The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Read online

  Dad had been out of the picture for years, picking up his life with the secretary he’d been seeing long enough to have kids with who were almost my age. He obviously wouldn’t be any help or support to my mom during her battle.

  Mom’s insurance only paid for part of her treatments, not to mention the insanely high hospital bills racking up, and her savings from her fourth grade teaching career didn’t even begin to cover the costs. Now that she was out of work, it was either let her drown in debt or chip away at it little by little with my help.

  “Just feeling a little under the weather today. I go in for another treatment on Monday.”

  I nodded, and then remembered she couldn’t see me through the phone. “I’ll transfer money into the account next week, okay?”

  My mom began to protest. “You don’t have to—”

  “Mom.” We’d been through this at least fifty times since I’d decided to take the job at Starr media. The only way I’d live so far away from her was if I could contribute part of my salary for her treatments. Otherwise, no dice. There was no way I’d let my mom worry about money when she was already fighting to stay alive.

  “Thank you, sweetie.” She cleared her throat, and I wondered if she was as close to tears as I was. “I’m going to go lie down for a bit. Love you.”

  These phone calls always put me on edge. I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to say treatments hadn’t worked and that I should come home immediately. There was so much I wanted to say to her—how am I supposed to move on if I lose you? I’m not finished learning from you yet. I need you, Mom. I kept those to myself because right now she needed someone to be strong for her, not a blubbering mess. Time to enforce my favorite mantra: fake it till you make it. “Love you, too.” I gritted my teeth and pressed the end button.

  I brushed away a few rogue tears that managed to spill over my lids. Was it really worth it to take this job and be hours away from Mom? A gnawing doubt clawed deep inside me, the worry that I’d made the wrong choice not to spend this time with her. But it was either that or add years to the payment process.

  I shook my head. No use thinking that way. Mom was going to make it, and I’d taken this job to ensure we wouldn’t be in debt until I hit AARP age.

  Zoey knocked softly on my door and cracked it open a bit. “Everything going okay?”

  I tossed my phone onto my nightstand with a heavy sigh. “She’s just having a hard time with chemo.” My voice wobbled as I said, “Wish I could be there.”

  She opened the door wider and came to sit on my bed. The bed dipped under her weight, and I laid my head on her lap.

  Zoey pulled my hair out of its makeshift bun and began to braid sections of my curls. Her fingers smoothed the kinks from the rain and the hair tie and made deft work on the left side of my scalp. We’d been doing this since we were twelve, although when I braided her hair it looked like something out of a Michael Jackson music video.

  “Guilt is a useless emotion, Lain. You can drive yourself crazy wondering about the what-ifs.”

  I bit my lip to smother a smile. “What are you, a fortune cookie?”

  Zoey was one of those people that doled out great advice, but it was more of the “do as I say, not as I do” variety. While I had a worn copy of Whitman I’d taken with me while backpacking across Europe with Zoey and my mom for a semester in college, Zoey had spreadsheets and checklists, planning out every single day down to fifteen minute intervals (I wish I were kidding)—something my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants self still needed to master. She had an answer to every what-if, maybe even a backup plan to the backup plan. Worked great for her career.

  She ignored my joke and continued. “You’re doing what’s best for you and your family at the moment. Just remember that.”

  I nodded. “I know. If anyone will pull out of this, it’s her.” I had a feeling I was saying this more for my own benefit. Zoey probably had my mom’s recovery date penciled in somewhere in that planner of hers.

  “Focus on something that you can control. Help your clients, stop calling your boss the devil, things like that.” A smile twitched at her lips.

  A laugh escaped through my nose. Yeah, I really needed to work on that last part. “Man, it’s like you should be a psychologist or something.”

  She squeezed me tight. “I’m here to psychoanalyze any time you need.”

  Chapter Four

  Starr Media Handbook Rule #224

  Phones must be answered in a professional manner.

