My Rules (Kingston Lane Book 2)

“I’m going to book the flights tonight,” I say as I push through the heavy glass door leading into the suit shop.

“No.” Henley sighs. “Do you even listen to me at all?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Antony smirks as he listens.

In a world full of chaos, there’s only one thing that I know for certain.

Family matters, and I’ll do everything in my power to take care of them, even if they don’t want me to.

I walk up the aisle of suits and begin to flick through them, annoyed. “You’re having a bachelor weekend whether you like it or not,” I tell him.

Henley is getting married, and it’s up to us to make sure we go all out to celebrate the occasion, because if Antony and I don’t make this happen . . . who will?

“I don’t need a bachelor weekend,” Henley replies. “I just want a quiet poker night at home.”

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “This is why we are never getting married, Ant; damn woman has his balls in her purse. He’s that unbalanced; it’s a wonder he can fucking walk.”

Antony keeps looking through the suits. “What look are we going for here?”

“I don’t know, something weddingish,” Henley mutters, distracted.

“Well, what look do you want?” I snap, annoyed. “White jacket, black jacket, fucking green pants. Fairy. What?”

“What is up your ass today?” Henley fires back.

“You and your ridiculous notion of no bachelor weekend. It’s a rite of passage to go to Vegas to be wild, watch strippers, smoke cigars, and drink all the alcohol.”

Henley curls his lip in disgust. “Strippers could not be further from my mind.”

I exhale heavily and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Are you hearing this bullshit, Antony?”

“Unfortunately,” Ant replies as he keeps looking.

Henley answers his phone. “Hey.” He smiles as he listens. “Yeah, okay.” He glances up. “You two want to go to Marconi’s with the girls tonight?”

“Yeah.” Ant nods as he continues to flick through the suits.

“Nothing better to do, I guess,” I say with a shrug. I’m not interested in dinner; all I really want to do is lock in Vegas.

“Uh-huh,” Henley replies. “Just looking now.” He listens again. “I don’t know, send me a picture.” He twists his lips as he looks around the shop. “I can’t see any.”

“Is that Juliet?” I ask.

He nods, and I snatch the phone from his hand. “Jules.”

“Blake,” she replies. I can hear that she’s smiling.

“You need to talk to your pussy-whipped boyfriend; he thinks he isn’t having a bachelor weekend in Vegas.”

“Good,” she replies. “I’m good with that plan.”

“What is wrong with you people?” I roll my eyes. “I guess you’re having a knitting party for your bachelorette party, are you? Could you two be any more fucking boring?”

“Probably not. Listen, Henley is a big boy. If he wants to go to Vegas, he can go to Vegas; it has nothing to do with me.”

“Ahh.” My mouth falls open, and I put the phone on speaker. “Can you repeat that, Jules?” I point to the phone as I hold it out for the boys to hear.

“Henley is a big boy, and if he wants to go to Vegas, he can go to Vegas,” Juliet repeats.

“Thank you.” I smile. “This is why we are marrying you, sweet Juliet.”

“I’m not marrying you, Blake,” she replies dryly.

“So you think.” Antony smirks as he goes back to flicking through the suits.

Henley holds his hand out for the phone.

“Goodbye.” I end the call and pass him back his phone.

“I wanted to speak to her,” Henley replies.

“Tough, she’s gone and we have things to do.” I walk over to the rack of suits. “I think you need a white jacket and a black bow tie, and we’ll wear black dinner suits.”

“Why black dinner suits?” Ant asks.

“Because I look good in a black dinner suit.”

Henley rolls his eyes, unimpressed.

The salesman comes out of the back. “Can I help you?” he asks us.

“Yes, please,” Antony replies. “Henley here is getting married, and we want him to look as pretty as a picture for his big special day.”

Henley gives Ant the side-eye, and I smirk. “And we’re going to need a white jacket.”

The cool, crisp flavor cleanses my palate; there’s nothing better than a cold beer after a hard, long day.

