My Rules (Kingston Lane Book 2)

“Pack away your pencils, and then we’re going to do some recorder practice,” I call from my place on the stepladder. I hold the painting up to where I want to hang it, take the thumbtack out of my mouth, and push it into the corner.

Decorating my classroom is my favorite hobby and most definitely an extreme sport.

“Miss Dalton . . . ,” a little voice calls. “Lucy took my pencil sharpener.”

“Lucy,” I call. “Did you accidentally take Carter’s pencil sharpener?”

“No,” Lucy calls.

“Do you want me to check your pencil case for you, just in case?” I ask.

Lucy’s eyes dart around guiltily. “Um . . .”

“Sometimes things accidentally get mixed up,” I say softly. “Don’t they?”

“Yes.” Lucy nods in an overexaggerated way. “I’ll look now.”

I smile and go back to my picture hanging. Kindergarten, the home of cuteness overload and mini kleptomaniacs . . . all accidental, of course.

I love my job; I love every single second of every single day . . . but only in the mornings, of course. Ask me again in the afternoon when I’ve had a day from hell, and I will tell you I’m resigning tomorrow. Five-year-olds and I have a lot in common: our moods change hard and quickly. Good times turn bad in the bat of an eye.

“Oh look, here it is.” Lucy holds the sharpener up as if she’s just won the gold medal.

Carter scowls and snatches it from her. “I knew you had it.”

“Carter . . . what are our classroom values?” I ask him.

Carter rolls his eyes, and his little shoulders slump. “Be kind and understanding,” he mumbles.

“Yes,” I call as I push in the last thumbtack. “That’s right.” I climb down the ladder. “Everyone, grab your recorder and take a seat on the mat, please.” I pull out my desk drawer to grab my music book just as my phone flashes a text. I glance around and then sneakily read the message. It’s from Blake.

We are live, Bambi!

It’s go time.

A surprised giggle escapes me before I quickly hide it. I quickly text back.

OMFG!!!!

I cannot believe we are actually doing this; I throw my phone back into the drawer and take out my music book.

“Let’s go, little people,” I call as I clap my hands. “Everybody sit on the mat.”

Casual as casual can be.

Lunchtime and I’m acting like a spy.

I sit in the lunchroom and discreetly peer at my phone under the table.

Sales: 0

Hmm. I click out of the app.

What if I don’t get any clicks? What if my feet are considered ugly in the world of foot porn?

I mean . . . I am only listening to Blake, and maybe he’s biased.

Shit.

I glance down at my feet. Maybe I should have gotten a pedicure. I text Blake.

No sales yet.

Maybe I should have painted my toenails red?

I wait for Blake’s reply, but it doesn’t come, which isn’t surprising. He doesn’t have his phone on him through the day at work.

Damn it, why does he have to be so diligent?

I check my phone again.

Sales: 0

Hurry up and call me back, Blake.

Gah . . . I can hardly wait to speak to him. What if I’ve done the profile wrong or something? I glance back at my feet once more. Tonight I’m going to up my game, get really inventive.

These perverted sick fucks want to get nasty . . . so will I.

Maybe I should do some research on Google to see what kind of fetish pictures people actually want. My eyes float to the other people at the lunch table. Not here, though.

Tonight . . .

I can’t mess this up. I need extra income . . . and fast. I refuse to touch the joint bank account ever again, and the bills are beginning to pile up.

Damn it, what if I never sell a single photo?

No, I can’t think like that. I have to be optimistic.

Blake will know what to do. I feel like driving to the children’s hospital and paging him to the front counter for an emergency consultation.

Of course, I have a stupid staff development meeting tonight, and I won’t be home until late.

I check again.

Sales: 0

I stuff my phone into my handbag and bite into my apple.

Turns out that living a double life as a camgirl isn’t as glamorous or profitable as one would think.

Blake

It’s 7:00 p.m. I pour myself a beer, take a seat at my computer, and plug in the flash drive. I have to admit that I, too, have been thinking about this all day, since Ant reminded me. I’m truly fascinated as to who could have written the stuff on this flash drive.

The screen lights up, and I scroll down as I read the contents. There are lists and stories. I frown as I keep going through it; this appears to be some kind of backup.

I scroll much farther down this time as I look for some kind of clue.

Author Nooky Nights

I frown. Nooky? Who would give themselves a pen name of Nooky Nights . . . whoever wrote this is a confirmed fucking weirdo.

The door opens, and Henley and Antony appear. “Are we on?” Hen asks.

“Yeah.” I keep scrolling down.

They both pull up a chair and sit behind me as I scroll through the screens.

“Any idea who yet?” Henley asks as he grabs him and Ant a beer from my fridge.

