Broken Rules: (Broken Duet #1)

Frank Harston’s daughter is an enemy.

Not as big as Frankie, but still an enemy. Alarms blared, and red lights flashed in my head when she introduced herself. If she hadn’t grown up so beautiful, my bouncers would’ve escorted her out, no questions asked. But she’s fucking spellbinding.

I can’t peel my eyes off her to save my life.

She shouldn’t be anywhere within my reach. The mere thought of entering Delta should make her all kinds of scared, but there’s no fear tainting her steel-gray, almost silver eyes, just a blazing fire. Not only did she have the courage to show her beautiful face on my territory, but like a true pussycat, she hissed, showing off her claws. My surname didn’t change her attitude.

It pissed her off more.

She’s fucking irresistible with that sharp tongue, disdain painted over her doll-like face, and the abhorrent disrespect. Six years have passed since anyone spoke to me the way Layla does, and it was her father.

She inherited the nasty personality I hate most about him, yet I find it utterly impressive on Layla.

I spotted her on the many screens in my office displaying live feed from inside the club. A small commotion started in the POP music room where a petite girl dressed in red pushed her way through the crowd as if pushing through a jungle. I liked how she walked: head high, shoulders back.

People stepped out of her way, awestruck.

No wonder. She’s a sight to behold. Dark brown hair fell to her hips, hidden under a flared dress. Most girls who greet Delta with their presence just about cover their asses, but Layla doesn’t show her thighs, fascinating me that much more. She’s outrageously sassy and utterly unfazed by me, my money, position, and reputation. Everyone else is, but Layla doesn’t give a shit, showing no respect, fear, or interest.

Another novelty. Indifference isn’t a reaction I’m treated with often. I like her more than any other woman who crossed my path, even though I should stay away from her.

What a shame I don’t want to.

The vodka bottle we started over an hour ago is half-empty, but Layla hardly looks tipsy. Jake comes by every twenty minutes to take her dancing, so she’s burning the alcohol, moving in sync with that asshole’s arms around her middle.

“That’s it,” I say when she comes back with Jake’s hand holding hers. “No more dancing. Sit and drink.”

The guy can’t stand straight without assistance anymore. He’ll likely fall down the stairs if he takes her dancing again. He’ll trip, or I’ll push him. Either way, he won’t leave the club without at least two broken bones; jaw and nose.

Layla raises a shot glass, throwing the vodka at the back of her throat. “Sir, yes, sir,” she salutes. “Favorite color?”

I push a Marlboro between my lips, pinching the filter with my teeth. “Is this a game, or are you curious?”

“You shouldn’t answer a question with a question.”

“Red.” Since two hours ago. “You want to play twenty questions? How old are you? Five?”

She wags her finger. “That’s three questions right there. Are you afraid I’ll ask something inappropriate?”

We just met. Two hours ago, but she already knows how to get by me. Accusing me of fear does the job. There’s no fucking way I’ll pass on the game now. Besides, with the right questions, it might get interesting.

“Favorite song?”

She catches her bottom lip between her fingers, pulling gently. I imagine my teeth in their place, biting, sucking, consuming her sweet mouth. “I think “One Way or Another” wins it at the moment.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m not talking about the original, though.” She pulls her phone out, tapping the screen.

“Don’t tell me you’re a One Direction fan.”

“Nope. Until the Ribbon Breaks.” Standing on her stiletto heels, she presses the phone against my right ear, covering the left with her tiny hand.

I stare at her, mere inches away from me, her hands cupping my face. Jesus wept. What the fuck is this spark between us? I grasp the stool, digging my fingers into the leather to contain the urge to touch her. It’s too loud around to enjoy the song playing from her phone’s speaker, but I focus on the melody, dark and slow, the words a husky whisper loaded with emotion.

My stomach ties itself into a double knot when Layla bites her lip. I think it’s her tic. A tell of sorts. Some people crack their knuckles, some play with their hair, but Layla… of course, she’d have the sexiest tic out there.

Just my fucking luck.

The song isn’t over when she steps away, brushing her hand along my cheek, the touch delicate, feather-light. Intentional or not, my cock hardens in response. I make a note to take a cold shower later and check out that song again. The bartender pushes the ashtray closer as I keep flicking the ash across the counter, too busy watching Layla.

