Hard Rules

The elevator dings again, and I step to the doors, exiting the car the instant they part, and striding toward the front of the hotel.

“Good morning, Mr. Brandon,” someone murmurs.

I lift a hand, my gaze scanning for Emily, my approach to the front of the building never slowing. Finally, I reach the double glass doors, and they part, and I exit to find Tai just outside to my right, rain pounding the awning above us, splattering the ground beyond.

“Did you see Emily leave?” I ask him.

He looks baffled. “No sir. Should I have?”

“Did anyone else?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“I’m certain she didn’t come through the front of the building. Considering the weather, she’d have needed a car and I would have handled that for her.”

“If she didn’t come through here, where would she be?”

“This is the only exit other than the garage. She must still be in the building.”

The garage. Fuck me. “If she shows up, stall her and call me.”

“Of course,” he says, but I’m already giving him my back and entering the hotel again, my legs quickly eating up the space between me and my intended goal. I reach the elevators and opt for the stairs, heading down a level to the only floor allowing access to the street. Entering the garage, I scan and find no signs of Emily, and considering she’ll be walking in the rain, I head for my car, fully intending to search for her. Clicking the locks, I’m about to open the door, when I spy a note on the front window. I grab it and find the delicate scribble of a woman’s hand.

I’m too complicated. I can’t do that to you. I’m sorry.

Don’t let your tongue be your worst enemy.

—John Franzese

CHAPTER EIGHT

SHANE

I tell myself to let Emily go, but the idea of her being battered by the storm has me driving the nearby streets, ensuring she’s not in need of aid. But I don’t find her, and she’s made it clear she doesn’t want my help. The problem is, I can’t seem to shake the idea that she needs it, nor can I dismiss her as a passing fuck. Shoving the note she’d left into my pocket, I reluctantly accept that for the moment, my search is over, and I drive toward the office. My father’s words when I’m gone run through my mind, and I quickly detour to the highway, heading toward my parents’ house with the full intent of finding out what is going on with both of them.

The next twenty minutes have me stuck in hellish traffic, wishing for a Manhattan subway to cut the time that is money, all the while in my own head, and not my father’s. I don’t need to consider what he’d meant with his accusation of my “weakness.” That was about me hanging onto New York and a career I’d busted my ass to create. But I’m past that now, and my focus is Derek’s weakness: his lack of the morality, which he hates in me, paired with his greed. By the time I navigate the elite Polo Club neighborhood where my parents live and turn into the driveway of their sprawling fourteen-thousand-square-foot tan stucco mansion, I know that somehow, some way, I’m going to have to turn those things around on him.

Pausing at the gate, I’m glad the rain has stopped, allowing me to key in a code. Once it opens, I continue past the brick paved gardens in front of the house, my gut twisting at the sight of the giant birdbath with a lion spraying water. My father is everywhere and the idea that he will soon be nowhere but our memories is unfathomable. Shaking off that idea, I pull to the back of the property, parking outside the five-car garage my father keeps filled with toys he never drives, and kill the engine. Shoving open the door, I’m about to stand when my cell phone rings. A glance at the caller ID confirms it’s Seth, and I hit decline, needing answers to certain questions from my mother before I’m presented with more problems or questions.

Stepping out of the car, I’m almost to the back door when it opens. My mother, who normally sleeps until at least nine, appears in the doorway fully dressed, her raven hair puffed and sprayed, her lips painted red. “I expected I’d see you this morning,” she says, greeting me with a hug, which I return before pulling back to eye her black skirt and matching silk blouse scooped a little too low for my approval.

“I know you didn’t dress like that for me.”

“If you aren’t going to look good, why bother to get dressed?” she asks, motioning me forward. “Coffee’s ready.” She enters the house, calling out, “I figured you’d need it after your all-night company.”

Following her inside, my shoes scraping the limestone tile, I forget her remark, and stop in the doorway, my gaze scanning the giant foyer that is more museum than house. But I don’t see the intricate design on the rounded ceiling, the expensive art on the walls, or the massive winding mahogany stairwell to my left. Memories of my childhood and teen years erupt in my mind, clawing at me in a less than kind way.

“Shane?” my mother calls out.

“Coming,” I reply, shaking myself and pulling the door shut behind me.

Cutting left, I walk directly into an L-shaped kitchen larger than most Manhattan apartments, the centerpiece an island lined with pale wooden drawers and topped with a brown slate counter. My mother pours coffee into two cups. I round the island and take one of them. “Just how you like it,” she says. “Too strong for everyone else.”

“And yet you’re about to drink it.”

She walks to the fridge, opening the door. “With half a bottle of vanilla creamer in it.” She grabs the bottle and carries it to the island and fills her cup, while I step to the other side, directly across from her. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">