The Dixon Rule: Chapter 2

The summer of Shane

I’M LAUGHING TO MYSELF AS I FOLLOW THE ANGRY BLOND INTO HER apartment. The moment we emerge from the entryway into the main room, I have to blink a couple of times because it’s not at all what I expected. The living area contains mismatched furniture and a burgundy area rug that clashes with the pale-blue floral-pattered sofa. The kind of sofa you might find in your dead grandma’s house when you’re going there to clean out her stuff. Like, nobody in the family is going to be fighting over that couch unless it’s to argue about who has to drive it to Goodwill.

“This place has a real cat-lady vibe,” I remark.

“Meow,” something whines from the kitchen.

“Holy shit. You actually have a cat.” My jaw drops as a gray tabby appears from behind the narrow island and eyes me like I murdered her kittens.

Diana’s expression mirrors the cat’s. “That’s Lucy. She likes to sneak out when our downstairs neighbor is seeing one of her therapy clients.”

“S’up?” I tell the cat, nodding in greeting.

“Don’t bother. She’s a demon from the pits of hell,” Diana says at the exact moment Lucy wanders over and rubs up against my leg.

The cat gives a happy purr, snaking her furry body between my shins.

Diana glowers at us. “Why am I not surprised you two get along? Go away, Lucy. Lindley and I need to talk.”

Lucy just sits at my feet, still purring.

“She has great taste in people,” I say, while continuing to examine my bizarre surroundings.

There’s an antique cabinet full of glassware that’s completely out of place next to the super-modern bookcase beside it. And is that…

“Oh my God. You have a fish? Who has a pet fish? Have some self-respect, Dixon.”

Her emerald-green eyes shoot fireballs at me. I can practically feel the heat. “Leave my fish out of this. He’s not perfect, but he’s mine.”

I bite back a laugh. It doesn’t escape me that she’s still in nothing but a towel. And…well, I’m not going to lie…she looks really fucking good. Diana’s gorgeous, with wide-set eyes, platinum-blond hair, and a sassy mouth. She’s a little shorter than I usually like, barely over five feet, five-two if we’re being generous. A pint-sized hottie with a big personality. Although it seems like a major part of that personality involves busting the balls of yours truly.

“I’m going to change. But we need to talk, so don’t go anywhere.”

“I can help you get dressed,” I offer innocently.

“Ew. Never.”

I smother a laugh. Diana and I have a love-hate relationship. As in, she hates me, and I love to annoy her.

As she flounces off, I admire the way the towel rides up the backs of her toned thighs. I swear I glimpse the bottom curve of her ass cheeks. Her fair skin boasts a deep summer tan, which tells me she must be making good use of the pool outside. Fuck, I’ve got a pool now. This place is so sick.

I don’t even care that my friends and teammates keep ragging me about the fact that my “rich daddy” bought me a condo. Sure, my family has money, but I’m not some spoiled, entitled dickhead. I didn’t ask Dad to buy me an apartment. It’s an investment for him—once I graduate from Briar University and head to Chicago to play in the NHL, he’ll just rent this place out, the way he does with his hordes of other properties in Vermont and northern Massachusetts.

In the meantime, I get to enjoy my own space after sharing a house with Ryder and Beckett for the past three years. Two of those years were spent at Eastwood, our former college. After the Eastwood and Briar men’s hockey teams merged, we moved to Hastings, the small town closest to the Briar campus.

Diana returns in a pair of tiny cutoff shorts and a baggy T-shirt. She’s not wearing a bra, and my eyes dip involuntarily toward the tight buds of her nipples, which are poking against the thin material.

“Stop looking at my boobs.”

I don’t deny that’s what I was doing. Shrugging, I shift my gaze and sweep my hand to gesture at the loftlike space. “Terrible interior design aside, this place is really nice. Looks a little bigger than mine too. How much is your rent?”

“I don’t rent. And I’m not telling you how much my mortgage is. Nosy much?”