“Nice, isn’t it?” she asks, tucking her phone away. “They’re great but not mainstream. What about you? What are you into right now?”

You, baby. So into you.

“Ellie Goulding is my go-to CD.”

Layla relaxes with every shot until worry no longer taints her pretty face. We’ve been sitting at the bar for almost four hours when the club closes at two a.m. Half an hour later, once the staff tidies up, the last person exits the building, leaving us alone. If I were a fucker… fine, if I were a bigger fucker than I am, I’d pull out my gun, aim it at the pretty bug, and call Frank to set up a trade.

Technically speaking, I am a big enough fucker to pull this off, but looking at Layla, scaring her feels like a felony. She’s softer outside and tougher inside than women I’ve encountered in my life. Not a docile wannabe like “The Princess and the Pea.” More like a stunning witch. Using her against Frank is out of the question because I see her beauty. That, coupled with the invisible pull, the odd spark between us, makes kidnapping for ransom a big no-no.

We start a second bottle once it’s just Layla and me. She drank as many shots as I have but still acts as if she stopped after the second mojito.

“Why didn’t you go home earlier?” I ask.

She sits up, shoulders back, her spine suddenly rigid. “You asked me to stay.”

“And that’s why you did?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at. I came here to clear my head. I was going to leave because I thought I’d be carried out by security if I didn’t, but I stayed because you didn’t mind me being here.”

Her presence should’ve bothered me. She could’ve been trying to separate me from my people and succeeded when the last person left Delta so Frankie could barge in with his troops. I don’t find my own theories plausible, though. Just as I don’t believe Layla stayed because I asked.

Attraction sprouted between us the moment I offered to buy her a drink. One look at her gorgeous face and my brain short-circuited. Changing all the wires won’t help. Desire is saved on the hard drive, and I can’t do shit about it. Especially, that said desire grows stronger with every minute.

I grip her stool, dragging it closer.

Instead of flushed cheeks or shallow breaths, she cocks an eyebrow. “You’re staring at me again, Dante.”

“And what a sight it is.”

Her lips twitch, curling into a ghost of a smile, but she contains it quickly, arranging her face back into an impassive expression. ‘Impassive’ is a euphemism here because Layla looks cold, cruel, and calculated. Resting bitch face in all its glory. So fucking beautiful.

“You’re not too bad either.”

Years have passed since the last time I flirted. Nowadays, I don’t make an effort. Women I fuck don’t require wooing. They crawl out of their skin trying to impress me, not the other way around. A stuffed wallet summons all sorts of bitches. Yes, bitches, not women.

Real women don’t care about money.

They all say they don’t, but one trait makes the gold-diggers easily noticeable in a crowd: dollar signs in their eyes. Layla doesn’t give a damn about my money. She doesn’t give a damn about me.

A challenge at last.

“Are you comfortable?” she glances at my knee touching her thigh.

I grip her stool again, pulling it closer until her shoulder brushes against my chest, and I regret the decision. It’s damn near impossible to keep my hands off her when she’s this close, when her sweet, flowery perfume fans my face, making me feel oddly peaceful. “Better now,” I say. “What do you dream of?”

“A little shooting star.” She ridicules, tilting her head back to swallow the contents of her shot glass. “I don’t know. I don’t have dreams. Just a few wishes.”

“Like…?”

“That’s another question. It’s my turn. Why star?” Her eyes shine, curiosity pouring off her.

“Quid pro quo. Tell me your biggest unfulfilled wish.”

“I’m not that curious.”

“Will you tell me if I promise I won’t act on it?”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Promise.”

I hold two fingers up, hoping that her wish isn’t something I can, or more importantly, might want to do. “Scout’s honor.”

She inhales deeply, bracing for whatever she’s about to tell me. “I wanted to… I want to be kissed.”

The cigarette smoke enters the wrong pipe, setting my lungs ablaze.

What the fuck?

I stare at her, searching for mockery or amusement, but she’s dead fucking serious. Someone designed her for me. She’s got all the qualities I find attractive: sassy, feisty, intelligent, stunning… and she’s a virgin.

How the hell am I supposed to stay away from her now? Even the fact she’s Frankie’s daughter no longer means shit. “Are you saying you’ve never been kissed?”

