Page 35 of One Rule

We’re groomed to focus on what fits the narrative we need at the moment and for our personal gains.

It’s how those unafraid to break the law survive.

They blend. Become friends and build bonds with those in their close circles. And while these thoughts roam my head, I’m left wondering who the hell is at my door.

Someone knocked, I’m not going crazy.“I’m not expecting anyone.”

It’s the weekend, and I’m off. I’d planned to spend my Sunday as I am—curled up while being lazy—surrounded by nothing but junk food and my latest Starbucks order that I doctored. The venti cold brew with sweet vanilla foam has made me smile since the moment it arrived, while the copious amounts of cheese danishes accompanying it have probably wiped the location out for the day.

Then, there’s the way the show has kept me from changing out of the spandex shorts and loose-fitting tank top, I’d slipped into after my quick morning shower. It’s all about comfort and gore today.

It’s also a reminder of how I failed to get a quick morning run in, but the urge to burn off some of the nervous energy currently residing in me didn’t appeal after I got a peek at this drama’s trailer.

Because it’s been building. Today’s all about affirmations and forgiveness, both of these starting and ending with admitting my feelings about Micah's confusing behavior toward me lately. The praises and small touches—how he defended me against my father—and it’s messing with my head.

I know it’s me. How I want to see the possibility of amorewhere there isn’t one, but tell that to my needy heart.

His trust in me makes my chest swell with pride. The kiss he gave me on my forehead after explaining my concerns, and the following smile right after—I’ve claimed as mine even if he doesn’t see me that way—make me feel special and I’m clinging to it. Shamelessly so.

Pay attention, chica. Someone’s outside.

“Maybe it’s a mistake. They knocked on the wrong door.” Yet the moment I’m done speaking another sharp rap sounds. This one is louder than the last, canceling my idea of a wrong condo being the cause, and I pull the blankets off before lowering my legs. I’m a bit stiff as I do this and reach both hands up to stretch, the slight burn of muscle feels great after a few hours of cuddling my blankets and sweatshirt. “I blame the app for my lack of movement today. That’s my story and I’m sticking to their addictiveness.”

“Ms. Armas!” Is suddenly called out followed by a persistent ringing of the doorbell. “Ms. Armas!”

“What the hell?” I mutter to myself while narrowing my eyes and padding over. I’m not dumb enough to just open the door even though this building has great security—especially not after the deep rabbit hole I’ve fallen into with this series—but on the other side of the viewer, I find a woman with her raised hand poised to knock again. There’s more than one, actually, and they’re all wearing a company shirt I’m all too familiar with.

Without hesitating this time, I open the door. Yet right as I open my mouth to ask them what’s going on, they enter my mother’s condo and head deeper into the house without missing a beat. It’s as if they know the layout, and I’m left standing with the words“can I help you”sitting on the tip of my tongue.

They don’t look at me, though. Nor do they introduce themselves. Instead, their sights are set on my unpacked boxes and what sounds to be the luggage in my room, I’d transferred over from my father’s house during the move. My plans were to show him that I’m okay with being alone and then get a place of my own, far away from the constant politically made moves or the mandated family social appearances.

I love my family. Truly do.

Yet sometimes it all gets to be too much. The stress. The feelings of being alone.

Like now, Mom’s in Key West doingherwhile my father and brother are off playing golf and then having dinner with the governor, and I worry dad will back out of his promise. The city needs funds to restore damaged beach front commercial property, while one of his biggest donors is asking for a favor.

Or better yet, cashing in what he perceives as owed to him.

Rodolfo Diaz and his associates want the rights to purchase a state owned park, bypassing any red tape, and while the mayor of Miami isn’t the deciding vote, his friendship with the governor could pave the way. But that’s politics for you, one hand washes the other and eventually those back endI owe yousoften become multi-million—sometimes billion-dollar—deals.

Something falls inside the bedroom I’m occupying. The heavy thud has me almost following, but before I can, or demand answers, he walks in.

Always him. Always so handsome.

Dressed in a pair of white, chino shorts with a corded tan belt and a light blue linen shirt, Micah looks like walking perfection as he steps into the foyer. Like a model for any high-fashion magazine, he owns the room with both sleeved rolled up to his elbows—exposing his detailed tattooed sleeve— and I find him utterly panty destroying.

My mouth waters and core clenches.

There’s something so uniquely attractive about a man with tattoos. More so when his attention is on me. There’s a smile on his face and a tiny hint of challenge in his eyes, both of which leave me without the ability to demand anything:

Answers.

His touch.

That everyone butheleave.

“Ready to go, rebel?”

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