My eyebrows fly up. “You own it? That’s badass.”

She pauses, as if she doesn’t want to engage with me, then says, “My aunt left it to me in her will. She only lived here a year before she died.”

I glance around. I don’t want to ask, but…

“Oh my God, she didn’t die in this room. She had a heart attack in her office in Boston.”

“Damn. That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Anyway. Let’s get this out of the way. The rules.” Diana crosses her arms. “Just because you’re in Meadow Hill now, doesn’t mean you’ll have the run of the place.”

“I think that’s exactly what it means.” Highly amused, I mimic her pose by crossing my own arms. “I live here.”

“No, you live there.” She points to the wall behind her to indicate my apartment beyond it. “You don’t live here.” She waves her hand around her living room. “So don’t go around offering to throw parties in my house.”

“I didn’t offer. I simply made a suggestion.”

She ignores me. “Because I’m not cohosting any parties with you. This is my sanctuary. I don’t know what Gigi’s told you about me—”

“She said you’re a pain in the ass.”

Diana gasps. “She did not.”

“And she said you’re high-maintenance.”

“She didn’t say that either.”

“Actually, that part she did.”

That narrows her eyes, and I know she’ll be texting Gigi after this for verification. My best friend’s wife—Christ, that’s still strange to say—warned me away from Diana, advising me to leave her best friend alone if I didn’t want daily tongue-lashings. It’s not in my nature, though. Some people might shy away from confrontation. Some might lose sleep over the notion that someone might not like them—and I know for a fact Diana doesn’t like me. But I’m not averse to confrontation, and for some reason, her dislike only makes me want to bother her even more. It’s the preschooler in me. All men regress to their kindergarten days every now and then.

“Are you listening to me?” she grumbles.

I lift my head. Oh, she’s still lecturing. Totally spaced out. “Sure. No parties in your apartment.”

“And no parties in the pool.”

I raise a brow. “Now you’re speaking for the whole building?”

“No. The building is speaking for the building. Did you not read your homeowner’s packet?”

“Babe, I just walked in here.”

“Don’t call me babe.”

“I didn’t even reach my front door before you dragged me in here.”

“Well, read your HOA package. We take this stuff very seriously, okay? The association meets twice a month on Sunday morning.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”

“I didn’t expect you to. And frankly, don’t want you there. Okay—” She claps her hands as if she’s leading one of her cheerleading practices. Diana’s the cheer captain at Briar. “Let’s summarize the rules. Go easy on the parties. Wipe the equipment down after you use the gym. Don’t have sex in the pool.”

“What about blowjobs in the pool?”

“Look, I don’t care who you want to suck off, Lindley. Just don’t do it in the pool.”

I grin at her. “I meant I would be on the receiving end.”

“Oh. Did you?” Diana smiles sweetly. “I think the most important thing for you to remember is, we are not friends.”

“Lovers, then?” I wink at her.

“We are neither friends nor lovers. We are floor mates. We are quiet, respectful residents of the Red Birch building in Meadow Hill. We don’t annoy each other—”

“I mean, you’re kind of annoying me right now.”

“—we don’t cause trouble, and, preferably, we don’t speak.”

“Isn’t this considered speaking?”

“No. This is the conversation leading up to the future conversations we won’t be having. In conclusion, we’re not friends. No shenanigans. Oh, and stop screwing my teammates.”

Ah, so that’s what all this is about. She’s still salty because I messed around with a few of her cheerleaders last semester. Apparently one of them, Audrey, caught feelings and was so distracted at practice she fell off the pyramid and sprained her ankle. But how is that on me? When I’m on the ice, I’m able to push everything out and focus on hockey. Banish all distractions and excel at my sport. If Audrey couldn’t block out a dude she hooked up with once, that sounds like a her-problem.

“All right,” I say impatiently. “Are there any more Dixon rules, or may I please be excused? My furniture isn’t gonna assemble itself.”

