Page 31 of Stone Rules

His words echo through my head for the hundredth time since he said them.

Who does he think he is?Idon’t do relationships. I mean, other than Piper, my relationships consist of a mother who pimped me out and a string of mostly married men who, let’s face it, used me as much as I used them.

Three days. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen him.

It bothers me that I’m counting. It bothers me that it bothers me. It bothers me that the way I feel about him is as close to a relationship as I’ve ever come.

This man is seriously messing with my head. And admittedly, my head’s pretty screwed up already.

The way he looks at me, tries to protect me, touches me. It’s all a contradiction to his declaration about not doing relationships. How can he act so jealous over ridiculous things like the guy at the restaurant who asked me out, or Devon at the gym? Even his brother seemed to rile him up. I’m no expert, but I’d say that is not the reaction of a man who ‘doesn’t do relationships.’

The buzzing of my phone in my pocket startles me. But not as much as the text I see on the screen. It’s like the man has a direct line into my thoughts.

Stone: I have some more information for you. I’ll bring it to the gym tonight.

I’m slightly amused that he didn’t suggest meeting me at Mitchell’s. He must know it’s my day off. I can’t help the smile that cracks my face at the thought of him knowing my schedule. I realize my heart is racing simply from getting his text and I try to sound casual in my reply.

Me: Sounds good. See you then.

I stare at the clock on my apartment wall. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning. And it’s my day off. That means I have to wait almost twelve hours for the information he has at his fingertips this very second.

That won’t do. I put my coat on and grab my keys. The entire way to his office, I wonder which scumbag he found this time. Will it be J.T.—the one who was always so high he couldn’t even get it up, yet he still got his kicks from seeing me naked? Or will it be Karl Salzman—the one who my mother let take my virginity at a mere fifteen years old? I feel nauseous thinking about the latter. I’m not even sure I’d want it to be him, because the truth is, I’m not sure kicking him in the balls and punching his face would satisfy me enough. More like water torture followed by castration.

I walk into the reception area to see Gretchen leaning over the counter, flirting with a man who’s sitting on the white leather couch. When she sees me, her whole demeanor changes. Her smile fades into a frown and she quickly looks at the appointment book on the desk in front of her before making further eye contact with me.

“You don’t have an appointment,” she says, her cold blue eyes raking over my body, crudely assessing me from head to toe.

I follow her gaze, looking down at my clothes, realizing in my haste to get here, I didn’t bother dressing up. In fact, I’m wearing sweatpants and an old UNC sweatshirt Baylor gave me when she quit going there. My hair is pulled up into a messy bun and I’m still wearing yesterday’s eyeliner.

For a brief second, I contemplate walking back out the office door. But then I tell myself I don’t give a shit, and then I pretend to believe it as I participate in a stare-down with Barbie.

“No, I don’t have an appointment,” I reply. “But I was hoping Ethan had a second to spare.”

“Ethan?” she asks, questioning me with the raise of a thin, manicured brow as if warning me that only a select few have the right to call him by his first name.

“Yes, you know, your boss? The one who runs this company and calls the shots. That Ethan.”

I don’t back down. I’m pretty sure she gets the picture my eyes are painting. The picture that says she’s not the only one in the I’ve-been-beneath-Ethan-Stone club.

“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to sound professional and not like the colossal bitch she is. “Mr. Stone only sees clients by appointment.”

“Okay.” I try hard not to roll my eyes. “Then I’d like to make an appointment.” I look at the clock on the wall next to Gretchen’s desk. “How about ten forty-five?”

She snidely leafs through the appointment book in front of her without breaking eye contact with me. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “It appears we don’t have any openings today. Perhaps you could come back when we do?”

“And when might that be?” I ask in amusement.

“I might be able to work you in next week,” she says. “But we usually reserve appointments for paying clients. My records show you haven’t quite achieved that status yet.”

Before I can censor my own words, I serve Barbie a cup of her own cattiness on a fucking platter. “Oh, I’ve made several installments,” I say. “Just not with money.”

Gretchen’s jaw drops. The man on the couch snickers, further fueling Gretchen’s fire. “Like I said, I can’t work you in. You might as well leave.”

I step away from the counter, pulling my phone out. “I’ll just text him then. Mind if I wait over here?” I motion to the wall of family photos.

“Ethan doesn’t answer personal texts during work hours. But whatever.” She looks for imperfections on her long nails. “Suit yourself.”

I walk over to the photo wall as I type out a text.

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