Breaking the Rules

CHAPTER

SEVEN



LAS VEGAS

WEDNESDAY, 6 MAY 2009


Closure. Maybe seeing Eden again would give him closure.

Izzy clung to that thought as he maneuvered his piece-of-shit rental car into the steady stream of traffic heading away from the airport and toward the glittering city of pipe dreams and false promises.

There were three kinds of people who made the pilgrimage to Vegas: desperate souls searching for salvation and an easy fix to their financial woes, and desperate souls hell-bent on escaping their humdrum little lives and an easy fix to their financial woes.

Izzy had always taken the third approach, coming to the city with a limited amount of cash in his pocket, ready and willing and expecting to lose it all in exchange for some serious entertainment and a short respite from his responsibilities. He usually ended up bringing home more than he’d left with, even after staying in a nice hotel, eating some truly exceptional meals, and drinking copious amounts of beer. And he’d also usually always gotten laid in the process, sharing his happy-fun-time with some equally carefree young lady who’d been brainwashed into believing that hedonistic and incredibly inspired ad campaign—What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Except the last time Izzy was here, he’d gotten married.

And maybe the slogan was true, because the relationship didn’t last long outside of the city limits. And here he was, not even a year later, back again, because his wife—soon-to-be-ex-wife—had come home.

She hadn’t returned to her literal home, as in the structure where her mother and evil stepfather still resided, and Izzy was grateful for that. If he had discovered from Eden’s father that she’d moved back into the house where he’d once found her locked in the bathroom by her stepfather Greg, with no food, trapped there for hours …

Izzy would’ve been driving a whole lot faster right now. That was for sure.

As it was, he took his time, because he still hadn’t figured out what he wanted to say to Eden when he saw her again. And Jenkins was right. He shouldn’t wing it. He should go in at least with the talking points highlighted in his mind.



Why did you leave like that, without saying good-bye? Do you have even the slightest clue what it felt like to walk into that apartment and find you gone? Erased from my life, vanished without a trace. And okay, I’ll cut you miles of slack on this one, because Pinkie’d died and you couldn’t have been thinking clearly in the days and weeks that followed.

But why did you refuse to see me in Germany, month after month after motherfrakking month? Didn’t I deserve at least a little respect and the common courtesy of the words I need more time alone coming directly from your mouth, instead of your friend Anya’s? At some point, the grieving process has to allow for at least occasional moments of rational thought over knee-jerk urges. And okay, I’ve never lost a baby, but I lost a good friend and I still miss him. I always will. His death changed me, irrevocably. But time heals all wounds is the cliché that it is because it’s true. And the pain changes into something that’s not so unbearable—a little at first, and then more and more, and yet you still made Anya send me away, and I don’t know why.

Did you ever think, even once, that maybe Pinkie’s dying might’ve hurt me, too? That I might’ve needed some help and comfort in dealing with the loss? That maybe we could have helped each other, held on to one another, gotten through it together …? And maybe the answer to this one is no, you didn’t think about me at all, because you never gave a shit about me. I was just some schmuck you took advantage of—a loser who gave you and your unborn child food and shelter and health care. And as soon as you didn’t need those things, you couldn’t get away from me fast enough, could you?

But if you hate me so much, or if there’s something about me that repulses you so completely, then why the hell did you try so hard to get with me during those weeks we were together? Because that is some seriously twisted shit, sweetheart. I made it clear that I wanted to keep sex separate from our matrimonial deal. I told you over and over that my help was not contingent on anyone going down on anyone else. But you worked it, overtime, to make our relationship be all about how badly we both wanted my dick inside of you, until it finally happened. And I just can’t wrap my brain or my ego around the idea that you didn’t honestly want it as much as I did.

Maybe I just want you to look me in the eye and tell me to my face that it was all a f*cking lie. That there wasn’t a single real, honest moment between us …



Izzy’s cell phone had GPS, and he used it now to navigate his way to the apartment building where Eden was living. He drove around the block and then pulled to a stop slightly down the street so he could sit and look and not be noticed.