“Their author name is Nooky Nights,” I tell them.

“Nooky Nights?” Henley frowns.

“I like it.” Antony opens his can of beer. “Catchy.”

“So do you think the person who lost this is freaking out?” Henley asks.

“About what?”

“Losing all their work.”

“I think it would just be a backup, right?” I shrug. “They maybe don’t even know it’s lost.”

We read on.

Titles releasing:

Fisting Frenzy

My eyes widen.

“Fisting Frenzy!” Henley chokes on his beer.

“What the fuck?” Antony leans in to take a closer look. “What the fuck is a fisting frenzy?”

“Something that is one hundred percent never happening to me.” I wince as I get a bad visual.

Creamy and Wet

“Although . . .” My eyebrow rises. “I do like the sound of this one. Creamy and wet is my favorite two-word combination.”

I hear a car, and I glance out through the curtains to see Rebecca arriving home. She’s home late tonight. I keep scrolling.

The Daddy Swap

“The Daddy Swap . . . what the actual . . .” Henley erupts into laughter.

“So it’s a woman,” I think out loud.

“What makes you say that?” Antony asks.

“Daddy is a term females use; no man is thinking hot things about daddies.”

“Facts,” Henley agrees.

“Unless he’s gay, and then I’m thinking that daddy swapping would be goals.”

I screw up my face in disgust as a new, more disturbing visual comes through. “If you ever think about my father, I’ll murder you.”

“I’ll murder myself first, don’t worry,” Henley utters dryly. “Nobody is that desperate.”

“My father is way above average,” I scoff. “You’d be lucky to look half as good as him at his age.”

“If you say so.” Henley widens his eyes, and Ant chuckles.

Count Lazarus

“Count Lazarus, what’s this one about?”

We read on.

Bang, bang, bang. The knock is desperate, a haunting sound. Filled with terror and fear.

I can hear them coming. Their war cry echoes from the surrounding buildings.

“Witch. Witch. Witch,” they yell.

Carrying flaming torches, they march through the town in search of their next victim.

“Freya.” The door bangs again. “Run, Freya. Run. They’re coming for you.”

“Run, Constance,” I yell through the door. “Save yourself.”

Constance is my younger sister; she needs to get out of here, or they will kill her too.

“I’m not leaving you here,” she yells through the door.

“Witch. Witch. Witch.” The cries are closer as they turn the corner.

“Run,” I scream. “Run while you can.”

I hear her panicked footsteps, and I peer through the curtains to see her just make it across the field and into the forest before they come around the corner.

I run to the back door and out into the field. “There she is,” they scream.

And I run.

I run as hard and as fast as I can.

Hands grab my hair and pull me back. I struggle. I fight. I scream and kick.

They capture me anyway.

Hours later, bruised and battered, fear is running through my blood like a wildfire.

Like a prized possession, the townspeople gather around for the show. I stand with my hands tied behind my back within a giant pile of wood.

Tonight, I will be burned at the stake.

Dirty, bloodied, and broken, I don’t have any fight left in me.

“What kind of fucking book is this?” Henley snaps. “I don’t want to read depressing shit.”

“Who wrote this?” Antony frowns. “This story does not go with daddy kink.”

Fascinated, we read on.

The guard holds up the torch of fire, and I close my eyes in preparation.

I always knew they’d come; the writing was written on the wall. They killed my grandmother and great-aunt before me.

Both had the curse.

Tainted with the same brush as I.

The wind picks up. Dirt flies through the village, a mini tornado that begins to tear apart everything in its path. The skies go black as people scream; the thatching flies from a nearby roof.

I look around at the destruction. What the hell is happening?

Then among the chaos, I see him.

Walking toward me in slow motion, his dark eyes hold mine. Standing at over six foot five with black hair and olive skin, his jaw is square. His body is large, but it’s his presence that overwhelms me.

A darkness that can be felt from afar.

The crowd sees him and begins to scream as they run, scattering in all directions.

No . . . it can’t be.

My heart begins to race as fear runs through me.

I’ve heard whispers, of course, but I never knew if they were true.

He holds his hand up in a silent command, and the ropes that tie my hands fall to the ground.

Dear god.

No.

Please, no. I would rather be burned at the stake.

It’s Lazarus.

The most powerful vampire on earth.

And he’s here . . . for me.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, wide eyed. “Vampire porn.” I scroll down the page in a panic. “Where’s the rest of it?” I keep scrolling.

“Oh, get fucked.” Henley pushes me out of the way and begins to use the mouse to scroll down. “What does he do?”

“I don’t know.” I snatch the mouse back.

“Please tell me he rails her.” Antony hovers over my shoulder, peering at the computer screen.