The restaurant is loud with chatter, and a tantric beat sounds through the oversize speakers. Marconi’s is the hippest bar in town—luckily, because we come here way too often.

My eyes linger on the opposite end of the table, and as Rebecca licks the salt from her margarita glass, I feel it all the way to the tip of my cock.

Her dark hair is up in a high ponytail, her rounded, full breasts peek out of the V-neck in her dress, and as she smiles I’m quite sure that somewhere in the distance I hear a choir of angels break into song.

Ugh. I sip my beer, unimpressed with where my mind is going . . . again.

This woman . . .

She’s my neighbor, my friend’s ex-wife . . . my best friend, a member of my own group of friends, a quite close one, actually, and frankly, she’s impossible to avoid.

Rebecca.

Beautiful, smart, and funny. She’s the whole package.

We’re in the friend zone.

So deeply that she thinks of me as a big brother, but behind closed doors, I carry a sordid secret: I’m the big brother that fantasizes about doing unspeakable things to her body.

In my dreams she uses me just as hard as I use her.

“You seeing Cindy tonight?” Henley asks.

“Yeah.” I sip my beer, my eyes lingering on the forbidden fruit.

“When’s her expiry date?” Antony asks.

“Must be coming on soon, surely,” Hen replies.

Rebecca laughs out loud at the other end of the table, and my stomach flutters.

Cut. It. Out.

Rebecca Dalton is as far from my type as physically possible, a good girl who’s still in the trenches as she gets over her marriage breakdown. Her husband cheated on her with his secretary.

What a fucking idiot.

“Well?” Henley asks, interrupting my thoughts once more.

“What?” I glance over to him.

He raises his eyebrow in question. “Cindy’s expiry date?”

“Oh . . .” I sip my beer. “I don’t know. She’s not Mrs. Grayson, that’s for sure.”

“Nobody will ever be Mrs. Grayson,” Ant chips in.

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

“The kind of women you like.” Antony widens his eyes, and Henley chuckles.

“Fuck off.” I sigh, unimpressed. “We can’t all be fucking boring like you two.”

He’s nailed it in one . . . there probably won’t be a Mrs. Grayson. I can’t help that I have a definitive type, and if I could change it, I would.

I like the bad girls, the ones with sexual stamina who can fuck as well as I can.

As much as I want them to, innocent women do nothing for me.

If I do end up on a date with one, I find myself glancing at my watch all night, wishing for it to be over.

Rebecca stands, and my eyes drop to her defined quad muscles in her minidress. I sip my beer as I imagine them around my ears.

“You’re drooling,” Henley mutters under his breath.

I snap my eyes away, rattled at being caught. “Fuck off.”

“You need to make a move already,” Antony whispers.

“I’m not making a move.” I sip my beer again as I watch her walk to the bar. “We’re not like that.”

“Well, while you’re not being like that, she’s going to fuck her ex out of her system with every Tom, Dick, and Harry,” Henley replies. He taps his bottle with mine and winks sarcastically. “It’s going to be fun to watch you watch her.”

“Fuck you.”

I clench my jaw. I hate the thought of her sleeping around, but there’s no way around it; I know she needs to do it. She’s only ever slept with one man before, and as her friend I want her to have fun and experience the world.

“You’re an idiot,” Antony mutters under his breath. “Someone’s going to steal her right out from under you.”

“Only she isn’t under him.” Henley winks.

“You know what this is?” Antony replies.

“Karma.”

“Shut. Up. Don’t you two have anything better to do than stalk me and my love life? It’s fucking creepy.”

“Not really.” Hen smirks.

“Anyway . . . karma has nothing to do with this. Rebecca and I are just friends.”

“You wish.”

We fall silent as she comes back to the table and sits down; she glances up, and our eyes lock. She smiles softly as she pushes her chair in, and my dick throbs in appreciation.

Yeah . . . this has to stop.