The building was pretty nice. It was a two-story complex with the apartment doors opening into a center courtyard with a lush garden. There were two entrances into the place—one from a parking lot that was off to one side, and the other from this street. There were probably sixty or seventy apartments or condos altogether.

Eden was in 214—up on that second floor.

Izzy scanned the second-floor windows that faced the street. All but one had blinds that were tightly closed. The one that was open had flowers—bright red—sitting on the sill. But really, 214 could have been around the other side, overlooking the parking lot.

It was stupid to sit here speculating whether that apartment was where Eden was living, when he could figure it out quickly enough by going into the courtyard and looking up at the layout of the second floor.

So he got out of the car, locking the doors behind him. And he approached the entrance to the courtyard on foot.

The early-morning sun was hot on the back of his neck—the day was looking to be a scorcher. Not a big surprise since the city was in the middle of the flipping desert.

There weren’t many other people out. A dark-haired girl sitting on a bus-stop bench, across the street. An old lady walking an equally ancient dog. A man in a suit in a hurry, talking on a cell phone.

This part of town wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t particularly great, either. Still, the building seemed much nicer than what he’d expected her to be able to afford and—Shit!

It was Eden. She was less than ten yards away from him, coming out of the complex’s entrance, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers on her feet, hair up in a ponytail, with a big, slouchy bag over her shoulder. She was moving fast, and she picked up her pace as she saw that a bus was coming, heading downtown along the busy street.

Izzy quickly turned away to hide his face, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t, because she was so totally focused on booking it to the bus stop on the corner.

He stood there, dumbstruck at the sight of her. She was solid and real and not just the figment of his overheated imagination, the focus of his dreams—both fantasy and nightmares. She looked healthy and trim—back to her pre-pregnancy weight—and dressed the way she was, she looked like a college student, rushing off to class.

It was only when the bus pulled away from the curb with a noisy squeal of air brakes that the spell was broken.

And Izzy ran for his car, determined to follow and find out where, exactly, Eden was in such a hurry to go this early in the morning.


Neesha watched from across the street as the very tall man with the shaggy hair, angular features, and very broad shoulders jumped into a tiny car and peeled out, following the bus.

Following Ben’s sister Eden.

He wasn’t one of the two men who’d been searching for her at the food court last night, but that didn’t mean he didn’t work for Mr. Nelson or Todd. The way he’d moved when Eden had come out of her apartment building had been pure subterfuge. He hadn’t wanted Eden to see him, to know he was there, and so she hadn’t.

Neesha sat on the bench, afraid to move, afraid that someone else was watching, even now.

She’d come here this morning to warn Ben—to tell him not to go back to the mall, to make sure he didn’t get hurt.

But now she didn’t dare climb the stairs to the second floor and knock on his door—or even use the key that he’d pulled out from beneath a potted plant in the courtyard downstairs. She didn’t dare to do anything—except dig out the last of the money Ben had given her and board the bus when it finally arrived, and ride it into the city, where she could lose herself in the crowds.

Wishing she were brave enough—and ashamed that she wasn’t.

And knowing with a growing sense of dread that she wouldn’t be safe until she got well out of town—and that she wouldn’t get out of town without a whole lot of cash.


Izzy pulled over to the curb in a loading zone, just down the street from D’Amato’s, where Eden had gone in the back door. It was, as the signage proclaimed, a GENTLEMAN’S CLUB where LIVE HOT GIRLS danced, i.e. stripped, 24/7!

It shouldn’t have surprised him. And on one level, it didn’t. There weren’t many jobs anywhere for someone with Eden’s lack of education to earn more than minimum wage. And there was no way she could have afforded an apartment in that relatively uncrappy part of town on even eighty hours a week of minimum wage.

At least not without her f*cking some guy so he’d help pay the bills.

And okay, that was harsh, but true. Although the fact that she was working here probably meant that she hadn’t hooked up with anyone new—and yeah. That was just wishful thinking on his part.

