Breaking the Rules (26 page)

Eden laughed, too. “See, now, I’m just appreciating the lack of a gearshift and parking brake.” Her voice was husky and she didn’t sound at all unhappy or afraid. “My bedroom’s over here …”

“Wait, wait,” the man said. “I’m stuck. These stupid shoes, there’s a knot in the lace and … Shit,
shit!
”

There was a thump, as if he’d fallen. But he wasn’t angry, and he didn’t lash out at Eden. He was laughing, and she was laughing, too.

“Let me help,” she said.

“Ho-kay,” the man said on an exhale. “I’m not sure that can be defined as
helping
per se …”

“It helps me,” she said. “It’s been on my wish list since last July.”

“Wish list,” he said. “Isn’t that supposed to be things you want
me
to do to
you
?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she said. “I mean, it’s my wish list, right? I can put whatever I want on there.”

“You could,” he agreed. “Baking cookies in giant chicken suits could be right up there at number six.”

“Six?” she said, laughing. “That’s at least five, if not four. But only if we’re in the same suit and the cookies are chocolate chip.”

“Mmm,” he said. “Number seventeen: doing the macarena at the White House.”

“In the Oval Office,” she added. “Out on the front lawn, it’s only 117.” She whooped in surprise, but then laughed. “Are you really gonna …”

“Carrying you to bed like this is on
my
wish list,” he said, his voice getting softer as he moved down the hallway.

“It
is
undeniably hot,” she said. And the door closed behind them and their voices were muffled.

Neesha sat there, afraid to move, afraid to be discovered. But then their laughter faded, and she knew neither one would be coming out anytime soon.

So she grabbed her bag and the key she’d taken from beneath the potted plant, and she silently crept across the living room and toward the door, stepping over the clothing they’d discarded.

But then Neesha stopped, because there, on the floor next to a pair of almost frighteningly large shoes, was a wallet.

And even though she knew she shouldn’t, even though she knew it was wrong, she bent down and opened it. And there, inside, was a stack of money. It was crisp and beautiful and there was so much of it—ten whole bills, most of them bearing a giant two and a zero.

Praying that she would be forgiven, she took one of them, slipping it into her pocket before she silently went out the door.

D
an’s sister was beautiful.

The color of her eyes and hair were almost startlingly identical to Dan’s, and they had the same basic shade of perfect, smooth skin, although it was clear to Jenn that, at least in the recent past, Eden had spent far less time outside, in the sun.

She’d met them at the luggage carousel, even though neither Dan nor Jenn had checked any bags. She was waiting for them as they got off the elevator, her eyes widening as she saw Dan sitting in the wheelchair that Jenn had insisted he use.

It was telling—the fact that he’d agreed to the ride from the gate. He was feeling much worse than he’d let on during the flight, and she was glad she’d talked him out of making the equally long drive to San Diego tonight.

Of course maybe Eden’s wide eyes were all about Jenn, who was looking frumpier and more rumpled than ever after waking up at holy-shit-o’clock to fly most of the way across the country.

“Danny, thank you so much for coming!” Eden had rushed to greet her brother, clearly uncertain as how best to bend and hug him, so she didn’t—an awkward moment made even more awkward by the airline attendant nearly pushing Dan’s chair into her.

Dan hadn’t helped much, his focus on getting out of there. “Is Zanella …?”

“He’s with the car. He’s circling,” Eden told him, leaping back out of the way to keep the wheelchair from running over her feet in her open-toed sandals. She’d clearly gone to some length with her appearance, dressed as she was in a pretty flower-patterned sundress, her long hair twisted up into an artfully messy chignon, her makeup carefully understated. “He didn’t want to park and make you walk all that way.”

And with that, Dan was whisked away toward the pickup area, leaving Jenn to juggle both of their carry-on bags and to introduce herself.

“God damn it, slow down,” she heard Dan say to the chair-pusher. “Jenni, are you—”

“It’s okay,” she called after him. “I’m okay, we’re right behind you, Danny. I’m Jenn LeMay,” she told Eden, who took the handle of one of their bags from her as they both scrambled to follow. “Thanks.”

