Rule Breaker (Mixed Messages, #1)

by Lily Morton

“Yes,” Gabe continues in a slow drawl. “I think the first person that I’ll put on your team is Tracy from Reprographics.” Hugh immediately spits his water all over the table and Gabe’s suit. My boss hardly reacts. He just brushes the moisture off, while staring intently at Hugh. It’s the look of a lion toying with its prey. “Yes,” he continues. “I think you really need her and it’s past time that we made her position more formalized. My only query is which position?” He shoots a quick glance at my pen scribbling over the paper taking notes, before continuing. “Should we say missionary, or reverse cow girl?”

“Wait. There’s a severance card? How is it that I’ve worked for you for two years and never even got a Christmas card, yet you’re handing cards out willy nilly to anyone that you sack?”

He lifts his hand to run it through the dark waves of his hair and inadvertently gifts me with a blast of his spicy orange cologne. I subtly inhale, while pretending to myself that I’m just sniffing.

“I compliment you,” he says crossly, shrugging into his shirt and covering that chest to my secret dismay. “’Why the hell does it take four hours to get my coffee? Are you actually grinding the beans with your feet?’ and ‘Did Dopey the third dwarf type up this contract?’ are not compliments,” I say patiently, standing with his jacket held out so that he can slip into it.

I can’t let his criticism go. Gabe might be a complete bastard, but I sort of think of him as my bastard, and I don’t like other people criticising him.

Verma had been stunned into silence, but it had been broken by a strange noise which turned out to be Gabe choking on his water, before letting out a great guffaw of laughter. I’d stared at him, mesmerised by the beauty of his face when it relaxed into laughter. I’d been so taken aback at the notion of working with such a good-looking man, that I’d failed to realise that it would be the last time that I’d see him laugh. Verma had worked there for fifteen years, and I’d be prepared to bet that it was the first time that his face had ever cracked a smile in front of her.

I’d managed to push my attraction to him away into a little box, but occasionally it still surfaces, and I have to acknowledge how very gorgeous he is. He’s tall - six foot three to my six foot, with dark, wavy hair, gorgeous silver-grey eyes, and a perfect level of stubble which makes his high cheekbones look even sharper. However, when that heat hits me deep in the belly, I take great care to remind myself of his boyfriend for the last year.

An hour later we pull up outside the club. Emerging from the taxi, I pull petulantly at my black, muscle-fit, long-sleeved t-shirt. “Fucking hell, Jude. You can see how cold my nipples are in this, and these black jeans are so tight that if I take them off there’ll be an imprint of my dick on them.” He laughs and slaps my arse. “Well hello, Sister Dylan. How nice to meet your puritanical self.”

I follow him, still pulling at my shirt. “Is it puritanical to not want to tell the general public that I’ve been circumcised?” A blonde in the queue for the club turns around and looks me up and down. “Oh baby, that’s not puritanical, that’s damn right charitable showing those eight inches off.”

I love to dance, and I’d always found nightclubs exciting, ever since the first one that I’d snuck into aged fifteen with Jude. I think then it was the sense of anticipation of a hook up, and the not knowing what might happen. Now, I secretly know that the anticipation comes from the chance that I might meet someone special. I sigh. Jude was right. I am an old man.

“Are you a member?” I shake my head, half wishing we could just go and fuck in the toilets like normal people, rather than make all this polite conversation.

It’s as I straighten that I see Gabe, and I’m struck dumb as if I’ve conjured him up just by thinking of him, rather like the villain in a bad film. He’s standing to my right, leaning against the balustrade with his arms folded just like I’d been. However, while I’d been jostled about, it’s like an invisible force field surrounds him. I send my eyes down his body, dimly aware that

However, what bothers me most is that it’s almost like a curtain has dropped from my eyes. For the first time since I’d met him, I’m now seeing him as a sexual man again, rather than just my boss. I’d pushed that initial awareness away for two years, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to function in my job if I kept it. But now it’s back front and centre, and I stand helplessly, my cock hurting in the tight confines of my jeans, as I watch the threesome.

“You can’t possibly be thinking of working today!” I sound embarrassingly like Hattie Jacques from ‘Carry on Nursing’. There’s a silence and I prepare myself for an earbashing, but instead, I hear what sounds like a snotty sigh. “Please,” he finally says, and my heart melts slightly because he sounds grumpy and vulnerable. It’s a combination I never would have thought would work for me, but obviously it does.