Eden Gillman was not the kind of woman who went for very long without a man in her life, and Izzy well knew it. Maybe being reminded of that would help him find closure—his seeing the low-life scum that she let into her bed instead of him. Or maybe he didn’t need to see the guy. Maybe he just needed to know his name.

Izzy took a deep breath and then he took another, even as his mind continued to race.

Maybe she was a waitress here, because the signs also boasted GOOD FOOD, but no. A woman as beautiful as Eden didn’t work carrying trays in a place like this.

He knew he should drive away—just put the pedal to the metal of this rental car—all the way back to San Diego, where he could start the ball rolling on getting that divorce.

But he pulled the car into the club’s valet-only VIP parking lot instead, and tossed the attendant his keys, because he was hungry and he wanted breakfast and the freaking place allegedly had good food, so why the hell not?

Probably because he was feeling distinctly out-of-body as he walked around to the street-side entrance of the strip club. He’d found, from past experiences, that that was never a good sign. Still, his feet took him toward D’Amato’s heavy wooden door.

The location was a seedy one. Yes, the sidewalks were clean, having recently been hosed down—a luxury not every establishment paid for, here in the land of scarce water. And the club was near some of the bigger conference hotels and no doubt had some relatively upscale patrons. And sure enough, there was a sign by the door advertising a convention breakfast special—two eggs over easy, arranged like a pair of breasts atop a mound—their word—of corned-beef hash Mexicali. Served with Erma’s Cloud Nine potatoes and choice of toast and juice and a bottomless cup of coffee. All for $7.99; $12.99 if you wanted a bottomless mimosa or Bloody Mary.

What a f*cking awesome deal.

Plus, any charges that showed up on your credit card would no doubt read D’Amato’s, instead of, oh, say, the p-ssycat Lounge. Just in case either the boss or the wife objected to breakfast meetings held in strip clubs.

But the area was peppered with “massage parlors.” And Izzy had absolutely no doubt that—should he request the service—for a slightly larger tip, the valet would set him up with a hooker to hoover him, right there in his car, in the parking lot.

Izzy opened the door and went inside, nodding to the gargantuan bouncer who stood near the entrance. Guy was former Marine Recon—he’d had his unit’s patch tattooed onto his tree trunk of an arm. Either that, or his boyfriend was the marine and was currently active duty, over in A-stan. Probably not, but the modern world was full of surprises and not all of them were unpleasant ones.

Just some of them.

Izzy paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden severe drop in light and to get his bearings.

The place was set up like almost every other strip joint around the world. There was table seating in front of a small center stage, which in this place was the lowest point in the club. There were also runways, like spokes on a wheel, leading out into the main floor, with up-close-if-not-quite-personal seating around them for those who were there not to partake of the “good food” but only to drink and ogle girls who pole-danced for their supper.

Four different tiers, each higher than the last, created a stadium-seating effect. And it was clear that proximity to the stage was a pricier experience than sitting up in the cheap seats, even though the higher level gave patrons a clear shot of the poles and various other dancing surfaces. But down front, the tables were large and bore white cloths. As the altitude rose, the tables grew significantly smaller and were topped with plastic. Here in the back, they were positioned much closer together, too.

A bar was along the rear wall, up on this highest level. And because this was Nevada, there was also the obligatory row of slot machines, and even a blackjack table off to one side.

And oh, look. There was a handicapped ramp so that physically challenged patrons could get their wheelchairs from the upper levels down to the main floor. How very PC.

Of course, making sure there were clear and easy-to-access aisles to that main floor was of paramount importance to the dancers. They earned tips from the myriad of patrons who wanted to see their naked bodies from a closer vantage point, and experience the thrill of slipping a dollar bill against that unattainable smooth skin. There were three generous aisles in the place, the rug-covered surfaces worn bare by the constant traffic.

It was cool and windowless and smelled half like a frat-house basement and half like a damn good diner—the “good food” advertisement seemed to be true. Which meant that the “Live Hot Girls” sign was probably correct as well, even though there were currently no girls, hot or other, anywhere to be found.