  There came a time in every postgrad’s life where thoughts like “what the hell am I doing with my life?” and, “grad school in no way prepared me for this; I want a refund,” pummeled you harder than a torrential downpour during monsoon season. For me, that moment happened when Jackson disappeared through the elevator doors during lunch on my fourth day in the office.

  I sat there in the quiet, the gravity of the situation hitting me full force. I was alone, the same as every other day this week. And for those terrifying thirty minutes, I had no clue what I was doing. The phone had yet to ring while Jackson took his break, and I was hoping that my lucky streak would continue for the duration of my employment at Starr Media. This was a Fortune 500 company, and at this moment, I was trusted with the phone. Me, the person who was terrified to call the pizza place down the street to order delivery. But my phobia would have to take a hike, because answering the phone was an unfortunate requirement of the boss’s assistant.

  My lucky streak ended when the phone rang within one minute of Jackson escaping to lunch. I stared at the receiver and then gave a hopeful glance toward the elevator. Chances were at a firm zero percent that Jackson would come back and help me with the call.

  You have your MBA. You can answer a damn phone.

  Right. This was just like ordering a meat lovers special with double-stuffed crust—terrifying, but doable in the case of dire hunger, or in this instance, needing to keep a job. I squared my shoulders and picked up the receiver and answered the phone as Jackson had earlier this morning. “Starr Media, this is Lainey. How may I help you?” Okay, not horrible. I tapped my pen along the edge of my desk, needing somewhere to place this nervous energy.

  “I don’t care if you’re the damn pope. I want Brogan Starr. Right now. Preferably his head on a stick.”

  My hand froze, and I dropped the pen. Well, hello, ray of sunshine. “I—uh—sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Jonathan Gizzara.” There was a silent who the hell doesn’t know who I am? added onto the end of this statement. “My client Guy Wells is not happy with his recent ratings, and Starr will answer for this. Do you know what it’s like to be bent over and—” He continued with a slew of expletives and a few sexual positions a novice wouldn’t dare try in the bedroom.

  Due to my lack of recent history in this department, this conversation was especially excruciating. At least someone was getting some, although I really didn’t need to hear about it in explicit detail. “Sir, as fascinating as the play-by-play of your sexual experimentation is, I don’t see how this pertains to Mr. Starr…”

  “Not the sharpest cheddar in the cheese factory, are you, sweetheart?”

  My molars ground together as I fought to keep my composure. On my off time, I’d tell this jerk just where to stick his cheddar cheese. But, since I did need a paycheck at the end of the month, I swallowed down my irritation. “Mr. Starr isn’t available right now.”

  His voice climbed a few octaves. “What do you mean he’s not available?” I cringed and held the phone a few inches from my ear to save myself from early hearing loss. “Where’s that pissant, Jackson? He at least knows how your damn company works.”

  “He’s at lunch right now. I’d be more than happy to leave a message for Mr. Starr.” I forced myself to smile as I said this, which helped keep my tone cheery and upbeat. Otherwise, I’d inevitably slip into sarcasm that I doubted Gizzara would appreciate. I’d learned that trick from watching Jackson during his hundreds
of calls. He was all smiles until he ended the call, then it was back to his broody, insufferable self.

  “You tell him that if he wants to keep his top-grossing clients and prevent a colossal shit storm of lawsuits he’ll be buried in until he’s fifty, he should pick up the damn phone.”

  My pulse pounded in my ears, and the back of my neck flamed. Jackson had specifically told me not to disturb Brogan, but this sounded important. Against my better judgment, I added, “I’ll make sure to do that.” It may have come off a little snottier than intended.

  The line went dead before I could tell him to have a nice day. I hung up and groaned, resting my head in my hands.

  I’d aced Microeconomic Foundations, Marketing Management, and Management Communication Speaking, but did that prepare me for agents asking questions about their client’s ARPUs and threatening colossal shit storms? Uh, no, it did not.

