Playing, p.41
Playing, page 41
"It's more than that." I trace the lines on the back of his hand. His wrist. His forearm.
He nods. "It's a rush."
"And?"
"I like feeling in control."
Heat floods my cheeks. My chest. My sex. "Like you do during sex."
His expression gets intense as his eyes bore into mine. "Kay—"
"You don't talk about this with Dean?"
"You and I aren't friends like me and Dean."
"Well, yeah, I'm not an asshole. If you're embarrassed or something—"
He raises a brow try harder next time. He motions to the backpack, swiftly jumping over the subject. "It is perfect for you."
"Because it's feminine?"
He nods. "And innocent."
"Yeah?" We are friends and friends can talk about sex. "Like an untouched flower?"
"Didn't realize you were into that."
I nod as I slide the backpack off. Examine its pockets. "You know me. Boy crazy."
"You've dated."
This really is a nice backpack. Laptop pouch. Plenty of space for books. "Mostly double dates with Emma."
"You want to go on those?" There's an edge to his voice. But is it because he's looking out for me or because he's jealous?
"Sometimes." I try to focus on the pouches on the table. They're perfect for makeup. School supplies. Tampons.
He stares back at me. "You ever like any of these guys you date?"
"Sometimes."
He steps forward, planting his foot in front of me. "You kiss them?"
"Sometimes."
"More?"
His posture is strong, powerful, from his all black converse to the tip of his dark hair.
How am I supposed to answer when he's looking at me like that—like he's in control of the entire universe?
I pick up a fuchsia pencil case and undo its zipper. "You want to know this because?"
"Making conversation." His voice wavers.
It's more than that.
I want to know how much more. To know how far along he is on the I'll never think about you again/we're totally just friends journey.
I move away from the bags—this is enough—and start wandering through the first floor.
He follows. "Do you?"
I stop at the jewelry counter and pretend to examine a set of silver earrings. My eyes flit between him and the glass display case. Is he jealous? I'm not sure. "I have."
His jaw cricks. His hands curl into half-fists then unfurl.
He is jealous.
The thought fills me with feminine power.
"You let guys feel you up?" Envy drips into his voice.
I stare into his eyes. "Sometimes."
He stares back. "You let them touch your cunt?"
"What?" My cheeks flush. The salesgirl is only a dozen feet away. She's talking to another customer. Did she hear? Did both of them?
"You let guys stroke you to orgasm?"
"That isn't the word you used."
He wraps his hand around my wrist and leads me to the escalator. "It made you flinch."
"No."
"Yeah."
"No." I make eye contact through the mirrored wall. We look like opposites the way we always do—dark and masculine versus light and girly. But we look good together. "It didn't faze me at all."
He raises a brow. Breaks our mirror eye contact to turn to me. "Really?"
"Really." In theory.
Brendon leans in to whisper. He combs my hair back, behind my ear. "Then say it."
I move onto the next step. Then onto the second-floor tile. There's nothing but clothes here.
I turn and step onto the next up escalator.
Brendon follows. It's just us, on the way to the third floor.
"I, uh... do you always use that word?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"It's so vulgar."
"There's a power in vulgar. You're a writer. I'm sure I don't have to explain it to you."
"Right." It is a powerful word. I can't deny that. "It doesn't bother me."
"Bullshit."
"It doesn't."
He lets out a low chuckle. "Then say it."
"I can."
"Go ahead."
I step onto the third floor. Look around. No one nearby.
Okay. I can do this.
I can totally do this.
I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, ready the word on my tongue. "Cu..." My cheeks flush. "Cunt."
"Like it means something to you."
I stare at the white tile floor. The fluorescent lights are casting a yellow gaze. "Cunt."
Brendon laughs. "You can admit it bothers you."
"It doesn't."
"Then look me in the eyes when you say it."
I stare back into Brendon's dark eyes. I have to prove this. That I'm not this pathetic good girl who can't even say a dirty word. "Cu..." God, I'm going to die of embarrassment. But I hold strong. I push past my blush. "Cunt."
A salesguy is moving in our direction. I turn to the left. To the home goods. So no one will hear us.
Or see me blushing like a tomato.
He takes the backpack from me. Replaces it with my purse. His fingertips skim my neck. My collarbone.
It's like he's reminding me I'm his.
But I'm not.
He's made that abundantly clear.
"Have you?" he asks.
"What?"
He shakes his head no. "Have you ever let a guy between your legs?" That same jealousy seeps into his voice.
"Did you bet Dean about that too?"
"No."
"Will you tell him?"
"No. I shouldn't have told him shit."
Maybe. But I want him bragging to his friends about us. About being with me. I want him so infatuated with me, with my body, with fucking me, that he can't keep his mouth shut.
"Are you going to tell him about this conversation?"
"No." He chuckles. "I don't need anyone knowing I'm corrupting you."
I move forward. To the expensive notebooks. They're muted. Masculine. Dark. I pick up a black one. It's leather-bound with a magnetic snap. "You are?"
"I just got you to say cunt in a shopping mall."
