Page 20 of Playing By Their Rules

Sighing, I walk downstairs to his floor. His office door is closed, but he invited me in, so I don’t bother knocking. He’s leaning against his desk, glowering at the wall behind it.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Listen.”

I wait. There’s a rhythmic banging on the wall behind his desk. Thump, thump, thump. Then there’s a needy, lustful woman’s moan, followed by a man’s.

I smirk. In a low voice, I say, “It sounds like they’re both consenting and they’re both having a good time. What’s the problem?”

“Everything,” he says, and his voice is a growl of barely restrained rage.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, gesturing at his tense posture. “This isn’t like you.”

He glares at the wall, as if he could vaporize it with his gaze. “That’s our Maisie in there.”

“What?” I roar.

The rhythmic thumping falters momentarily. Then the guy’s voice calls out again. “Maisie, fuck yes, Maisie, Maisie!”

Anger thrums through my veins, faster and faster as my pulse picks up. I lurch toward the door, unable to see anything but the space in front of me. I have to stop them, I have to get Maisie out of there.

“Ethan, stop,” Chance says from somewhere behind me. His voice is faint beneath the rush of blood in my ears.

His hand comes down on my shoulder. I shrug it off and continue toward the hallway.

“Stop, Ethan.” His voice finally penetrates the red haze of my rage.

I pause. It’s as if I’m trapped in my body, a body that wants to tear through everything in this office, everything in this building. I want to fucking break something, but I don’t know what.

“Ethan, breathe,” Chance says.

“Fuck.” I bend over at the waist. I still want to break shit, but the feeling is fading. “I have to get out of here before I hurt someone.”

“You’re not your father,” he says.

I shake my head. That violent asshole’s blood runs through me.

“You’re not,” he repeats. “You stopped yourself. You heard me and you stopped.”

An exhaustion overcomes me and I fall into the chair in front of his desk. “What if I hadn’t heard you? What if I’d gone in there?”

The thumping next door has stopped, the moans ended.

“Then you would have looked at them and told them to knock it off and you would’ve turned around and left. Have you ever hurt anyone?” he asks. “Ever?”

He knows I haven’t.

“Take some more deep breaths,” he instructs me.

“I regret ever telling you about my therapy sessions,” I say through gritted teeth.

The tension in the room dissipates when he laughs, and I find myself chuckling, too. My heart rate has slowed. I can see the office more clearly now, without the haze of red and black.

“Fucker,” I say, flipping him off, and he gives me the finger in return. “Thanks for talking me down.”

“Anytime.”

“Should we go over and see if they’re still in there, tell them to never fuck in a classroom again?”

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