottle himself, and he had based on the way he smelled, he wouldn’t remember anything in the morning. Back in bed, I couldn’t get to sleep. I kicked the covers, fluffed the pillow, then took to pounding it. Asher Price was keeping me up late again.

  Then

  Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven played on the radio. Every so often static drowned out the music. Ash strummed an acoustic guitar, filling in the blanks. Some days I gazed in wonder at his hands, how they plucked the strings making the sweetest melodies. I loved art, and Asher created it. A match made in heaven.

  In one hand, I held an open book. In the other, a chilled bottle of apple-flavored vodka. Ash sat next to me. We were in Moscow. Another city, another crappy hotel. If you stuck your head out the window and craned your neck to the left, there was a partial view St. Basil’s Cathedral’s domed tops. A thick layer of dust covered the whole city. The aroma of varnish, sweat, and motor oil filtered by on a stale breeze through the open window. A word of advice: Never visit Moscow in the dead of summer. Ash liked to refer to the stinky city as the taint of humanity. Charming. Really.

  Ash’s chest was bare. Necklaces hung between his pecs and clinked together as he played. Weeks had passed since our first hookup. We’d fucked our way through Frankfurt, Amsterdam, and Warsaw.

  And we’d argued just as many times.

  Make-up sex was now in my top five favorite types of sex, the others being hate sex, shower sex, public sex, and hotel sex. My barriers stayed strongly in place. We didn’t kiss. We didn’t cuddle. We didn’t murmur words of affection like Addy and Warren. But something strong burned between us. If I dwelled on it too long, my guts churned, and my forehead broke out in a cold sweat.

  His heavily lashed eyes shifted from the guitar, landing right on my profile. I sipped the vodka, then placed it on the nightstand. Resting my book on my knees, I lifted my hair off my damp nape and held it on top of my head. I feigned interest in the words on the page even though they’d begun to blur together. The bed shifted, Asher putting down his guitar.

  “Have I told you lately how fucking sexy you are?”

  I tilted my head exposing my neck. I turned the page.

  He sat back on his heels. The book was plucked from my lap and thrown across the room.

  “Hey!” I frowned, genuinely offended. Who treats a book like that? Books were sacred; like air, they gave life.

  Asher’s brow descended into one dark, cranky line. “Never thought I’d be jealous of books.”

  I hauled a suitcase of books around to every country. Most days I lost myself in the written page for hours at a time. Asher constantly complained. He had the typical rock-star attention disorder, where he wanted it all the time and it didn’t matter from whom.

  I frowned more fiercely, sending him a dark look over my shoulder as I slid from the bed and grabbed my poor, abused tome. I brushed it off, whispering a heartfelt apology to it. I may or may not have kissed the cover.

  “Christ, you even make me hard when you’re scowling at me.” He lay back.

  The top button of his jeans was open. A light smattering of hair extended from his belly button and disappeared into the waist of his pants. Oh what a happy, happy trail.

  I swallowed at Asher’s heated look. His gaze became more intense by the day, dark, searching, and demanding. Most nights, Addy and I spent at concerts or clubs. Wild Minds was the opening band for Miss Americana, an indie rock band that hit it big when their drummer began dating a troubled starlet. In addition to their scheduled gigs, they worked the underground circuit, picking up last-minute bookings where they could find them. We danced and drank and smoked. And at the end of every show, Asher would take me, rough and hard, overpowering me in the worst way. A shiver pulsed through me.

  He patted his lap. My heart fluttered. No, not my heart. This was lust. Never love. I bit my lip, book limp in my hand. Unlike his twin, Asher’s arms were bare of ink. Virgin territory. Carefully, I sat the book on the bed, then crawled into Asher’s lap, str
addling him. I traced the veins in his forearms. “You need some ink.” I popped open the buttons on my shirt, revealing a black lace bra.

  His eyes flashed at the creamy flesh. “Yeah?”

  Swirling skies and gold shimmering paint filled my vision. “Van Gogh and Klimt. Starry Night and The Kiss. That’s what you should have.”

  He kissed the tops of each of my breasts.

  I sighed lustily while Ash sucked my skin. My fingers threaded through the short spikes of his hair. “Van Gogh painted Starry Night at the Saint Paul Asylum. The painting is turbulent, almost agitated.” The heavy brushstrokes reminded me of Ash’s guitar playing. His music was so much like his temperament—explosive, expressive, intense. He bit my nipple through the bra. My stomach tightened and I moaned, grinding myself against his hardness. “The Kiss by Klimt…” Asher slid a cup of my bra down to lave at a pink, puckered bud. “It’s strikingly modern, evocative even. It’s a couple locked in an intimate embrace. When Klimt painted it,” I gasped as Asher nipped my tender flesh, “it caused a scandal. People thought it to be pornographic.” This painting also conjured thoughts of Asher. It was erotic yet tender. I loved it because the female was the protagonist. Both would look beautiful tatted on Asher’s arms. Love and madness, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

  “Lily,” he said gruffly, unbuttoning my shorts. “I need you.”

  “I need you, too.” The words slipped from my mouth unbidden, involuntary. I cursed my treacherous tongue. It was the closest I’d ever gotten to a declaration of love. A chasm opened up in my chest. I’d never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. My body grew tight. I began to draw away, crawl back into my shell.

  “No,” Asher growled. He gripped my hips, forcefully holding me in place. “You stay right where you fucking are.”