“I’m Eden. Thank you so much for coming.” Eden was clearly embarrassed by Dan’s apparent rudeness. And yes, there was definitely a little bit of amazement on her face, too, as she took in Jenn’s stringy hair and tired eyes behind her glasses.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” Jenn told her, sotto voce. “Since he left the hospital, he won’t take the painkiller that the doctor prescribed and …”

Eden forced a smile. “Thanks for, you know, but … he hates me. I know he hates me. It’s okay, I’m used to it by now.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Jenn started.

But Eden interrupted. “I’m surprised he let them give him any painkillers at all. Even in the hospital. He’s always been freaked out. You know. Terrified he’ll be instantly addicted. Considering our family, it’s understandable.” She shrugged. “So who knows? Maybe he’s not just being bitchy because he hurts, maybe he’s also going through withdrawal. Good luck to all of us with that.”

At first Jenn resisted the urge to stop short, mostly because Dan and his wheelchair were so far in front of them. But then she did stop, because that distance-created privacy was a good thing. She put a hand on Eden’s perfect arm, and stopped the younger girl as well.

And she was a girl. She was only nineteen, even though she looked much older.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve made excuses for his behavior,” Jenn told her. “But, see, I know how hard this is for him, and I love him … So, I’m inclined to cut him a little slack. But, you’re right, he
was
being bitchy and I’ve heard his end of several phone calls to you, and I just want you to know that I’ve been slapping him upside the head. A lot lately. More than usual. For being less than polite to you, in case I didn’t make that clear.”

Eden was just standing there, looking at her, almost perfectly expressionless.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that, well, I hope you’ll be patient with him, at least until his injury heals. I’m going to try my best to help out, at least over the next week and … I don’t know if he’s mentioned this to you yet, but he seemed to think it might a good idea for you—both of you—to go to an Al-Anon meeting or two—”

“I don’t drink,” Eden said. “Not since …” She shook her head.

“Well, no, Al-Anon’s not … It’s like Alcoholics Anonymous, but it’s designed for the families of alcoholics. There’s a great program for adult children of alcoholics—I’m one, too, and … Well, it really helped my brothers—some of my brothers—and me deal with some pretty intense issues from our childhood. It was good, because now that we’re adults, we can have these completely different relationships—healthier relationships—than we did when we were kids, back when we had no control over what was going on around us, you know?”

Eden was looking at her as if she were speaking Greek, but then she nodded very slightly and said, “And Danny … wants to do this? This program? With
me.
”

“Yes, he does,” Jenn told her. “But it’s kind of obvious that it’s hard for him, when he’s with you, not to slip back into your childhood relationship. So … it might be difficult for him to communicate that to you, until … Well, it’s kind of a catch-22, you know?”

“Who are you?” Eden asked, laughing to try to hide the tears that sprang into her beautiful eyes. “His girlfriend or his therapist?”

“Like I said. I’ve been in your shoes. Younger sister …? Older brothers behaving like total dickheads …?”

Eden’s smile and laughter became more genuine.

“I never had a sister,” Jenn told Danny’s as she pulled the girl in for a hug. At first Eden resisted, her body stiff as if she’d never been hugged by a friend before. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. And? When Dan does act like a total dickhead? We are going to join forces and let him know it. Is that a deal?”

Eden hugged her back then, almost fiercely, as she laughed. “Jennilyn LeMay, it’s definitely a deal.”

“Come on,” Jenn said. “Let’s go find Ben and bring him home.”

Peter Sinclair the third was gone from the cell when Ben woke up.

Whatever drug they’d given him in that injection must’ve still been in his system, because he’d heard nothing—and it was hard to imagine that other boy being taken away without raising some kind of fuss.

His arms were stiff from sleeping with them up and over his head, and his bladder was uncomfortably full. He was feeling the first signs of low blood sugar—shaky and sweaty and considerably nauseous. He was also experiencing his trademark irritability—normally a telltale signal that he needed some sugar, fast. When he wasn’t being held prisoner, that is.

In his current situation, feeling irritable was a given.