Rebecca

“Everything all right over here, ladies?” Ronald smiles as he bends down and kisses Taryn’s cheek.

“Perfect, Ronny.” She beams up at him.

“Let me know if anyone gives you any trouble, okay?” Ronald calls to the table.

“Thanks, man.” The boys all politely smile and nod.

Life is weird. If someone told me five years ago that my group of friends would be the people who live in my cul-de-sac, neighbors, I would have thought they were crazy.

But here I am, surrounded by the best friends a girl could ever ask for. Moving to Kingston Lane was the best thing I ever did. There’s Henley, Blake, and Antony. Henley is an engineer, Blake is a doctor, and Antony is a lawyer. Then there’s Juliet—she’s a nurse and engaged to Henley; they met when Juliet moved next door. Chloe is Juliet’s friend who I’ve also become close to; she’s a nurse. And then there’s Taryn. Taryn moved in with her mother when her marriage broke down. At the beginning she drove us all mad, but her weirdness and wild ways are infectious, and she’s become a friend.

Taryn is sleeping with the manager of the club and gets us the best table and half-price drinks every time we come here.

“I’ll swing by on my way home?” Ronny asks Taryn. He gives her a sexy wink, and his eyes drop down to her large breasts.

“I’ll be waiting,” she gushes.

Eww . . . Taryn has the worst taste in men. Ronald gives me the ick . . .

Total sleazebag vibes, but somehow she thinks he’s the hottest man on the planet.

I don’t know much about men, but I do know that Taryn’s boobs attract a hell of a lot of them. They’re like a Venus flytrap . . . for sleazebags.

“Here he is now.” Chloe stands and waves.

A handsome man with honey-brown curls walks through the restaurant, looks over, and smiles broadly before waving and heading toward us. Chloe has a new boyfriend; his name is Oliver, and he’s so adorable that I can’t stand it.

He’s got this playful boyish charm, and she’s totally smitten; I don’t blame her.

She met him at the movies at a daytime showing. She was there alone, and he was there alone, the only two in the cinema. They made a joke of it and bonded over their popcorn and ice cream choices and ended up sitting together.

That was three months ago, and the rest, as they say, is history. I’ve never seen her so happy; she floats around on air.

“Look who’s with him!” Chloe bounces excitedly in her chair as she elbows me. “Here we go, Bec.”

Oliver has a friend, a very cute friend.

“Ahhh,” I giggle, glancing down at my drink. Whoa, these margaritas have some punch. I’m feeling tipsy.

“Ladies.” Oliver bends and kisses Chloe’s cheek. “Look how beautiful you are.” He smiles as he tilts her chin.

Swoon . . .

He turns to his friend. “You remember my friend Michael?”

“Of course.” I smile up at him. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Michael’s eyes light up. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

“Hey,” Henley calls from the other end of the table, and the boys wave.

“Hi.”

There aren’t any spare seats. “Let’s go over to the bar to talk,” Chloe suggests. She grabs my arm and drags me out of my chair. “You’re coming.”

Chloe leads me to the bar by the hand while my heart sits in my throat.

Bang, bang, bang go the nerves.

Stop.

I need to get over myself, and letting myself like someone is a step in the right direction.

So my husband cheated . . . so what?

Am I really going to let him ruin the rest of my life and never go on another date again?

No.

No, I am not.

Are all men sleazebags?

Probably.

Stop!

Logically, I know that’s not true. I keep thinking I’m ready to date, and then when it gets closer, I panic and freeze, then decide that I’m not ready.

Enough!

I’m better than this wallowing-in-self-pity crap. I am stronger now, and I’ve got this.

I’m in my prime, and at thirty-two I have so much to look forward to. It’s been twelve months, and I really do need to get over this and move on with my life.

“So.” Michael leans in closer so only I can hear. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“You have?”

“Nonstop.” He widens his eyes to accentuate his point.

“Nonstop?” I smirk into my drink. “That’s a lot.”

“Have you been thinking about me?”