“That’s all. Although, really, there’s only one Dixon rule that matters. No Shanes allowed.”

“Allowed where?”

“Anywhere and everywhere. But mostly just in my vicinity.” She smiles again, but it lacks any trace of humor. “Okay, we’re done here.” She points to the entryway. “You can go now.”

“So it’s going to be like that, huh?”

“Yes, I literally just told you it was going to be like that. Happy housewarming, Lindley.”

I dutifully leave her apartment and return to mine, where Will and Beckett are tackling the assembly of my new sectional couch. Will’s using a knife to slice open the plastic that the big cushions come in, while Beckett crouches on the hardwood floor, trying to figure out how to lock the main section to the chaise. I opted for a dark-gray color because it’ll be easier to clean. Not that I’ll ever get the chance—my mother insists on sending a cleaner to my house every two weeks. She did the same for the townhouse I shared with the boys. According to her, my cleaning abilities will never be anything other than subpar. I disagree. I think I could at least make par. Gotta aim high in the cleaning world.

“Sorry about that,” I tell the guys. “Dixon needed to chew me out for a while. It’s how she shows her love for me.”

Will snorts.

Beckett glances up with a grin. “Yeah, sorry, mate, but that is one bird you’re not gonna win over with those dimples.”

He’s probably right about that.

“Dude, she really doesn’t like you,” Will adds, hammering the point home. “I grabbed dinner with her and Gigi last week, and when your name came up, Diana rolled her eyes so hard, it looked like they were gonna pop out of her face.”

“Aw, thank you. Hearing that makes me feel so good about myself.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure your massive ego took a real hit.”

I walk over to help Will with the cushions and then the three of us drag the couch to a new spot after Beck decides it can’t be under the window because it’ll get too cold in the winter. We position the sectional so it now faces the exposed red brick that makes up the far wall of living room. I step back to examine the layout. It’s perfect.

“We should mount the TV there,” I say, pointing to the brick. “Can we drill into that?”

“Yeah, should be fine,” Beckett answers, walking over to study the wall. He shoves a few messy strands of blond hair out of his face. “Larsen, grab the drill?”

“Look at you,” I mock. “Mr. Handyman.”

Beckett winks. “Are you seriously surprised to hear I’m good with my hands?”

Good point.

Once we’ve got the couch and TV squared away, we head for the bedroom to put the bed together. It’s a queen, although I probably could’ve fit a king in here. Will unpacks the hardware. Beckett and I organize the various pieces of sleek dark-cherry wood. While we work, Beck rambles on about everything he plans to do when he’s home this summer. Technically speaking, his home is in Indianapolis, which is where his family moved when Beckett was ten, but he was born and half raised in Australia. He’s leaving for Sydney on Sunday.

“Sucks neither of you are coming,” he says glumly. “I get why Ryder can’t. But seriously? Neither of you could get away?”

I shrug. “Yeah, sorry. I can’t fuck off to Australia. Summer’s really the only time I get to hang out with my family.” It’s the truth. For the rest of the year, I’m laser-focused on hockey and, to a lesser extent, the schoolwork required in order to remain eligible to play.

Beckett nods. “I feel you. Family’s important.” I know he’s tight with his parents and with his cousins in Australia. He’s an only child, so they’re the closest things to siblings he has.

“I’m surprised you’re not going,” I say, glancing at Will.

He shrugs. “I’m working this summer. I want to do a backpacking trip through Europe after graduation. Maybe spend six months to a year over there.”

“Nice. Sounds awesome.”

Beckett snickers at me. “Coming from the guy who would never be caught dead backpacking.”

“That’s not true. I would totally do it.”

“Really,” Beck says dubiously.

“Sure. I’d wear a backpack while we explored some cool part of the city and then take it off when I returned to my five-star hotel.”

“Bougie prick.”