My laugh is more nervous than anything. "I liked it."
"Even worse."
"No, like you said." I force myself to turn back to him. To look him in the eyes. I can't stand Brendon thinking he isn't good for me. Even if this whole hot and cold act of his is driving me bonkers. "It's a powerful word. A tool."
"You're only interested as a writer?"
I nod.
"And I only watch porn as an artist."
Fuck, why does he make it so hard to hold his gaze? My cheeks are burning. I stammer something. "Well... yeah... you need to study the human figure."
"And that's why you read dirty books, to study the prose?"
"Yeah. I don't need them for fantasies. My imagination is plenty active. You... I guess you haven't read any of my fan fiction."
"I'm still waiting on that story about Draco tying up Harry."
"Have you even read Harry Potter?"
"I know the gist."
"I haven't... I have to do more research still." I run my fingers over the edges of the notebook.
He brushes a stray hair from my eyes then takes the notebook in my hands. Runs his fingers over the cover. "This is exactly what you need."
"So I can fill it with cunt?" I manage to say the word without blushing.
He chuckles. "So you can fill it with whatever grabs onto you and refuses to let go." He flips the snap, bends the spine, drags his fingers over the paper. "This is a serious notebook. For a serious writer."
"But I'm not—"
"You could be."
"Why does it matter so much to you?"
"Because you matter that much to me."
Chapter Twenty-One
Brendon
Days pass in a blur. Kaylee in workout clothes in the morning. Emma at the breakfast table, groaning about an early shift. A back piece—a tiger hiding in the bushes. Two best friends getting matching ink. A guy who says nothing, simply hands me an abstract design, and tips an extra hundred dollars in cash.
Dean reminding Ryan they're about to be on equal footing.
Ryan growling and rolling his eyes.
The quiet in the house.
My sister attempting her summer reading.
Kaylee's laugh from Emma's room.
A night out with Ryan. A quiet grunt-hey-raise our beers-nod-drink kind of night.
Another long day at work. Dad duties at dinner with Emma. With Kaylee right there, those big green eyes all contemplative and innocent.
Another night out with Dean and Walker at a too loud dance club. They take turns picking out one-night stands. And teasing me about holding out for "sweet virgin pussy."
Sunday night, I get home late. Strip out of my sweaty clothes. Scrub clean in the shower.
I step into my bedroom wrapped in a towel. Something catches my eye. A light in the hallway.
It's a flicker. Then it's gone again.
I move toward the hall. Watch Emma's doorframe. Nothing for a while. Then the light flickers over it.
It's coming from Kaylee's room.
I should ignore it.
Continue avoiding her.
Do whatever it takes to keep my fly zipped.
I don't.
I pull on boxers and jeans. Move into the hallway with soft steps.
She stirs. Her footsteps move toward the door.
"Hey," she whispers through the door. "You okay?"
No. I'm not going to be okay until she's out of my head. Until my fucking head goes back to normal—so it's filled with details of action movies, and punk songs, and tattoo mockups, and one-night stands, and every awful thing my parents ever said to me.
Until that space is mine and not hers.
"Brendon?"
"I got something for you. Give me a minute." Fuck, there's something wrong with me. Too much. I know better than to invite myself into her room in the middle of the night.
This is not how you resist temptation.
Kaylee looking up at me with those doe eyes, her hands on my skin, her body curled into mine—I can barely resist that when we're vertical.
If we're horizontal?
Fuck this. I shake my head. Skip right over thoughts of baseball and action movies, straight to shop finances.
We're signing the papers tomorrow. Making it official.
But there's more to take care of. We need to hire an extra hand. Or two. And Ryan is refusing to even consider it.
The man hates change.
I grab Kaylee's gift and pull on a t-shirt. Force my thoughts to the shop. To salaries and profits and per hour rates. To schedules and how much more we could make if we plugged a few gaps.
Fuck, I should have paid more attention in high school. Taken some business classes at SMC. Something. I was too busy proving I didn't give a fuck about anything to care about the things that mattered.
I move into the hallway.
Kaylee's door is open.
And she's there, sitting up on her bed, in a thin cream tank top and deep blue boxer shorts with white bicycles on them.
I press the door shut behind me.
I let my eyes roam her body. Her strap is falling off her shoulder. Her top is clinging to her tits. Her nipples are hard.
She presses her knees together. Plants her palms on her soft thighs. Her nails—painted Bruins blue—dig into her skin.
She looks up at me. "I haven't seen much of you."
"We're busy with contracts. And clients. We need to hire help."
She nods. "What kind of help do you need?"
"Another artist."
"Not my expertise."
"If Leighton decides to apprentice, we'll need someone to take her job."
"You want me working the front desk?"
"Why not? You're there all the time now." Not lately. She's avoiding me as much as I'm avoiding her.
"Because—" She draws a circle around herself with her hand. Turns to show off her bare shoulders, one at a time. "I'm unadorned."