In fact the girl who was coming toward him now, wearing a waitress apron over a stained white blouse and carrying a tray filled with plates of eggs and pancakes and a pot of coffee, hadn’t been a girl for forty years. She was definitely hot, though. Izzy could see beads of sweat standing out on her forehead.

“Sit wherever you want,” she honked at him in her three-pack-a-day voice. “Don’t worry, the dancers will be out soon. They’re having a staff meeting.”

A staff meeting? Seriously?

He sat all the way in the back, in the shadows, as his stomach churned with anticipation and dread. His hunger was long gone—if it had ever actually existed. Up at this altitude the breakfast menu was printed onto the place mat that was on the table, which was pretty smart since Izzy wasn’t keen on touching a menu that any of the club’s other cheap-seats patrons had handled. And that was saying something because his gross-out factor was usually quite high.

The waitress approached. “What’ll it be, hon?”

“The special, please,” he said, because he knew he had to eat something. “Orange juice, whole-wheat toast—dry. Coffee, black and ASAP. And just out of curiosity, do the dancers often have staff meetings?”

“Only when there’s a new girl, causing trouble,” she told him darkly, taking a mug from another table, setting it in front of him and filling it with coffee from that pot on her tray.

“Trouble?” he repeated, making it a question.

“Really just learning the ropes,” she said. “Some of the older girls get jealous, particularly when the new girl is as pretty as Jenny is.”

“The new girl’s name is Jenny?” Izzy asked.

“Jennilyn LeMay is her stage name,” she said, and he almost fell out of his chair. The woman snorted. “God only knows her real name.”

God and Izzy. Because there was no way on earth that a stripper with Dan’s girlfriend’s name coincidentally worked at the same club with Dan’s sister. It was a move that was pure Eden, because in truth? Although Izzy would never say this to Dan—even he wasn’t that stupid—Jennilyn LeMay was one kick-ass stripper name. And Eden clearly never imagined that anyone—especially her brother—would ever find out where she earned her weekly paycheck. So why not use his gf’s awesome name as an alias?

It would have been funny except Izzy seemed to have left his sense of humor in the rental car.

“Thank you,” he made the effort to tell the waitress, but she was already beelining it toward the kitchen, to put his order in.

Leaving him to sit there, clutching his coffee mug, waiting with his heart in his throat for his wife to come out on that stage and take off her clothes.

He didn’t want to think about what this was that he was feeling, this turmoil of adrenaline-laced emotion.

And then he didn’t have to think because the music started—the heavy funk beat of “Brickhouse”—nice choice. And there they came—out onto the stage and runways.

He found Eden immediately. She was over to the left, but in the front, next to a blond Amazon, and she deserved to be there—of course, he’d always thought she was the most beautiful woman on the planet.

She was wearing outrageously high f*ck-me heels that sparkled in the stage lights, and a tight skirt that could’ve been part of a bathing suit, it was so small. It hugged her hips, leaving her stomach and midriff bare, exposing a sculptured mix of muscles and soft female curves and a tattoo that peeked out from the skirt’s top, that no doubt covered the scar from the C-section that had saved her life all those months ago. The bottom edge of the skirt barely covered the panties she wore beneath it, and as she turned around, moving in vaguely unison steps with the other dancers as she circled one of the poles, he saw that the skirt intentionally didn’t cover her world-class derriere. And yeah, as if to illustrate, she bent over with her long, shapely legs spread wide in another choreographed bump-and-grind move, and it was more than clear that the piece of clothing—if you could call it that—she wore beneath that skirt was a thong.

Her full breasts were covered by a halter top that fastened in the back and around her neck, tied in big loops that would be easy to undo, when the time came.

Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders and it gleamed and bounced as she moved her head, as Izzy shifted in his seat to see past the waitress who’d returned with his breakfast.

It was then that the entire group of dancers simultaneously lost the bulk of their clothing.

It was an amazing effect—the lights changed and the music got louder—and Eden instantly shed both the skirt and that top. It happened so fast, if he’d blinked or been distracted by the appearance of his corned-beef hash and eggs, he would’ve missed it.