“Well, obviously . . . he must.”

“You reckon he’s got two cocks?” Ant asks.

“Hopefully.”

“Henley,” Juliet’s voice calls as she comes through the front door. “Where are you guys?”

I immediately flick the computer off, and we all stare at each other, rattled but intrigued, just wanting to read on.

Juliet walks into my office. “Hi.” She smiles all casually.

“Hi, Jules.”

“What are you guys doing?” She looks between us.

“Wedding stuff,” Henley lies.

“Oh, you guys are writing speeches?” she says hopefully.

Henley’s eyes flick to me, and I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. “Something like that.”

Rebecca

OVERNIGHT MIRACLE SERUM

I read the label before I dip my finger into the jar and rub some onto my face. I’m freshly showered with a towel around my head. I’m in my pajamas and feeling very sorry for myself.

No sales. Not even one.

I mean, I don’t know what I expected, but the way Blake talked about it made it sound like it was easy.

Maybe my feet looked dry and old . . . hmm.

I put my foot up onto my bathroom cabinet and rub in the overnight miracle serum. Then I rub it into the other one too.

I check my phone again.

Sales: 0

Ugh.

This stupid fucking Foot Finder dashboard . . . is it even working?

I hear a knock, knock from downstairs.

Blake.

I bounce down the steps to see him standing at my front door, and I open it in a rush. “Hello.” He bows his head as he walks past me into my house.

“Hello, Dr. Grayson.” I slam the door closed. “You didn’t text me back today.”

“I was busy.” He looks around. “Where are your bookshelves?”

“In the hall.”

“I want to read a book; can I borrow one of yours?” He walks out into the hallway into my kitchen and begins to run his finger over the spines of my books on the shelf as he goes through them.

“I don’t think I have anything you’d like.” I cross my arms as I lean up against the wall. “We didn’t sell one picture today.”

“Do you like vampires?” he asks, distracted.

“Are you listening? I didn’t sell one picture today. My feet must be a turnoff.”

“How many cocks do the people in your books have?”

“What?” I scoff. I throw my hands up. “I don’t know what goes through that mind of yours sometimes. Focus.” I turn and march out to the living room.

I hear him pull a book off the shelf. “Can I take more than one?”

“Since when do you like romance books?” I call back.

“I’m trying to learn how to be romantic.”

“You are?” I screw up my face. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

“Why would you want to be romantic?” I call.

“Ahhh . . .” He hesitates. “I’m thinking of settling down.”

What?

“With who?”

“Ahh . . . I don’t know yet.” He walks out into the living room with a huge stack of books. “I’m borrowing these.”

I stare at him, my mind a clusterfuck of confusion. “Since when do you want to settle down?”

“It’s just a thought.” He shrugs. “So . . . your feet?”

“Are obviously ugly.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s a load of crap, and you know it.”

“Well, why haven’t we sold one? Not a single hit.”

“It’s early days.” He puts his pile of books down and flops onto my couch. “Relax.”

I let out a deep, deflated breath. “Maybe we need to do better photos?”

“Possibly.” He rubs the backs of his fingers over his stubble as he thinks. “Is there fisting in your books?”

“What?” I screw up my face in horror. “No.”

“What about fisting frenzies—any fisting frenzies?”

“I thought you wanted to learn how to be romantic?” I gasp.

“I do. I do.”

I widen my eyes. “A fisting frenzy is how you want to be romantic?”

“Yeah.” He widens his eyes back. “It is, actually.”

“Eww.”

“You don’t like fisting?” He raises an eyebrow in question.

“No. I do not.”

He sits forward, as if interested. “Ever tried it?”

“Never have. Never will.”

“Ha,” he huffs as he sits back. “Famous last words. You all say that.”

Did he fist Taryn?

The thought turns my stomach. “You’re repulsive.”

“Many women find me irresistible.”

“Yeah, well, they have giant, stretched-out vaginas, so they don’t count.”

He tilts his head to the side in silent agreement.

Knock, knock sounds at the front door.

“Who’s that?”

Blake rolls his eyes. “It will be Antony.”

“What does he want?” I begin to walk to the door.

“Probably some books.”

“He’s trying to learn how to be romantic too?” I squeak. What the hell is going on with these guys?

I open the door, and my face falls as I see John, my ex-husband; my hackles instantly rise. “What are you doing here?” I snap.

“Hi.” He gives me a lopsided smile as he brushes past me into the house, then stops suddenly when he sees Blake lying back on my couch.

“What the hell are you doing here with my wife?” John growls.

“She’s not your wife.” Blake stands and walks to John and pushes him hard in the chest. “Get the fuck out.”