His secrets.
None of my business.
I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap holding the pages together.
This is his.
It's private.
Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.
I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.
When he's alone, period.
God, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking.
This is wrong. What if it was your journal?
I force myself to set the book down.
To sit on the bed.
To cross my legs. Fold my hands. Keep my gaze on the floor.
I shouldn't look.
But this is the only chance I'm going to get.
If I don't look, I'll never get inside his head.
I'll never know what he's thinking.
I'll never know if he's thinking about me.
I place the book in my lap and pry it open. The first few pages are familiar tattoo mockups—Brendon always shows off his finished work. Or maybe I check the shop's Facebook religiously. Either way.
Then there are figure drawings. More tattoo mockups. A fierce dragon defending a castle. A giant octopus destroying a sea monster. A topless mermaid sunning on a rock.
A librarian pin up.
Only...
No.
She looks like me. Same champagne blond hair. Same green eyes. Same pretty pink cardigan. Same thick blue glasses. These aren't exactly standard frames.
And she's wearing a Mockingjay pin.
Exactly like the one attached to my backpack.
That's nothing. Lots of people like The Hunger Games. Even Brendon.
There's no way he's looking at me like this.
My heartbeat picks up.
My breath flees my body at an alarming rate.
I shouldn't turn the page, but I can't stop myself.
It's that same pin up, only her cardigan is unbuttoned. Her breasts are exposed.
In the next picture, she's lying on her back, her arms over her head, her cardigan binding her wrists.
The next.
That's me. Splayed out over this bed. Naked. Bound to the railing.
I turn the page.
Fuck.
I suck a deep breath between my teeth.
I press my thighs together.
I'm on my knees, resting on my heels, looking up.
Naked.
Waiting.
Hungry.
He wants me.
Brendon wants me.
Chapter Eight
Brendon
Kaylee pushes her glasses up her nose. "I think I have everything."
It's Tuesday morning. Our furniture date. More than twelve hours since this place officially became Kay's.
A night on the couch didn't do shit to help with my head space.
I'm exhausted. It lowers my inhibitions. Gets me saying all the shit I want to say to her.
Looking at her the way I want to.
"You have everything?" she asks.
I nod and try to keep my eyes off her tits.
Fuck, the way her sun dress is falling down her chest—
I know she doesn't wear this shit to torture me. I know Emma curated half of Kaylee's wardrobe.
But I don't see my sister's handiwork when I look at her. I don't see the kid I'm supposed to protect.
I see long legs, lush tits, soft lips, sweet green eyes—
I want to rip off her cotton panties.
I want to pin her to the table and lick her until she's groaning my name.
She's not going to stay a virgin forever.
Someone is going to be her first.
It should be someone she trusts.
Someone who will make sure she comes.
Someone who will teach her every fucking thing she needs to know.
"You... you ready, Brendon?" She looks up at me with those soft green eyes.
What the hell is wrong with me?
This isn't about my cock.
Or my hands or lips or my tongue.
Kaylee is here because her parents bailed on her. Because her grandma is sick. Because she needs someone to protect her.
That's what I signed up for.
There's no way I'm taking advantage of that trust.
Yeah, this isn't how I imagined my life when I was her age. That guy would kill somebody if he knew he was going to grow up to get his furniture at Ikea.
And, fuck, if he had any idea how much pop-rock he'd listen to on the way—
I'm not proud of what a judgmental shit I used to be. But I did stand for something. Well, against something. Against all the bullshit my parents jammed down my throat.
Now that I am a parent—legally, at least—I get it.
It's hard taking care of someone. Wanting what's best for them. Trying to figure out where to draw the line.
That doesn't excuse my mom's constant reminders that I'd never be good enough.
But it does explain them.
I promised myself Emma would never go through any of the shit I did. That she'd never hear that who she was or what she wanted was wrong. But fuck, it's hard. She tests my resolve all the time.
Even Kaylee pushes my resolve.
"Brendon? You okay?" Her voice is soft. Caring.
"Yeah." I push myself to my feet.
She stares at my empty coffee mug. "You're going to leave that there?"
I nod.
"I'm fine with that." She slides her purse onto her shoulder. The grey one with the gorilla key chain. "Really, I am."
"Of course."
She tries and fails to pry her eyes away. "Really?"
I chuckle. "Not that it bothers you."
"You're doing it on purpose."
"Why would I do that?"
"Cruelty." She grabs the mug, brings it to the sink, shoots me a you win look. "Why else?"
She's adorable flustered.
Too adorable.
It's sending my thoughts straight to my bedroom. To her splayed out on my black sheets, wearing nothing but those glasses and that tiny turquoise cardigan.
"Brendon?" Her fingers curl around my forearm. Her index finger slips. Traces the lines of my sleeve tattoo. "We can leave later if you have something to do."
Yeah, I do, but it's going to take all fucking day.
Go to my room, take off your dress, sit on the bed and wait for me.
"And delay our three-dollar meatballs?" I force my voice to something light. "I don't think so."
She follows me to the car. Her cheeks flush as she folds her arms over her chest. She tugs at her purse, pulling it closer. "Three dollar meatballs?"
"Ikea."
"Ikea?" Kaylee arches a brow. "Really?"
I nod.
She pushes her blue glasses up her nose. "Why?"
"Three-dollar meatballs are enough of a reason."
"Ew."
"They're good. Try them." I let the back of my hand brush against her arm as I lead her to the car.
She moves around the back and reaches for the passenger-side door. "I'll consider it."
I unlock the car and pull the door open. "You trust me?"
She shoots me a really look as she slides inside. "It has nothing to do with trust."
"Nothing?"
"Yeah, nothing." She clicks her seatbelt. Sets her purse in her lap. Plays with its strap. "No offense, Brendon, but don't you have more money than that?"