Dirty Deal

by Crystal Kaswell

  "Your brother is a guy."

  Emma scoffs. Her nose scrunches. It lights up her dark eyes—the same deep brown as mine. She runs her fingers through her violet hair and just barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes.

  Kaylee's fingers brush the back of my hand as she turns toward Emma. "Sorry, Em, but it's undeniable. Just look at him."

  Emma sticks out her tongue and mouths gross. "Mr. Look What a Brooding Bad Boy I Am will be here tomorrow." She grabs Kaylee's hand and pulls her toward the door. "These other guys won't." Emma looks to me. "You don't have to stay and supervise."

  "Nice try," I say.

  Emma laughs. She blows me a kiss then turns back to her best friend. "Don't wait up."

  Kaylee's eyes meet mine. "Did you mean it?"

  One part of me did. The rest of me knows better. I play coy. Shrug.

  "I'll collect eventually."

  "Birthdays only."

  "Even so."

  I watch her round hips sway as she walks away.

  Fuck, that dress...

  Fuck me.

  How the hell am I going to get this girl out of my head?

  Chapter 2

  Kaylee

  I'm never drinking again.

  Ever.

  The pounding headache, cotton mouth, and torn up stomach are reason enough.

  But the loss of inhibitions?

  No. Thank. You.

  I push myself out of Emma's bed—she's still in her shiny silver cocktail dress and most of her makeup—and slink to the bathroom across the hall.

  There's noise downstairs. The drip of a coffee maker. The scratch of a spatula. The steady footsteps of a man I can never look in the eyes again.

  Not after last night.

  I want a birthday kiss.

  Ugh.

  Inhibitions are underrated. Criminally underrated. They keep you from making a fool of yourself.

  They keep you from stepping out of line.

  They keep you safe, period.

  If it weren't for my inhibitions, everyone would know. And no one would look at me the way they do now—like it's possible I'm on my way to becoming a strong, independent woman.

  I pee. Shower. Brush my teeth. Grab my pastel pink makeup bag—the one I adorned in song lyrics—and pick out exactly what I need.

  Emma is the one who got me into makeup, but we wear it so differently. For her, it's fun. A way to express herself. To experiment.

  For me, it's another necessary component of my shield. No one asks if you're okay if you look polished and awake. Nobody dives past the surface. Which means nobody gets closer than they should.

  After I clean every spilled drop of powder foundation from the counter and towel-dry my hair, I head back to Emma's room.

  She's out like a light. Her shoes, bag, and jewelry are strewn around the room. I take a moment to put everything away—hers and mine.

  I practically live here. Which is why the room is as clean as it is.

  I love Emma. She's my best friend, the only person I trust. Well, besides Grandma.

  I say this with love.

  She's a slob. A proud slob. One who insists she prefers her room messy. Supposedly, it inspires her creativity.

  I don't care.

  I can't stand it.

  We fight about my clean-up efforts all the time. Usually, I get Brendon on my side. Usually, he delivers one of those I don't care if you're technically an adult, my house, my rules dad lines of his.

  But right now...

  I'm not sure how I'm going to face him after last night.

  I check my phone. No texts from my parents, not since the see you after work tomorrow, sweetie ones I got last night. My Facebook is still flush with Happy Birthday notifications from people I haven't talked to since middle school.

  It's kind of nice to feel popular. Even if it's obviously fake. Don't get me wrong. I'm friendly with lots of people. Most of the people I know, save all the reporters on the school paper who complained about my high standards, think I'm sweet, nice, easy going. And they're right. Sort of.

  But they're not my friends.

  They don't know me. They only know the pretty, polished Kaylee who gets straight As and smiles a perfect customer service smile no matter how ridiculous the complaint.

  My stomach growls as the smell of bacon wafts into the room. Then it screams food, no thank you.

  Bacon isn't happening.

  But I should eat something.

  I should get this torture over with.

  Brendon is my best friend's older brother. I can't avoid him forever.

  I pack my bag, change into my work clothes, and slink downstairs.

  The white light of morning falls over the wide-open room. It casts Brendon in an angelic glow—so not him, but so right all the same.

  God, those dark eyes, that black hair, the strong features—

  I want to drink in every inch of him.

  And I'm not even gawking at his chiseled torso or his ink yet.

  He moves from his spot in the kitchen, behind the oven, and turns toward me. "Hey."

  "Hey." I keep my voice even. Casual. Like I didn't ask him to kiss me. Like he didn't offer to spank me. Like I get that he was teasing, that it didn't mean anything, and not like I spent the entire night imagining him pulling me onto his lap.

  "You look fucking awful, Kay."

  "Hey." I brush my hair onto my right shoulder. "It's not my fault Emma threw away her blow dryer so she wouldn't fry her hair further."