"Guys would fall over themselves trying to convince you to ink up. They'd get their work done at the shop so they could flirt with you." Which is a good reason to discourage her. I want to deck Dean whenever he flirts with Kaylee and I know he's only doing it to fuck with me. If it were some other guy, one who wouldn't think twice about treating her like a cum-dumpster? Fuck, I'd break my hand within a month.
"What if I said yes?"
"As long as I do the work."
"Yeah?" She scoots back on her bed and lowers herself onto her back. "You trust yourself?"
Trust myself with my hands on her skin? Fuck no. But— "More than I trust anyone else."
She turns toward me and props up on one elbow. "Maybe I can help convince Ryan. If there are numbers supporting it. Math isn't my best subject—"
"You got an A minus in Calculus."
"See. Not my best."
I arch a brow.
She laughs. "That was my worst grade."
"Of course it was."
"Hey, I didn't tell you to spend your high school career hanging out with druggies and burn outs."
"You sure? I thought that was you."
This laugh is bigger. It gets her light hair falling in her face. Her strap sliding off her shoulder. "Are you gonna stay awhile?"
"Yeah."
"Good." She grabs her glasses from the bedside table and slides them on.
I take a seat on the bed next to her. "I have something for you. Close your eyes."
"Okay." Her lids flutter together. She turns toward me. Every part of her body is expectant. Her back is arched. Her lips are pursed. Her thighs are pressed together.
She wants me to kiss her.
Touch her.
Fuck her.
I want that too.
Fuck, how I want that...
Snap out of it.
I shake my head as I place the notebook in Kaylee's hands. "You can open your eyes."
She does. Her gaze goes right to the leather-bound journal in her hands. "Brendon. This was too expensive."
"My money."
"But, you—isn't this everything you hate? Some mass-produced notebook that costs way too much."
"I'm not that guy anymore." I'm not sure who I am now. Not beyond work and family. Usually, that's enough. But the way Kaylee looks at me—it begs me to fill in all the gaps.
I want to be the kind of guy who deserves her.
"It's so pretty." She traces a heart on the cover. "I'm not sure I can actually write in it." She places the journal on her bedside table and turns toward me. "Thank you."
"Of course."
She scoots forward. Wraps her arms around me. Buries her head in my chest. "Really, Brendon. Thank you."
Fuck, she smells good. Her touch is soft. Sweet. Like she believes I deserve her. "I brought you something else."
"Where?"
"Here." I pull the folded paper from my back pocket. "Our deal."
"Oh." Her cheeks flush as she unfolds the paper. She takes it in slowly.
It's an old piece. A self-portrait. It was right after the accident. When I carried around the weight of it on my shoulders twenty-four seven.
It's a lighter burden now, but it's still there.
My parents died thinking I was worthless.
My last words to them were about how awful they were.
"When did you do this?" She runs her fingers over the faded paper.
"Forever ago."
She nods as she looks up at me. "It's beautiful. But sad."
I'm not sure what to say. I don't share my work with people. Tattoos are someone else's blood and guts. I can show the entire world that.
"There's a lot of hurt there," she whispers. "Do you still feel like that?"
"Less, but yeah."
"I'm sorry. It must have been hard, everything with your parents. And taking care of Em."
"Taking care of Em was the only thing that kept me going."
She turns over so she's on her side. "You're sweet."
I shake my head.
She nods. "You hide it well, but you are."
Her words twist something in my gut. She sees too much of me. More than I can handle. "You can't talk your way out of this."
"This?"
I nod to her purple notebook, the one sitting on her desk.
"Oh." Her cheeks flush. "Right now?"
"Right now." I let my fingertips brush her hip. Her side. "Why are you up so late?"
"School starts tomorrow." She pushes herself to her feet. Grabs the journal. Hugs it to her chest. "I can't sleep."
"Change is always scary."
She nods. "You seem to roll with it."
"What ever changes in my life?"
"Emma's hair color."
I can't help but chuckle.
She climbs back into bed. Brushes her fingers against my upper arm. Then she's tracing the lines of the tattoo going down to my elbow. "This. It's new."
"Depends on your definition of new."
"You're like Em with her hair. You look different every time I see you."
"Every time?"
"Every few weeks."
"I have to slow down." I stare back into her gorgeous green eyes. "I'm running out of skin."
She drags her fingers over my forearm, presses her palm against all the bare skin. "You have plenty." She drags her fingers over my stomach. Plays with the hem of my t-shirt. "And here."
"And there." I soak in her touch as her fingers skim my bare skin.
"You've always wanted to do tattoos. As long as I've known you."
"Yeah."
"What is it about them you love?"
"Everything."
"But specifically." She traces the ink over my hip all the way to the waistband of my jeans. "You... you practically left your family over them."
Yeah, I did. I was a little shit, but then it was the only way. I was never going to be good enough for my parents. "It feels right."
"That's it?"
"What else is there?" I watch her trace the outlines of my skin. Watch her eyes travel over my body. Watch her lips purse with a sigh.
She wants me.
I want her.
We're both in a fucking bed.
I should pull back. I should at least get vertical.