“Maybe.” I play it cool.

“Maybe yes?” He raises a playful eyebrow.

“Maybe yes.” I laugh.

He glances at his watch.

“Are you working tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I hate working Saturday nights. It’s the only time I hate shift work.”

“What time do you start?”

“Eleven.”

Michael’s a security guard; his jobs are varied, and he works a lot of night shifts.

I glance at my watch. “It’s nine thirty; why did you come out if you have to leave so soon?”

“To see you. I knew if I didn’t come to see you tonight that I wouldn’t get a chance to ask for your number for another whole week.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“So?” I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile.

“Can I have your number?” He takes out his phone.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Call you and ask you out on a date.”

“Or . . .” I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. “You could just ask me now.”

“Rebecca.” He gives me a beautiful broad smile. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

Ahhhh!

“Okay.”

“Next . . . Saturday night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s a date then.”

“I guess it is.” Nerves flutter around in my stomach; this is the first guy I’ve felt any kind of spark from in so long. My eyes roam over the fine specimen.

Michael is tall and built like a Mack truck, huge and muscular. The kind of man I imagine could fuck you through a wall.

The thought makes me weak in the knees. Damn . . . it’s been a long drought.

I’ve been as dry as the Sahara and am in desperate need of a good weekend of hot and heavy rain.

“I’m going, Bec.” A voice snaps me out of my dirty daydream, and I glance up to see Blake standing beside us. “Do you want a lift home?” he asks.

“Oh.” I frown.

“I can take you home,” Michael interrupts.

“Okay.” I smile.

“Who are you?” Blake asks.

“Oh, sorry.” I shake my head, embarrassed by my rudeness. “Blake, this is Michael. Michael, this is Blake, my friend.”

They both force a smile and shake hands. “Hello.”

Blake looks Michael up and down as if sizing him up. “And what do you do, Michael?” he asks.

“Security.”

Blake sips his beer. “It’s Saturday night; shouldn’t you be off . . . securing something?”

A frown flashes across Michael’s face.

Oh my god, Blake can be such a rude prick when he wants to be. I widen my eyes at him.

Stop it.

“Just secured a date with this lovely lady, actually,” Michael fires back.

“Really?” Blake’s eyes flick to meet mine before giving him a sarcastic smile. “Good luck with that.”

What?

“Excuse us for a moment, Michael. Just walking Blake out.” I fake a smile as I pull Blake away by the arm. “See you.” Michael nods.

“Bye,” Blake replies without making eye contact.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper as I drag Blake toward the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” he fires back.

“I’m enjoying talking to a very nice man, and you’re being very rude.”

“Him.” He huffs. “He’s as far from a nice man as I’ve ever met.”

“You don’t even know him,” I scoff.

“Come on, Rebecca.” He rolls his eyes as we arrive at the front doors. “Your douchedar cannot be that way off.”

“Douchedar?” I frown. “What the hell is douchedar?”

“A douchebag radar.”

“Ha,” I snap. “He is not a douchebag.”

“And you know this how?” He puts his hands on his hips.

“I know him . . . very well, actually,” I lie.

“Yeah, well, I can spot them a mile off, and he’s a king.”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Having fun does not make me a douchebag.” He fakes a smile. “Although dating one does make you stupid.” He kisses my cheek. “Good night, Rebecca.” He turns and walks out through the front doors, and I watch him disappear down the road.

Ugh . . . he’s so annoying.

I walk back to my place at the bar with Michael. “Who’s he?” he asks.

“Ahh.” This is awkward. “He’s my neighbor.” I force an embarrassed smile. “A friend.”

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up as if he’s unimpressed.

“He’s a little overprotective—ignore him. I do.” I tap my drink with his. “Let’s talk about something interesting.”

“Like what?” He smiles, mollified for the moment.

“Like where we’re going on our date next week.”

He slides his hand around my waist. “Where do you want to go?”