She would’ve just appeared to be suddenly, dazzlingly nearly naked as she wrapped one long leg around that pole and moved to the music as the early-morning crowd woke up and roared their approval.

But because Izzy was watching her closely, he saw how it had happened. The skirt unfastened at her hips, the top opened between her breasts and slipped down her arms. She tossed both costume pieces to one of the waitresses on the floor as the entire group of women broke choreography and went into doing their own thing.

Eden’s thing was all about the men who clustered around her runway. She gave them eye contact and plenty of smiles as she ran her hands across her own perfect body—touching where she damn well knew that every man in that room wanted to touch. Her neck, her shoulders, her arms. Her breasts, her stomach, and lower, and then down the smooth insides of her thighs … She watched them, smiling the entire time. But her smile didn’t look at all calculating or manipulative. It was somehow inclusive—part very bad girl, absolutely, but also part sweet young thing—eager to please.

And the crowd ate it up.

Izzy exhaled hard as he watched her work, his food growing cold in front of him. She’d always been good at turning the sex up to an eleven whenever anyone male was around. He’d thought it was dangerous, the way she did that, her total you know you want me attitude—but she was now clearly making good money from it.

It was also clear that there were regulars who’d come specifically to see her. She spoke to them as she danced, bending close to let them slip dollar bills between the strap of her thong and what Izzy knew firsthand to be the smooth softness of her skin. They held the bills out before they reached for her, and he knew they were showing her their denomination. It was clear she didn’t accept anything lower than a five or maybe even a ten. Or shit. A twenty. Why not, right?

He stood up, his breakfast untouched, and pulled a ten from his wallet and dropped it on the table to pay for his meal.

Izzy didn’t have all that much cash left—maybe a hundred twenty dollars, tops—but he took the rest of it out and headed toward the lower floor of the club.

It was stupid. He knew he should just walk away, walk out the door. But he’d come this far. And he finally knew what he wanted to say—what it was that he wanted to ask her.

So he worked his way through the crowd to the edge of the runway where she was defying gravity around that pole. Up close, her skin was even more beautiful, her breasts full and tightly peaked from the relentless air-conditioning. Or maybe the way she was dancing was turning her on.

It sure as shit was working for him. Or it would be working, if he weren’t close to overwhelmed by a wave of sadness that swept through him.

Was this closure?

God, he hoped so.

Up close, Izzy saw a whole lot more of that tattoo she’d chosen—a swirl of hearts and roses in an intricate design—to cover the scar left when Pinkie’s already deceased little body had been plucked from her, in an effort to keep her from dying, too.

And as he looked up from that scar, past the enticing swell of her breasts and into that face that he hadn’t seen in months—except in his dreams …

Eden glanced down and saw him, too.

Her eyes widened, and she froze. She just stopped dancing as a myriad of emotions flickered across her face. Shock. Disbelief. Horror. She drew her arms up as if to cover her naked breasts, which was actually kind of funny.

Or would have been, in a different dimension.

“Are you okay?” Izzy asked as he held out the remaining cash he had on him. Somehow the idea of slipping it into her waistband just didn’t seem right.

She shook her head, no, and it took him a second to realize that she was doing that in response to the money he was trying to give her, not to his question. “I don’t want that,” she said, then answered him. “I am. I’m okay.”

And there he stood, looking into her eyes as she looked back at him, until she broke first and looked away.

They’d drawn the full attention of every man around her, and some across the room as well. That giant bouncer was pushing his way toward them, no doubt to see if Izzy was causing trouble.

“I really have to …” Eden said.

He set the money down on the runway, near her foot in that fancy shoe. And then, with one last look up at her, into those eyes that haunted his dreams, he said, “I’m glad you’re okay, Eed.” He forced a smile. “You’re pretty freaking great at what you’re doing, just … Stay safe.”

She nodded, and now there was a different kind of surprised look on her face. It was part confusion, part suspicion, part struggle to comprehend.