He pauses at the door and gapes at me, his grumpy exterior not hiding the smirk that he always gets when I snark him. “You know, illness brings out a real Nurse Ratchet side of you.” I raise my eyebrow. “You have no idea.”

“Yes I did. It’s horrid to get into a sweaty bed. Gabe, you look really bad. Get into bed now and do as I say.” I put out my hands to help him if he needs me, but then freeze at his next faint words. “I’ve imagined you saying that a few times, Dylan, but never when I feel this crap.” I shoot a glance at him, trying to analyse what he means, but it’s useless as I’m not sure that he even knows what he’s saying at this point.

To: Gabe Foster From: Dylan Mitchell Mr Thorpe wanted to know today why I don’t call you Sir, and you nodded in agreement. It feels a bit Fifty Shadish to me, but I’m willing to give it a go. Just don’t make me put the words ball gag with it.

I stand up and browse the bookshelves. He has eclectic tastes, so thrillers and historical tomes share space with battered poetry books which indicate a softer side. I try to imagine him declaiming poetry to Fletcher with them both wearing smoking jackets, but it’s actually easier to imagine him fucking him over the sofa.

He stares at me, but it’s completely obvious he’s still half-asleep, and his expression remains vague. Smiling, I pull the duvet back up, covering the bare shoulder he’s exposed by moving. “Go back to sleep,” I say softly, but as I turn to leave the room his eyes open fully, and a smile fills his face that I have never seen before on his grumpy visage. It’s warm and clear, and so full of happiness that it ruins me. I would pay money just once to have someone look at me like that. Then I stop dead as he says one word ‘Dylan’, before falling asleep again.

For a long time I stand immobile, staring at the sleeping man, but then I shrug and make myself move away. Delirious men are just that, delirious. I’d be mad to read anything into it. For good measure I make myself remember the other day, when he’d called me an incompetent imbecile because I’d spilt coffee on him. I smile and move downstairs. Job done. Order restored.

He nods, and then looks at me where I’m still making shooing motions. “Dylan, I am neither a dog, nor a farmyard animal, so it is beyond my comprehension why you are making those gestures at me.” “You’re certainly not trained at all,” I say briskly, and walk behind him as he moves towards the stairs.

He reaches out and grabs my hand. “You’re more closely involved with him than I’d thought. Seriously, Dylan, be careful, because you’re a giving bloke. If anyone needs anything, you’re first in the queue to provide it. Don’t choose someone who will never appreciate that gift. Don’t give to someone who will take it and never give back.” He looks towards the stairs. “I’ve got a horrible feeling he’s one of those people. There’s something very closed off about him.”

I reach out without thinking and push on his hard chest, and for a second, time seems to stand still. I have touched him of course, but over the years they had been casual touches to maybe get his attention, or to hold his jacket. This, however, is in a low-lit room at a late hour, and my fingers have never felt before the hard ridges of his muscles, and the springy wiriness of his chest hair. We both stare at each other before I quickly clear my throat and jump to my feet.

“My question is do you want me to go?” Indignation bleeds from his shoulders, until he slumps, staring at me like I’m an unidentified species that he’s found in his kitchen. I put the whisk down with a clatter, and he puts his hand out quickly. “No, I don’t want you to go. Please stay, Dylan.” I stare at him for a second, seeing the tightness that looks almost like worry around his eyes. “Okay,” I say calmly. “I’ll stay.” He seems to relax immediately, making me wonder what is going through his mind.

It occurs to me how weird it is that this isn’t weird. We are sitting at a table in a cosy room, talking about personal things, when I’m not convinced he even knows when my birthday is. Every time I’ve tried over the years to get to know him, he’s dismissed my questions as flim-flam devised to delay work. I give in when he gives me the big eyes. He’d hate to know they’re like Bambi’s eyes, and particularly cute today as they’re surrounded by all that wild, tousled, Stig of the Dump hair.