I grin. In all honesty, I don’t mind roughing it. Camping is great. And backpacking around Europe does sound like a blast. But why travel on a budget when you don’t have a budget?

“You’ve got a landscaping gig or something, right?” I ask Will.

“Pool company.”

My jaw drops. “You’re a pool boy?”

As Will nods, Beckett heaves a loud sigh.

I glance over in amusement. “Do you have something to add?”

“Just…don’t get your hopes up. You find out your mate is a pool boy and you create a whole narrative in your head and then bam, he shoots down your bubble and your dreams float away like a feather on the wind.”

“Those were a lot of weird metaphors just to say I don’t fuck the clients.” Will rolls his eyes and reiterates that point to me. “I don’t fuck the clients.”

“Why the hell not?” I’m picturing neglected MILFs in tiny bikinis sashaying over to bring Will glasses of lemonade, and then, oops, my bikini top fell off. Would you like to bang?

“Because I’d get fired, for one.” His tone is dry.

“Fair. But what’s life without the risk of getting fired?”

“Says the rich boy.”

“Isn’t your dad a congressman? I feel like you’re probably richer than I am. AKA the last person who needs to work as a pool boy all summer.”

“Nah. I don’t ever want to be beholden to my dad. I’d rather make my own way.”

I guess that’s admirable. With that said, I’m not about to complain about the fact that my folks are still paying my way. I’m twenty-one years old and blissfully unemployed. It’s the summer before senior year and I want to enjoy every second of it. My plan is to really focus on strength and conditioning ahead of this hockey season. Hit the gym every morning. Try to incorporate swimming into my cardio regimen. I also got a membership to a golf club near here, so I’ll be on the green at least a few times a week.

Let the Summer of Shane commence.

After the boys and I finish assembling the bed and clean up, Beck and Will ask if I want to grab dinner with them in town, but I beg off. I want to do some unpacking and organize my shit.

For this afternoon’s services, I’m repaying them in the form of beer and a party on Saturday night, which Beckett reminds me of as I walk them to the front hall.

“Don’t forget about my goodbye party,” he drawls.

“Yes, of course, the goodbye party you’re throwing for yourself.”

“And?”

“And that’s stupid. But I’m looking forward to christening the pool, so I guess a my-dumbass-friend-is-going-on-vacation gathering is as good a reason as any.”

He chuckles. “What did your new neighbor say about the party?”

“Dixon? Oh, she’s excited. Can’t wait for it.”

“Tread carefully,” Will warns. “Diana can be vicious. And she’s not above playing dirty.”

“Is that supposed to deter me?” I ask with a grin. “The dirtier the better.”

After my buddies leave, I wander toward the kitchen island to examine all the documents my mom left on the counter. My parents were here yesterday making some final preparations ahead of my move-in date. Meaning that Mom stocked the fridge and made sure all the important paperwork was in one place, while Dad squared up with his contractor.

I settle on a tall, black-leather stool and sigh as I sift through the large stack of paper. The information is about as lame as I expect it to be.

I flip pages until one catches my eye. It’s an illustrated map of the Meadow Hill property, and I lean forward on my forearms to study it. Why is every building named after trees? Mine is Red Birch. Next door is Silver Pine. White Ash, Weeping Willow, Sugar Maple. The main building is called the Sycamore, which is where our mailboxes are located. It also offers a round-the-clock security guard at the front desk. That’s good.

I set the map aside and try to focus on the next page, but it’s tedious reading. Like Diana said, the homeowners’ association meets every two weeks, and I’m invited to join. Twice a month, though? What kind of HOA needs to meet that often? And on a Sunday? Yeah, I won’t be caught dead at some stuffy board meeting where soccer moms and their sex-starved husbands can argue about pool regulations and when to start your lawn mowers. I’ll never be that mundane.

