Yes.
I add each class to my schedule. Latin Mondays and Wednesdays at ten. American Literature after lunch. Chemistry and Creative writing Tuesday and Thursday. Recitation Monday and Tuesday afternoons.
There.
It's done.
Brendon smiles as he offers me his hand.
I take it.
Squeeze tightly.
Move the cursor over submit.
Click.
Congratulations.
It's done.
And I'm officially a college student.
I jump to my feet.
Brendon gets to his.
Wraps his arms around me.
It doesn't feel like a platonic hug.
But it feels too good for me to complain.
Chapter Twenty
Kaylee
It's well past midnight when I finally float down from my high. I'm not sure exactly why I'm buzzing. If it's mostly because of his arms around me or if it's mostly nerves about school.
But I don't really care.
I need both.
So, when Brendon offers to take me shopping for school supplies, I jump. Insist we do it on a day I know Emma works.
It's not like I'm desperate to get him alone.
Not at all.
I grab Brendon's wrist as we step into Macy's.
We turn to the right, past the shiny shoes. Through the wall of perfume—I have to turn to my side, to face him, to avoid scents in my nose and eyes.
Past the makeup counters stocked with forty-dollar foundation and twenty-dollar lipstick. The kind of stuff Emma brags about buying with her employee discount.
Right to the handbags.
Huh?
"You have a Louis Vuitton obsession I should know about?" I tease.
"Who?" He raises a brow.
I point to the designer bags to our left. They're iconic. Brown with a tan logo.
Brendon steps forward. Checks the price tag. "Fuck. Really? For that?"
Several hundred dollars for a scrap of leather is obscene. But, hey, what do I know what it's like to have money? "You never spend on something you don't need?"
"Need is relative."
"Capitalism is for scum?"
He chuckles. "There's a line somewhere, yeah." He sets the bag down. "Would you buy one of those bags?"
"No. They're ugly."
"And I'm harsh?"
I laugh. "The color scheme doesn't do it for me."
"What about this?" He points to a similar bag in bright pink. Moves close enough to check the price tag. "Is this walking advertisement worth two weeks of waiting tables?"
"Not to me."
"But to someone?"
"It's a status symbol."
He raises a brow. "And that's a good thing?"
"I don't know. I'm never going to have status."
"I'm calling it now. When you write the next Hunger Games, you're going to spend your advance on hideous overpriced bags." His voice floats to that teasing tone. His dark eyes light up.
"I am not," I tease back. "But so what if I did? What's wrong with wanting people to see you as well off?"
He shakes his head. "That's what my mom was like. She needed a new car. A remodeled kitchen. The latest fashions. Even her nail polish was trendy."
"I remember." Sort of. "Is that really all she was?"
"No." His voice gets soft. "But that was too much of it. She wanted that for all of us. For me and Em too."
"Yeah?" I press my lips together. Brendon never talks about his late parents. Ever. And his expression—there's a softness to it. That's rare. I want every drop of it.
"Yeah. She wanted me to be this guy who wore Dockers and drove a BMW to high school."
"And you wanted to tattoo punk lyrics on your skin?"
"Basically." He takes a step forward. "I was never gonna be the kind of guy she wanted me to be."
"But you... you are a great guy. You know that, right?"
He says nothing. Turns back to me and looks me in the eyes. "Let's say I give you a grand to buy whatever you want."
"You will not."
"It's a hypothetical."
"I prefer actual cash."
"Don't we all." He chuckles. "Say I give you a grand. Say you have to spend it here. What will you buy?"
"One very expensive designer purse."
"Bullshit."
"Em would buy one."
"Em is Em."
"Still... I don't think it's wrong. Your mom was into a certain image, yeah. But you are too. It's just different." I drag my fingertips over his sleeve tattoo, tracing the lines from his wrist up to his bicep. "How much did this cost?"
His tongue slides over his lips. His eyelids flutter together. He's soaking up my touch.
But only for a second.
Then he's looking at me like he can control every one of his senses. "More than that purse."
"How much more?"
"More than you make in a month."
"A summer month?"
"Yeah."
Damn. I'm not exactly rolling in it, but I work a lot in the summer. And summers are busy. Tips are good.
"Don't give me that look."
"What look?" I stare into his deep eyes, trying to find... something. I'm not sure.
"I'm not like my parents." Hurt flares in his expression.
"I know. Just... we all care about how we appear to others. I know I do. I want people to think I'm strong and smart."
"You are."
I bite my lip. I'm not arguing this point, no matter how much I disagree.
He takes my hand. Leads me toward the colorful bags and backpacks to our left. The ones next to the giant silver gorilla. Kipling. My favorite. Half my bags are this brand.
Has he been paying that much attention?
His gaze goes to the backpacks on the wall. He picks up a teal one and turns back to me. "It matches your eyes."
It kinda does. "It's cute."
"Not cute enough for you." He sets it back down. Picks up a pink one next to it.
It's a beautiful shade of pink—halfway between pastel and Barbie bright.
He moves back to me.
His fingertips skim my bare skin as he peels my purse off my shoulder then slides the backpack over my arms, one at a time.
They brush my neck as he pushes my hair to one side.
I feel his touch everywhere.
I can't do friends.
Not even a little.
Not with the way my body is buzzing.
I want his body.
And his heart.
I want him to know me.
I want to crumble in his arms and let down every one of my defenses. To admit how terrified I am. About school and Grandma and my parents. And everything.
"How's that?" His breath warms my ear.
My knees knock together.
My sex cries out for attention.
My heart too.
Please, someone, somewhere. Please let me have him. I'm losing everything else. I just want this one little thing.
I force myself to turn toward the mirror. The backpack is cute and comfortable. But— "Pink? Really?"
"Pink is perfect for you."
"It's impractical."
"Then explain this." He holds up my dainty pink purse.
"Purses are supposed to be cute. Backpacks are utility."
"What about that bright blue Jansport with lyrics all over it?"
"You used to complain that I put too much pop music on it."
His eyes light up as he smiles. "If you'd just put something by The Dead Kennedys."
"How about The Smiths?"
"I'm not wearing eyeliner no matter how many times you ask."
I laugh and blush at the same time. Mmmm. Brendon in eyeliner. What a beautiful mental image. "How about Garbage or Hole? Something angry with instruments I can hear?"
He gives me a slow once over. "Why do you scribble lyrics on everything?"
I look up into his eyes. "Why do you
have ink everywhere?"
"I asked first."
"I guess, I want to make it mine."
"But it's someone else's words."
"But when I put them together, they feel like mine. Besides, did you ever hear of someone getting lyrics they wrote as a tattoo?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"I did them once."
"Name. Dropper."
He shrugs, playing coy. "A huge pop star known for how much she hates her exes."
"Bullshit." It really is. "Why do you have so many tattoos?"
"Same reason."
"You want to mark your body?"
He nods. "Honestly?"
"Yeah." I press my lips together. He's going to tell me something he doesn't tell anyone. I need that. Every drop of it.
"At first, I wanted to piss off my mom. To prove to her, and myself I guess, that I'd never be a khaki wearing, golf playing yuppie."
"Did it work?"
"Yeah. She wrote me off right away."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was for the best. It hurt less when they..." His voice trails off. Like he doesn't believe it.
It must hurt. Even if things were tense. Just thinking about Grandma—it makes my entire body heavy. Which is why I'm currently rocking a nice state of denial. As long as I don't know the details, I can pretend things will be okay.
"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 o
nly 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.
Tempting Page 12