He huffs out a laugh, and I’m relieved that his earlier awkwardness and sadness seem to have gone. He looks much more like himself, and I sigh inwardly, because God help me, but I like the vulnerability that he’s shown me far too much. Jude was right to be worried because I’m in far more trouble than I’d thought. That prickly exterior of his has always challenged me to be better, but the real him attracts me beyond comprehension. Shit, I think morosely. I’m fucked.

To: Dylan Mitchell From: Gabe Foster When you have finished your totally, fascinating account of who did what in a public toilet, do you think that you could possibly descend back into the mundane world of work with me?

However, I don’t think the whole blame rests on me, because underneath the sarcasm and caustic tongue, Gabe is different too. The sarcasm is a little less biting, his tongue a little softer, and although the first couple of times I caught him staring at me from his desk I’d dismissed it as coincidence, the third and fourth time it happened, I couldn’t.

“Why are you back now? I thought the meeting wouldn’t finish for another hour?” “We just blitzed through everything. It was amazing, like one of those days when you’re driving to work and it’s green lights all the way.” “I wouldn’t know,” I say morosely. “There are no green lights on the tube, only red lights and interminable delays.” “While I’m always glad to hear about the little people’s problems, maybe not now,” he drawls, a smile tugging at his lips as I huff indignantly.

I can’t help but smile at him, because Gabe’s laugh, on the rare occasions that it happens, is seriously contagious. Deep and booming, it seems to come from deep inside him, and when he looks at you with his eyes creased in amusement, it can make you feel like you’ve won an Olympic medal.

“Erm I’m really not sure -” I start to say, but he shakes his head fiercely at me and I subside, albeit with a glare on my face that I make sure he can see. As normal any sign of rage from me is treated by Gabe as if I’m putting on his own personal show to entertain him, and I see him suppress a smile. He is the most contrary man that I’ve ever met.

He looks up too swiftly to totally guard his expression, which for a minute I could swear shows blinding relief, but he clears it quickly. “That’s good,” he mutters, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking back on his heels almost nervously. I stare at him, wondering who this stranger is in front of me these days. He bears little resemblance to the man I’ve worked for, for such a long time. Catching my gaze, I see a faint flush on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

I wondered, and now I know.” “Know what?” He shoots me a smile. “Oh, lots of things, and I have to say I’m very relieved and happy at the way that things are progressing.” I’m completely puzzled. “What things?” He shakes his head. “Just something I’ve been nagging Gabe about for a couple of years. Nothing for you to be concerned about. It’s a work in progress.”

“Don’t forget what happened to Cinderella.” I shake my head at him, waving as the car moves off. Yes, Cinderella won a real prize - a man who couldn’t see her true worth until she fitted in the shoe properly.

I sigh and stretch, giving a low groan as muscles that have grown stiff with sitting too long, stretch and release. Lowering my arms, I turn and stop dead, to find Gabe staring at me intently through his tortoise shell glasses. His hand holding his pen hangs slack. “What?” I ask. “Have you found an error?” He shakes his head absently, his eyes an almost dark, gunmetal grey. “No, no, it’s all perfect so far.”

“What were you going to do all day anyway?” He shrugs. “I thought I might try and get some private lessons.” “Well, it’s your lucky day,” I say brightly. “I’m free.” “Yes, a free, uncertified ski instructor who lacks any coordination on a normal day, as opposed to a buff teacher called Stefan.” “Johannes,” I say automatically. “Stefan teaches the ladies.” He smiles. “Of course. Okay, go and get ready, Johannes.”

I’m wearing black pants with a red and black checked snowboarding jacket. Seeing somebody staring at me I strike a jaunty pose, until I look around to find Gabe’s Oakley sunglasses trained on me. “What are you doing?” I tip my sunglasses down to look at him. “Pretending that I’m a film star who’s incognito.” “Why?” I shrug. “It’s something Jude and I do when we’re away.” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder how you manage to walk and talk at the same time.”

“Okay, thread your hand through the strap from below, and then spread out your hand and grab your pole.” I snicker, and he glares at me. “What? It’s funny. I’m instructing you to spread your hand and grab your pole. In England, this would be a sexual harassment case waiting to happen.” He shakes his head, but a grin is playing on his lips. “Okay Master, I’m grabbing my pole.” “Please say that again, but make your voice go all husky, like on a Friday afternoon when you’ve been yelling all day.” “Dylan,” he warns, and I hold my hands up.