The noise ordinances make zero sense. It says no noise after nine p.m. on weekdays, except for Fridays, when it’s eleven p.m. No noise after midnight on weekends, except on Sunday, when you’re only allowed to be noisy until ten p.m. So basically, Friday doesn’t count as the weekend, neither does Sunday, and the only night you can have fun is Saturday. Okay then.

I get about halfway through the stack before I give up. I’ll finish the rest later. My brain isn’t equipped for this much boredom.

I head to my new bedroom. My approach to packing up my room in the old townhouse was very utilitarian. Much to my mother’s dismay, I shoved most of my clothes and linens into garbage bags. Not pretty, but efficient. I rummage through the linens bag and find a new set of sheets and pillowcases. Another garbage bag houses a duvet and cover. After I make the bed, I sit at the foot of it, wriggle my phone out of my pocket, and dial my mom’s number.

“Hello!” she answers happily. “Are you all done?”

“Yup, the guys just left. Couch, TV, and bed are all set up.”

“Good. What about the condo in general? Do you like it? Are you happy with the paint colors we chose for the kitchen? And the backsplash? I thought the white tile was more tasteful.”

“It all looks great,” I assure her. “I mean it. Thanks again for everything you did. I couldn’t have decorated it more perfectly myself.”

Mom literally chose it all: the paint swatches, the artwork for the walls. The random shit I probably wouldn’t have even thought about, like dish racks and coat hangers.

“Of course,” she says. “Anything for my kid. Have you—Maryanne! No! Give me that baking soda!” Her voice grows muffled as she reprimands my little sister. Then she’s back, and I hear her clearly again. “Sorry. Your sister is driving me up the wall. She’s trying to build a modified bottle rocket.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“They learned how to make mini bottle rockets at camp last week and she found a way to modify it so it’s more powerful.” Mom curses under her breath. “This is what we get for sending her to space camp.”

“I thought she was doing geology camp.”

“No, that’s in August.”

Only my little sister would be attending not one but two science camps in the span of a summer. Luckily, this doesn’t make her a nerd because she’s legitimately the coolest ten-year-old I’ve ever met in my life. Maryanne is awesome. So are my parents, for that matter. We’ve always been super tight.

“Anyway, what else did I want to ask you?” she says thoughtfully. “Oh right. The three other condos in Red Birch. What about your neighbors? Have you met any of them?”

“Just one. She was outside her apartment buck naked when we got here.”

“What? You’re joking?” Mom gasps.

“Nope. She was chasing after a cat and dropped her towel. Best accident I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Don’t be gross, Shane.”

I laugh to myself. “Sorry. Anyway, don’t worry. She hates my guts, so we’re all good.”

“What? That isn’t good at all. Why doesn’t she like you?”

“Oh, I know her from Briar—she’s a friend of a friend. It’s fine. I don’t consider her a real neighbor. I’m sure the other ones are awesome and not at all obnoxious.”

We chat for a bit longer, and I make plans to come home to Vermont at the end of the week for a couple days. After I end the call, I wonder who else might be in town this week. If any old high school friends are visiting for the summer and—

Is this what we’re doing now? a voice in my head mocks. Lying to ourselves?

Oh fuck. Fine. I wonder if Lynsey will be there. And I know I shouldn’t wonder. Or care. Because we broke up a little over a year ago, and that’s a fuckin’ long time to still be thinking about someone.

Fortunately, my phone buzzes with an incoming text before I can dwell on how pathetic I am for still being hung up on my ex-girlfriend.

I ran into her in town earlier when the boys and I grabbed coffee from Starbucks before heading over here. She’s cute. Dark, shiny hair. Great smile. Even greater rack. We exchanged numbers while standing in line, much to the amusement of Beckett and Will.

Since I need to redirect my brain ASAP, I waste no time composing a response to Crystal. The last thing I want to do tonight is sit here obsessing over my ex. I’m better than that. And hornier.

I guess I should also mention that Crystal is a cheerleader at Briar. Yup. Another one of Diana’s teammates.

Look at me, breaking all the Dixon rules.