  In fact, after the fourth fumbled phone call, sweat rolled down the small of my back, and I prayed that a power outage would strike our building. Or a strategically targeted EMF. No need to be picky at this point. By eleven fifty-eight, I’d convinced myself that my shiny diploma could now function as toilet paper in case of an emergency. Calling my boss the devil and screwing up phone calls? Thin ice didn’t even begin to describe my current predicament. Maybe shaved ice? No, not even that. One single ice cube—that was melting on a hot stove.

  200 miles from home in a strange city with a coworker who was annoyed with me at best, and a boss with more rules than my drill sergeant dad, it was looking like this job maybe wasn’t the adventure I had envisioned the real world would be. Just me, Dolce and Gabbana Overload Jackson, and the Antichrist. My own island of happiness. I’d get right on buying kazoos and party hats, but I was sure noise-makers were banned under some rule in the manual.

  After I’d fumbled through a few more calls with agents, thankfully ones less angry than Gizzara, Jackson breezed through the elevator door at exactly twelve.

  “Keep the company intact?” He took a sip from his Diet Coke and set it on his desk.

  I folded my hands together and tried to remain as calm as possible when delivering the news. “There was an issue.”

  His brows lowered. “An issue,” he repeated. “What kind of issue?”

  “Jonathan Gizarra called,” I said slowly, bracing for how Jackson would take this.

  His jaw tensed, and his Adam’s apple worked against the top button of his dress shirt. “And you put him through to Starr, right?”

  I hesitated, thumbing the sticky note with his name between my fingers. “No. You told me not to bother him.”

  “Oh my God.” Panic flared across his face, and he sat down at his desk and began typing madly on his computer. “Oh my God,” he repeated, this time more frantic than before. Blotches of red dotted the pale complexion of his cheeks and neck. “I will make this right, but you screw this up one more time and you’re out.” He pounded a few keys on the phone and pulled the receiver to his ear. “Go to lunch before I change my mind about firing you.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, pushing back the hot sting of tears, and grabbed my purse. It had been a long time since I’d disappointed someone. In fact, I was fairly certain the last time had been when I forgot to send a thank-you card to my Aunt Ruth in seventh grade, and my mom laid major guilt trippage on me. My livelihood at my first job that actually counted for something was currently being sucked down an industrial grade toilet.

  Logic told me to spend my lunch outside of Starr Media, and I paced around downtown with my homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwich until the jitters from the past thirty minutes subsided. I’d never really considered myself an anxious person, but between this job and my mom’s illness, it was enough to fray the nerves of Bob Marley.

  By the time I returned to the building, my lungs could fully expand, and the constant urge to bash my head against something had subsided. Mostly.

  Jackson’s lips curled into a sneer when I sat back down at my desk. “I fixed the problem. Next time try not to be”—he motioned toward me—“you.” He pointed to himself and cocked his head in an overly dramatic fashion, one that just begged for a slap in the face. “Think to yourself ‘what would Jackson do?’ That should be your new mantra.”

  “Got it.”

  “I made a list of people who you always put through to Starr. If you make it past next week, you’ll need it.”

  “Thanks.” But that was a big if.

  …

  I managed to float under the radar for the next two days, keeping busy with file work and making myself scarce at the exact time I knew Brogan would be leaving his office for a meeting. Having access to his schedule came in very handy for keeping mortification levels to a minimum.

  Fifty folders were spread out before me, waiting to be filed in the floor to ceiling shelving system. This was the closest I’d come to venturing into the office with my coworkers who performed various other jobs for the company. With the odd looks they gave me as they passed me in the lunch room last week, the chances of finding a friend here to grab drinks with after work were slim to none. Which was fine because I had Zoey, but having more than one friend in the city wouldn’t hurt either.

  I was busy alphabetizing the clients’ folders in the depths of the cavernous file room when a voice cut through the silence.

  “Jackson put you on file duty?”

