"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. Places 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?"