Once I’m satisfied that he’s moving easily, we tramp across the snow to a small slope. “God, I love that sound,” I sigh, listening to the krump krump as we stride along. “And don’t you just love the fresh cold? It feels cleaner here, and so bloody open. We’re so hemmed in, in London.” He looks at me sideways, shaking his head as if mystified by something. “What?” “You’re just so happy with simple things, Dylan.”

“I hope you’re not taking the piss,” I say smartly, and he stops walking to grab my arm. “No, I’m not,” he says seriously. “It’s a lucky character trait to be pleased with the plain things in life. There aren’t enough people like you, and I like the way you make me feel it too. If I’d been with Fletcher and the others, we would have crammed into the ski lifts, with them talking incessantly all the time about rubbish. When we got to the top, we’d have come down, and we’d have repeated that until it was time for lunch at wherever the trendiest place is at the moment. No one would have pointed out the noise of the snow because they’d never have heard it over their incessant, fucking talking.”

I watch him over the next hour as he picks up speed and moves towards steeper slopes. I feel the cold on my face, and watch the wide, unconscious smile on his lips as he falls in love with the sport. A melancholy thought occurs to me that one day he’ll find a partner, and the two of them will go skiing every winter together, laughing and happy. I wonder if he will ever pause on a snowy afternoon and glance at the nursery slopes, and see for a second the ghost of a man who was there the first time that he did this.

He sits in the snow grinning up at me, his teeth white in his tanned face. His stubble shines black against the pink of his wide lips, his hair is a windswept mess, and for a second I’m struck dumb by his masculine beauty.

Humouring me, he stands next to me and tilts his head back. I throw my arm around his shoulder, forgetting for a second that we aren’t friends, but instead of pushing me away, he leans into me for a long, precious second. Then he seems to recall himself and stiffens and goes to move past me, but as he moves, his ski hits a rock and he half slips into me. I throw my arms around him, bracing my weight so that we both don’t go over. I start to laugh, but at that point, he looks up, our eyes meet, and everything falls away. I don’t see the snow, or feel the cold, biting wind. I just see his eyes, and in them is everything I’m feeling - a sweet heat and desire, and almost fear.

“Tradition comes from something being so brilliant and such a good memory, that you try to recreate it every time that you can.”

Movement catches my eye, and I watch him move towards me, that big body clad in his ski pants and a thin, black, hooded fleece which clings to the muscular plains of his chest. His hair is wild around his face, and the dim light catches the sharp angles of his face, making him look dark and mysterious. I’m aware of a couple of men enjoying their view of him, and I’m filled with a sense of pride and misguided possession because just for this brief moment, he’s mine.

It’s darker in our little corner, and his eyes seem almost black, but his high cheekbones are spangled by the pinks and gold of the fairy lights which make him look mysterious and almost magical. “I have such a good time with you,” he says in a low voice. “Everything just always seems better when you’re here.”

I make a hoarse, wild sound, giving his finger a catlike lick, and something in him seems to snap. Reaching out he grabs my head, sliding his long fingers into my hair, and before I can think, he brings my lips to his, and I taste Gabe Foster for the first time outside my incoherent dreams.

All I know is that this man is special to me. He has the ability to make me feel more than any other man I’ve ever met. He makes me angry and challenges me, almost at the same time as making me laugh and filling me with a strong sense of protectiveness towards him. He makes me feel alive, the way that my mum had always promised me would happen when I met someone serious. But I know looking at him that I still mean absolutely nothing to him.

I know Gabe and Fletcher aren’t faithful to each other. I’ve had enough evidence over the years to prove that. But to see this hurts, because I know now that when he pulled back from me in Verbier, it wasn’t because he couldn’t do anything. It was because he didn’t want to. He didn’t want me, and all the distance since then has been his way of telling me this. Maybe he’s being kind and letting me grab the hint, rather than being blunt, but my face still burns.

Shock holds me rigid for a second, and then I twist in my seat to find Gabe standing there with a look that could kill on his face. He’s dressed in black jeans and a long-sleeved, black shirt, which highlights the length of his body and the width of his broad shoulders. He looks angry and hot as hell, and my cock stirs when it wouldn’t even twitch at Lars’s kiss. I’m fucked.