“You never did trust me, did you?” Izzy said, then turned and walked away—praying that his still-swelling feeling of sadness and its accompanying urge to weep uncontrollably marked the official end of his healing, and that when he stepped out of the door and into the brilliant sunlight and heat of the Las Vegas morning, he’d finally be free.


Ben headed over to the mall a little before noon, figuring that Neesha would be there.

It was a weekday, and it felt weird not to be in school, but he couldn’t risk going—in case Greg showed up, looking for him. Of course, it wasn’t as if Ben particularly needed a reason to stay away from school.

He’d brought a sandwich with him to the mall—Eden was a taskmaster when it came to not spending unnecessary money. She was the queen of bag lunches, even though she hadn’t taken one herself this morning.

Apparently the club she was going to clean today would have plenty of still-edible leftover food—and there was something definitely not right with the story she’d given him about her second job. She was withholding something. Of course, she’d spoken to Danny last night, and any conversation she had with the brother she referred to as “Captain Perfect” was bound to be fraught with peril and upset.

It was frustrating—the way Dan and Eden couldn’t seem to get along anymore. But the Gillman family members weren’t known for their ability to talk through disagreements and find common ground despite differences of opinion. And as much as Dan hated their stepfather for his self-righteous insistence that he alone knew God’s plan, Dan seemed to hold the very same intolerance for the mistakes Eden had made during her rocky path through adolescence. And most of the time these days, Eden treated Danny with the same disrespect she delivered to Greg—even though Ben knew that she desperately longed for her older brother’s approval and love.

The look on her face, when she’d found out Dan had been injured and possibly dead … Ben also knew that receiving that news had been devastating for her—and not just because it put a crimp in her plan to rescue Ben.

She’d woken him up to tell him that Danny was all right, that his injury hadn’t been too severe. And he knew that she’d cried as she’d hugged him, even though she tried to hide it—the way she always did.

At breakfast, she’d told Ben that Dan would be flying in to Las Vegas sometime in the next few days.

Ben had to keep his whereabouts on the down-low until then.

Shouldn’t be too hard to do.

Except he was suddenly aware, as he entered a mall filled with screaming babies in strollers, that he was the only teenager in the place. And it occurred to him that—as much food as there was to “throw away” at this toddler-filled time of day—Neesha might make a point never to come to the mall until after regular school hours.

Last thing she needed was to be picked up for being truant.

It was the last thing he needed, too. Ben turned to leave and nearly walked full force into one of the mall guards.

It was the same guy who’d seen him being hassled by Tim and his crew yesterday.

“I’m home-schooled,” Ben said, but the guard smirked.

“Like I haven’t heard that before,” the man said. “Let’s see what your parents say.”

Ben turned again, intending to bolt, but there were suddenly two very large men behind him, blocking his escape.

“This is the kid,” the mall guard told them.

One of the men—his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses—flashed a police badge, and Ben’s heart sank. Greg had called the cops, and he was so screwed.

But then the other cop—who looked more like a skinhead assassin from a Quentin Tarantino movie—pulled a cardboard folder out of his leather jacket’s inside pocket and opened it up to reveal …

Shit, it was a photo of Neesha, crouched next to a dark-colored car. It was slightly blurred and looked like it came from a surveillance camera in some parking lot. But it was definitely her.

“Do you know this girl?” the bald cop asked.

“Not really,” Ben said, which wasn’t a lie. His heart was pounding, but the truth was, even if they brought him down to the station and waterboarded him, he couldn’t tell them anything that would hurt Neesha, because he honestly had no idea where she was. “I’ve seen her around. Talked to her a few times. She hangs out here—a lotta kids do.” He added a little surfer-dude het to his voice, laughing a little. “She’s, um, kind of cute, you know?”

And oh, crap, he shouldn’t have said that, because the body language on the two cops changed. They went from casually inquisitive to fully focused, with Ben as the center of their laser-beam intensity.

“You pay her to have sex with you?” the bald cop asked.

“What?” Ben said, his voice cracking. “Me? No! God. She’s just a kid and I’m not … No.”

