Page 18 of Obeying His Rules

“Going to do some driving on my own today. Take the rest of the day off.”

He nods, trying not to look too happy. “Thank you, sir.”

I wasn’t lying when I told Brian I had somewhere I had to be today, and that place is not somewhere I want to be driven to or be accompanied to by anyone else.

So I hop in my Aston Martin and pull out of the lot and drive off, leaving the rest of the staff to celebrate perhaps the biggest business deal in the history of the company.

I look up as I drive, and notice the sky, clear as glass less than an hour ago, is now being invaded by fast-moving purple-gray clouds that look to me like trouble.

I step on it.

If I am going to get this done before they hit us, I need to move fast.

I reach the flower shop in just under ten minutes and quickly head inside. There’s a new teenage girl working, who seems bored and lights up when I come in. She helps me pick out a dozen pink roses and asks me if I want them boxed. I tell her no, just wrapped will be fine, and then I’m off and driving again.

It’s going to pour any minute.

I can tell just by looking up at the sky, which looks like every purple paint ever has been mixed together and spread across the clouds which now hang above like monsters ready to open their mouths.

My knuckles whiten as I grip the steering wheel tight and floor it.

Eight-minutes later, I’m pulling into the cemetery. Just as I park and step out of the car, the rain starts to fall.

And it doesn’t just fall; it pours.

Buckets of rain dump down from above as I walk up the cobblestone path that threads its way through the gravestones.

Once a year I make this journey–sometimes more. I thought it would eventually grow easier, but it hasn’t. It’s always just as hard as the first time, and this sudden storm sure isn’t helping either.

Clutching her necklace in one hand, her roses in the other, I make the final ascent up the hill to where her grave stands just beneath the dead elm tree that I always hated.

Why keep a dead tree in a cemetery? Just more death in a place already filled with it.

I stop at her headstone and look down, and that’s when the pain hits me.

I should be back at the office, celebrating with the rest of the staff, who are no doubt cracking open champagne bottles in the lounge and toasting to our victory. But not today. Today there’s mourning to be done.

I drop to one knee and place the roses on the ground just before her headstone.

My hand grips her necklace tight where I have it in my pocket. I stare at the inscribed stone before me, and the grief pierces me fully.

I swallow my first cry but am unable to hold back the tears. I’m alone here among the graves, so no one can see them as they fall down my cheeks, but who could see them anyway with all this rain?

My clothes are still wet as I step into the penthouse. I kick off my shoes and unbuckle my belt and begin to strip out of them as I walk over to the fireplace, which I turn on with a press of a button. I’d much prefer the coziness and authenticity of an actual wood hearth, but making that work in Manhattan–even for a billionaire–is too much of a pain in the ass.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey and, completely naked, slide onto the couch by the fire to warm myself up. I hold up her necklace in front of me, watching the flames dance in the diamond, when suddenly I hear the sound of my phone buzzing from behind me.

I really don’t want to get up, but then I remember it could be Brian with something work-related about tomorrow and the decision I need to make on some of the new machines we’ll be purchasing, so I get up and go over to it.

But as soon as I’m on my feet, the buzzing stops, and I realize it’s not a call, it’s just a text, and from a number I don’t recognize. I check it anyway:

Hey, you. It’s Rain. Want to meet up again?

Instantly, I feel my dick start to swell. I text back:

Depends. Can you abide by the rules?

I smile, picturing her reading my reply. Does she have a roommate or a friend with her that’s reading it with her?

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