An hour later, the car pulls to a stop in front of my house, and Michael looks over at me in the darkness. “Damn, you make me want to call in sick tonight.”

I smile over at him. “Next week.”

“Next week.”

Hope blooms in my chest. There really is something here between us.

I feel giddy.

He leans over and takes my face in his hands. His lips brush over mine as he kisses me softly.

Oh . . .

His tongue slides against mine, and my eyes close at the perfection between us.

He kisses me again and again, and good lord . . .

I pull away from him, overwrought with arousal.

“Wow,” he pants as he looks at me.

“Wow.” I smile.

Wow is right . . . ahhhhhh!

“Have fun at work.” I open the door and lean in through the window. “Call me.” I bat my eyelashes playfully to be cute, and he winks and revs the engine on the car.

I practically float inside and close the door, leaning up against the back of it as excitement runs through me.

Can it be next Saturday night already?

I put the plug in, turn the hot water on, and let it run. I’m in the bath, and it’s after midnight. The room is steamy, and I’ve lit candles to add to the ambience. It’s funny—I never used to take baths; I always saw them as a waste of time.

But lately they’ve become part of my self-care routine.

A deep, hot bath is cathartic and a simple pleasure that I’ve become addicted to.

After my dreamy first kiss with Michael tonight, I’m floating on air. My mind keeps going over and over it, the way he kissed me . . . the way it made me feel.

I have this simmering excitement deep inside.

My phone beeps a text. I lean out, dry my hand on the towel, and pick it up.

It’s a text from Michael. Ahh . . . I swipe it open.

Can’t stop thinking about you.

I smile broadly and reply.

Me too.

Another text bounces in.

Send me a teaser.

Huh? I frown. What does that mean?

Another text bounces in.

I need something to get me through to next week.

What’s he talking about?

Another text arrives.

I’ll go first.

My phone dings again, and I open the message.

It’s a cock shot.

Huh?

I stare at it in confusion. “What the fuck?” The photo is taken in a bathroom, and I can see a reflection of the window in the mirror. This photo was taken in the daytime.

This erection was for someone else, and he’s sending me sleazy photographs of the evidence.

Eww . . .

My phone beeps again.

Now it’s your turn.

Is he for real?

I reply.

You want me to send a nude?

He texts back immediately.

Fuck yeah.

What is he, fourteen years old?

I exhale heavily and drop my phone onto the floor.

Yuck.

Ugh . . . I slide down into the water. Why are men such fucking idiots?

Do I have the sign sleazebag target on my forehead?

Another text bounces in, and unable to stop myself, I open it.

I’m ready and waiting

??

I roll my eyes and reply.

It was nice knowing you.

Not really.

I hit send, then swipe through and block his number.

I get out of the bath in a rush and turn the shower on. Even just receiving that text makes me feel dirty. He’s probably sent that exact cock shot to at least three hundred women. Recycled, used dick.

Ugh . . . gross.

I soap up my hands and begin to scrub my skin.

It’s official: I hate men.

Blake

Knock, knock, knock sounds at the door.

“Who is knocking at this hour of the morning?”

I put my bread in the toaster and walk out to answer the front door. I open it to find Rebecca standing there.

“Bec.”

“Can I come in?” She’s still in her pajamas, and I frown as I look her up and down.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Can I come in or not?” she snaps impatiently.

“Sure.”

“So, I was thinking about what you said last night,” she says as she follows me into the kitchen.

“Yeah.” My toast pops, and I hold a piece up. “Want some?”

“No thanks.”

I go to the fridge and open it. I peer in.

Rebecca pulls out the stool to sit at the kitchen counter and frowns. “What is this?” She holds up a mauve lace bra on her fingertip.

Yeesh . . . What’s that doing there? I snatch it out of her hand. “It’s Antony’s,” I lie.

“Why would Antony be wearing a mauve bra?”

“Because it matches his mauve panties, that’s why,” I snap. “What do you want?”

She sits down on the stool. “What is a douchedar, and how do I use it?”