“You’re not in trouble here, son, okay?” the sunglasses-wearing cop asked, speaking up for the first time. “If she made you an offer you couldn’t refuse …” He shrugged as if to say, What are you gonna do …?

Ben kept on shaking his head. “She didn’t.”

“I saw her leaving the mall with you,” the mall guard said, his tone accusatory. “Yesterday.”

Oh God.

“Where’d you go with her?” the skinhead asked.

“We just need to know where she took you,” the other cop said. “No one needs to know anything about what you did when you got there. That’s not what this is about.”

“She didn’t take me anywhere,” Ben lied. “She helped me get home. I’m diabetic. I was having a low-blood-sugar incident and she helped me get the bus and that was it.”

“Where’s home?” the bald cop asked.

“Not far,” Ben evaded. “Usually, I walk, but I was feeling dizzy. She lent me the money for the fare. But like I said, that was it. I got on the bus, we said good-bye, and I went home.”

There was silence as the two cops exchanged a look. The cop in sunglasses sighed. “Okay, son, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell us your name and your address and we’re going to take you home. Because we’re pretty sure you’re not quite being honest with us and we need to see if your mom or dad recognizes our missing girl, because we think you brought her there with you yesterday.”

“I don’t have a dad,” Ben said, stalling because he knew his only option here was to run. To at least try to get away.

“Or,” the bald cop said, clamping a ham-sized hand around Ben’s upper arm to hold him in place, since he was clearly capable of reading minds, “you continue to act like a stupid little shit and refuse to give us that simple information, at which point we cuff you and toss you in the back of our car and take you down to the station for questioning. Whereupon you’ll be required to show us identification, at which point we’ll have your name and address, except it’ll take us about four hours to cut through the paperwork and get you home, so you’ll spend all that time in a holding cell with all the junkie methhead homo perverts, crying for your mommy as they f*ck you in the ass. So why don’t you just cut the crap?”

“I don’t have identification,” Ben said defiantly. “I lost my wallet, so good luck with that. Also, I’m not a lawyer, nor do I play one on TV, but I definitely want to see your badges again so I can write down the numbers so I have ’em when I do find a lawyer, because that sounded like police intimidation to me, as well as rampant homophobia. As a gay American, I resent that.”

“I’m out of here, guys,” the mall guard said, scuttling away.

The sunglasses-wearing cop—the good cop—sighed again. “Let’s all take a deep breath,” he said.

Ben did just that, filling his lungs with air. “Bad touch!” he shouted, pitching his voice as high as he could. “Mommy, the bad man is touching me!”

And every mother’s head in that mall whipped around.

The bald cop tried to muscle him out of there, but Ben remembered the self-defense class Eden had brought him to, years ago, at a mall much like this one, down in New Orleans. He went limp as he shouted, “This man is not my father! Help me! This man is not my father!”

The cop let go of him, and Ben rolled away, scrambling to his feet. He booked it out of there, skidding on the tile floor as he went around the corner toward the nearest entrance.

The bald cop was chasing him, his feet pounding on the tile as he shouted, “Stop, thief! Someone stop that boy!”

But the shoppers with strollers moved out of his way, and Ben hit the door with both hands, pushing it open. The brilliance and heat of the morning exploded around him as he charged out into a courtyard area with benches for smokers and kids waiting to get picked up by their parents.

There was a pull-off for cars, and Ben headed across it, toward the parking lot, which was crowded here by the mall entrance. He launched himself toward the parked cars, hoping he could lose himself among them.

But there was a police car approaching from his left, along the road that ran parallel to the footprint of the mall. It was moving fast, heading toward him. Ben looked behind him, where—shit—the bald cop was closing in, while the other cop hovered like a goalie, guarding the entrance back into the mall.

He was screwed.

Still, he ran, right through the shrubs and palm trees.

But the police cruiser anticipated his route, and pulled around him, screeching to a halt to block him. “Stop!”

And still, he didn’t give up. He went up and over the top of the hood while the uniformed officer scrambled to get out, shouting again, “Stop!”