“Why are you surprised? I told you I’ve only dated boys who like boys.”

“You said you dated three guys who like guys, not that you dated three guys total.” I size her up, double-checking if maybe I imagined how perfect she is, but no, she’s flawless. “Jesus, Star. Have you seen yourself?”

She shrugs, indicating that it’s not a big deal. Yeah, sure. I mean, beautiful, nineteen-year-old virgins crowd every street corner in Chicago.

“You tell me. I’m not a man. I don’t know what’s so fundamentally repulsive about me.”

“Frankie.” Nothing else is an option. “Men won’t touch you because they’re afraid of your father.”

Her dress rolls up a few inches when she readjusts her position, exposing more skin. A beauty mark halfway up her thigh comes into view as if to taunt me as if to say, this marks the spot where you kiss. And, fuck if that’s not all I want to do right now.

I move in, resting my elbows on my knees, and place my hands on her legs, stroking the small dark spot with my thumb, my mind filled with indecent images. Images that shouldn’t pop into my head while I’m touching a virgin.

Gut-wrenching desire mixes with a cruel, compelling need to taste her lips. The intensity of my lust quadruples because no one has kissed her yet. No one has had her between the sheets. I feel like Neil Armstrong the day he boarded Apollo 11 with the moon in his sight.

I have Layla, my star, right here. At an arm’s length. I want to be the first man that’ll do everything with her that she should’ve done by now.

“You’re not afraid,” she utters, breathing on the shallow side as she eyes my hands caressing her smooth, silky thighs.

I push my fingertips into her flesh, my blood like red, hot soda water. “I’m not afraid of Frank, Layla.”

Acting as if my touch doesn’t affect her, she spins an empty shot glass on the counter, but her cheeks tell the truth, warming up. That pale rose shade sends an electric pulse deep inside me.

I retreat my hands.

Controlling myself is easier when I’m not touching her.

“I don’t think my daddy is the problem. He’s not protective. He has no time for nonsense.”

Once he finds out you spent the night with me, he’ll have all the time in the world to care and voice an opinion.

“It doesn’t matter.” I clench my fists, itching to touch her again. “Everyone knows who Frank is. That’s enough. No one will take the risk.”

Layla rests her forehead against the countertop with a heavy sigh. “I’ll die a virgin.”

Not if I get a say in this.

She turns toward me, eyes sparkling. “Your turn. Why star?”

“Because you’re like a movie star. Stylish, unattainable, annoying, and so fucking feisty.”

“I’m not that feisty. Well, not always. You just get on my nerves, Dante.”

I smirk, enjoying the quips. “And vice-versa. Cheers.”

“It’s almost four o’clock in the morning, but I’m still not drunk. Still thinking clearly.”

“You’re a tough one.”

“Or your pace is off.” She finishes her shot, grabbing her bag. “Thank you for a surprisingly pleasant evening.”

If I could, I’d press replay to relive it all over again. “Hold on. I’ll call my driver. He’ll take you home.”

“No need. I’m sure Adam is waiting outside.” She leans over, pressing a soft kiss on my cheek. “Goodnight. Let’s hope I won’t see you again.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” I clip, fighting the urge to sit her on my lap, cage her in my arms and deflower those plump lips.

She teeters on her stilettoes toward the staircase, hips swaying. “Don’t stare at my ass.” She chuckles, not bothering to turn around.

“Stop swaying your hips.”

Now, she does turn around, gracing me with a broad smile that makes me feel fluffy inside. “Goodnight, Dante.”

“Goodnight, Star.”

The happy clicking of her heels echoes throughout the empty space for the next two minutes until the door closes behind her. I reach over the bar, snatching a bottle of whiskey. With a cigarette pinched between my lips, and a drink in hand, I head downstairs to the DJ’s station.

The song Layla regards as her favorite seeps from the speakers a short while later. Atmospheric music fills the club while I rest my back against the wall, staring straight ahead, captivated. There’s no trace of the funky rhythm.

The hairs on my neck rise while I listen to the familiar words. The new arrangement somehow changes the meaning of the lyrics. Both the melody and words mirror how I feel when Layla’s around. A bit like a psycho.

A fascinated psycho.