  I had actually finished my work, but when Jackson saw that I had a few extra seconds to do things like breathe and squeeze in a thought like I might make it through today without ODing on caffeine, he didn’t waste any time wheeling over a cart of files and telling me they needed to be categorized according to last name and the year they signed.

  I glanced up from my work to find a woman who was maybe in her late twenties, wearing a Pepto-Bismol pink sweater and zebra print rimmed glasses. She smiled down at me and said, “Zelda.”

  It took me a few seconds to process. Was that her name or was she professing her love for the fictional character?

  The woman must have noticed my bafflement because she added, “My mom was really into playing the video game when she was pregnant with me.”

  I blew my bangs out of my face and extended my hand to hers. “Lainey. No cool anecdotes about my mom’s pregnancy, although she did eat a lot of bean burritos.”

  Zelda grinned, and her lip piercing glinted in the fluorescent lighting. “How are you liking it here so far?”

  “Besides making an ass out of myself in front of Brogan Starr and pissing off an agent?” I cringed. It had been all I could think about for the past two days. I’d tossed and turned last night, trying to come up with the perfect thing to say to make this blow over. Unfortunately, the only thing that came to mind was changing my name and moving far away from this city—because that surely wouldn’t be a pain in the ass or get me any closer to paying Mom’s bills. So, mortification it’d be. “Everything is going okay, I guess.”

  “Happens to everyone—the pissing off agents part. They’re impossible to please, so don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  I nodded. I suspected that she was telling me this to make me feel better, but I’d take it. “Just getting used to everything.”

  She leaned against the copy machine and gave me a warm smile. “I haven’t seen you in the staff room. You should come join me. I take my lunches at noon.”

  “I take mine then, too, but I think I’m the social pariah.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Weird. I didn’t see you in there this week.”

  “I was there. And so was Brogan. When I made an ass out of myself.”

  “In that staff room?” She pointed to the room across the hall from the file room.

  This was news to me. Nowhere on the Jackson Office Tour From Hell was there mention of staff rooms. Emphasis on the plural. “No. The one across from my desk in the front of the office.”

  Her face screwed into an awful grimace, but she quickly covered it with a chuckle. “That’s Brog
an’s area. No one uses it but him, unless we’re out of creamer.”

  I covered my face in my hands and groaned. Why hadn’t anyone told me this? “I was wondering why people were looking at me so weird!”

  Of course Jackson wouldn’t, because in his mind I wasn’t sticking around long enough to fraternize with other coworkers. This whole hazing thing was going to come to an end the second I started learning more about the company.

  “Come hang out with me today, and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  The first genuine smile I’d had in days edged at the corners of my lips.

  “Can I ask you something?” I flipped my thumb across the folder in my hand, one question gnawing at me ever since my horrible first meeting with Brogan.

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  “Does the staff have a nickname for Brogan?”

  Her brows scrunched together, and her tongue ran across her lip ring. She stood in silence for a moment, most likely wracking her brain for an answer. “Like what?”

  “The Antichrist?”

  Her lips quivered as a smile broke out on her face. “The what?”

  “Antichrist,” I said, a little more hesitant this time.

  She bent over at the waist, clutching her knees, laughing. It took her a few seconds to compose herself. She straightened and wiped the stray tears running down her cheeks with her sweater sleeve. “No. Brogan’s an amazing boss. A little eccentric with all the rules, and scary as hell when bothered during one his deadlines, but everyone here loves him.”

  Yeah, everyone but Jackson, apparently. And, of course, he was the one that had trained me. Not the other fifty employees that thought Brogan was a decent boss. I smothered the urge to crawl underneath all the paperwork and not come out until everyone left for the day. “Good to know.”

  “Well, I have to get these to the copier before a meeting.” She waved her stack of papers in front of her. “Come hang out at lunch, okay?”

  I nodded, and before I could say anything else, she was gone in a pink blur heading in the direction of the copier.