The police car blocked the bald cop’s path, too, but it didn’t slow him down much, either.

“Use your Taser!” he was shouting, and Ben glanced back to see them both coming across the hood of the car.

“Freeze!” the uniformed officer shouted.

But Ben didn’t stop. He just plunged on across the road and onto a slightly raised area of desert plantings and desiccated mulch, praying that he’d make it to the shelter of the parked cars, before—

Something hit him, square in the back, and the pain it delivered was worse than anything he’d ever felt before, and he screamed. But even worse than the pain was the sensation of losing control of the muscles in his legs as he went down onto the dirt.

If he’d been on the pavement, he would’ve cracked his head open. As it was, he kind of bounced and then settled. Immobile. Numb, but still oddly humming.

He’d been tased.

“Thanks, Paul,” he heard the bald man say to the uniformed officer as they both caught their breath.

“Shoplifter?” the cop named Paul asked.

“Nah,” the bald man answered, his voice getting louder as he moved closer to Ben and quickly searched him, his hands going into Ben’s pockets. “I’m working a missing-person case. A little girl ran away—the parents are really upset. She was spotted here and this kid knows her and … There’s mental illness involved. Paranoid delusions. And that’s on top of whatever PTSD the kid carries. She was adopted from some war zone and … It’s a real mess. Shit, he’s got no ID.”

Paul reached down, too, and none too gently cuffed Ben’s wrists together before detaching the juice-emitting ends of the Taser from the back of his T-shirt.

Ben still hadn’t reclaimed his ability to speak, but he looked up at the cop as indignantly as he could, because, Jesus. Handcuffs?

The police officer called Paul read his expression correctly. “When a police officer says stop, you stop. If you don’t, you’re breaking the law. I’m taking you in.”

Ben managed a sound that conveyed his dismay. It wasn’t quite a no or a please, but it was close.

To his surprise, the bald cop was on his side. “Come on, Paul, the cuffs aren’t necessary. There’s no need to—”

“I gotta bring him in,” Paul said. “You know the rules, Jake. I discharged a weapon. There’s procedure and protocol. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

That last question was aimed at Ben, as the uniformed officer hauled him to feet that didn’t work right, and dragged him over to the police car.

“He says he’s home-schooled,” the bald cop reported, following.

“We’ll see,” Paul said as he opened up the back door and pushed Ben inside, where he fell over onto the seat, his cheek against the plastic.

He heard the door slam behind him, and the sound of voices as the two men continued to talk. He couldn’t make out the words over the roar of the a/c and the squawk of a police radio that cut in and out.

But then the front door opened and he heard and felt it slam as Paul got into the car. He felt the transmission being put into gear and then they were rolling.

They were heading downtown, to the station, where eventually they’d figure out who Ben was and where he lived. They’d also find out that he wasn’t home-schooled. He was cutting. As for Neesha, who’d run away from home because she was mentally ill? It didn’t matter how long they held him. He couldn’t answer their questions, because he didn’t know where she was. And when they finally figured that out? They’d bring him back home and deliver him to Greg—who would beat the shit out of him.

Or at least try.

Only, this time, the creep would be ready for Ben to fight back.

This time, Ben was going to get flattened. And there was nothing in the world he could do to keep it from happening.

Unless …

He tried his vocal cords again, and this time they worked. “Do I get to make a phone call?” he asked through a throat that felt raw after the way he’d screamed like a girl from the Taser-induced pain.

“Depends,” Paul answered him, “if you’re under arrest. And that depends if you’ve got any priors.”

“I don’t.”

“We’ll see.”

“What happens if I’m not under arrest?” Ben asked.

“You call Mommy and Daddy to come pick you up, they bring you home and ground you for two years.”

“I live with my sister,” Ben said, which wasn’t quite a lie.

“Then you get to interrupt her busy day, and she comes to the station to pick you up and bring you home and ground you for two years.”

Okay. Good. That was good.

Or at least as good as it could get with his arms twisted behind his back and his face pressed against a vinyl seat that smelled like sweat and piss.