He looked around the cell, at the drab walls, floor, and ceiling, at the bare lightbulb hanging overhead, at the other cot, where … Yeah, Peter Sinclair had definitely pissed himself at some point in the night. The smell of urine was unmistakable and nauseating.

And definitely the drug had still been in Ben’s system last night when he’d talked to the other boy, because at the time, he’d felt oddly calm.

Now, however, his heart was pounding at the idea that he was locked up and tied down—a prisoner here, for God knows how long. He remembered telling Peter that Eden would find him and get him out.

Today, he had no such misconceptions. He was a prisoner here,
and he would remain a prisoner here—and there was little he could do about it.

It was hard, as he was lying there, not to think about Neesha, about the god-awful story she’d told him, about what had happened to her after her mother had died. Maybe it was something that she’d made up. Just something she’d told him to impress him or to make him sympathize. Or maybe, like the cop had said, it was a product of her delusional mind.

But somehow Ben doubted that.

And he couldn’t imagine the strength that she’d needed, that she’d had, to live as a prisoner for so many years—without hope of release.

“Hey!” he shouted into the silence, his voice rusty from sleep. “Hey! Gay diabetic in here. One is a disease, the other is not. One can be successfully managed through diet and insulin injections. The other is unchangeable and fuck you sideways for thinking otherwise, you sons of bitches—”

The door opened. “Is that any way to talk?”

It was the man Peter had nicknamed Weird Don.

“I’m a diabetic,” Ben said. “That means I need to check my blood sugar levels regularly throughout the day so I don’t fall into a coma and die.”

“You have to get pretty sick for that to happen,” Don said, coming into the cell and closing the door behind him with a solid-sounding click. “A lot of boys come in here with ailments. Asthma. Eczema. Acne. It all clears right up when they learn to reject their unnatural yearnings.”

“Yeah, that sounds like bullshit to me,” Ben said. “I wonder why. Oh, probably because it
is
bullshit.”

Don came farther into the room, but he didn’t unfasten Ben’s hands. Instead, he moved next to the cot and stood there. And Jesus, weird didn’t begin to describe the way he was looking down at Ben. “It’s not,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to untie me?” Ben asked, yanking at the plastic bindings and making the metal frame of the cot rattle. He glanced
over at the camera, oddly glad it was there. “I need to go to whatever passes for the medical facility in this hellhole. To get tested and get some insulin—and some food—so I don’t throw up on your fucking shoes.”

“That kind of language isn’t necessary,” the man chided.

“Yeah, I think it is,” Ben countered, “because you don’t seem to understand what I’m saying.”

“But I do understand your pain. I went through this program when I was your age,” Don said earnestly. “It helped me. God, how I hated myself …”

“I think you still hate yourself,” Ben said. “But me? I think I can probably go now, because for the first time in a long time? I’m actually doing okay in the hating myself department. I met this girl a few days ago, and her courage astounded and kind of shamed me. And then I came here, and I met Peter Sinclair the fucking third, and I’ve never met anyone like him before, and you know what? I’m going to survive whatever you do to me. I’m going to say whatever I have to say, and I’m going to walk out of here, and I’m going to fool you and your asshat friends into thinking I’ve seen your stupid light, but when I leave, I’m going to be as gay as the day I walked in here—as gay as the day I was born. And after I leave, I’m going to be on a mission. I’m going to find my own Clark Volborg and we are going to live happily ever after, and in about ten years I’ll think back on this, and I’ll think of you with pity, because I’ll know that you’re still here, and that you still hate yourself—when all you had to do was listen to Peter, too, and understand that you’re not alone and there’s nothing—
nothing—
wrong with you.”

It was possible Weird Don had heard none of that, because he said, “You know, you don’t have to leave. You can sign papers and stay.”

“Fuck you,” Ben said, before he realized what Don had just told him—
you don’t have to leave
.

And sure enough, as Don left the little room, someone else came inside and cut him free.

It was the woman who’d bagged up his clothes. She held those
bags now, as if she’d been standing there with them, in the hallway, all night long. “This way,” she said as he rubbed his wrists and rolled his shoulders, as he tested his very shaky legs.

“I need a bathroom,” he said. “And some insulin—not necessarily in that order.”