  His lips spread into a smile that lights up his dark eyes.

  My knees knock together.

  That's all it takes for me to crumble—his smile.

  But, God, it's a gorgeous smile.

  Has it always been this hard to breathe around Brendon? I'm not ashamed to say I've had a crush on him since the first day I saw him on that couch all tall, handsome, and brooding.

  But it's been the better part of a decade.

  There have been other guys. Dates. Boyfriends. Sloppy make out sessions at parties.

  And that big chunk of time last year where I didn't want anyone or anything.

  "You always look good." He motions to the table sit. "It's your expression."

  "Yeah?" I don't want to take orders from him—well, not while we're both dressed—but with the hangover and the lust mixing together sitting is all I can manage.

  I take a seat, cross my legs, smooth my button up shirt. The restaurant switched to black shirts six months ago. They hide stains better, but they also suck up all the energy in the room.

  "You want tea?" he asks.

  "I can make it."

  "I know."

  "I want to make it."

  He shoots me that same stern look. "Which one?"

  I press my lips together. I keep a dozen boxes of different teas here. "Iron Goddess of Mercy."

  He chuckles. "Suits you."

  "You've used that one before."

  "It still suits you."

  My laugh breaks up the tension in my chest. I'm nowhere near close to badass enough for a label like that, but there are ways that it fits.

  Brendon turns on the kettle. Grabs a mug and a tin of tea from the top cabinet.

  I try not to obsess over the way his t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders. "You're up early."

  "You too."

  "I couldn't sleep."

  "Hmm."

  "What's hmm?"

  "It's hmm."

  "It's something."

  The kettle steams. He pours water into the mug with those strong, steady hands of his. It's not just that I think about what his hands would feel like on my body.

  I do.

  But I also watch him work.

  It's a thing of beauty, watching Brendon draw on paper or on someone's skin. Okay, everything he does is a thing of beauty. But when he's working on a tattoo, he gets this look in his eyes.

  Like there's nothing else in the world.

  Like he's exactly where he belongs.


  I want that. To know what I'm supposed to do, where I'm supposed to be.

  There are only two times I feel at home: when I'm reading and when I'm writing.

  But neither of those are a career.

  I can't write Hunger Games fan fiction full time.

  I'm too embarrassed to show anyone but Grandma said fan fiction.

  "I'm not gonna lecture you about drinking too much." He crosses the room, sets my cup on the table in front of me. His eyes lock with mine. "I'm just glad you feel like shit."

  "You're cruel."

  "You're just figuring that out?"

  My smile spreads over my lips as I shake my head. "Why are you up this early?"

  "I'll give you one guess."

  "A tattoo."

  He nods.

  "Doesn't the shop open at ten?"

  "Yeah. This guy is an old friend."

  "You mean an interesting tattoo."

  He smirks as he scoops eggs onto plates. Two plates. "You know me too well."

  "Can I see?" I love seeing his work, but he's secretive about his faded black sketchbook. When he isn't reading or watching TV, he's drawing tattoos in that book.

  "If you eat."

  My shoulders tense.

  Who the hell does he think he is telling me when I should eat?

  I'm the only person who says what I do with my body.

  But I should eat.

  And I need to see that sketchbook.

  If Brendon wants to believe I'm taking his bribe, that's fine by me.

  I nod an okay.

  Brendon brings our plates to the table. He sits across from me and fixes his coffee with a splash of milk and a hint of sugar.

  He brings his mug to his lips and takes a long sip.

  I do the same with my tea. Mmm, sweet, sweet caffeine. Nutty, rich, warm oolong.

  "So," I say. "Where's the tattoo mockup?"

  He grabs his worn black sketchbook from the chair next to his and starts flipping through the pages.

  This is a normal morning.

  Like nothing happened last night.

  Like we're still friends. Just friends.

  And as much as I hate that we're just friends, it's better than pretty much every other reasonable possibility.

  My opening shift drags on forever. It's a slow Friday morning, but my manager Jake talks me into staying late to cover for someone who called in sick.

  Em chides me about being a pushover, but it's not like that. It's about taking responsibility. If I don't do it, no one will.

  Besides, I need the tip money.

  I get home a hundred dollars richer—and that's not counting the California state minimum wage that comes with my paycheck.

  I live with my parents, in an apartment in Santa Monica. It's a nice place a dozen blocks from the beach.

  It's small, but it's ours.

  And it's calm. Quiet. Especially on Friday afternoons.

  Only it's not.

  My parents aren't at work.

  They're sitting at the kitchen table, looking at me with regret in their eyes.

  Mom motions to the seat across from hers. "Kaylee, sweetie. Will you sit down? We need to talk."

  Chapter 3

  Kaylee

  My stomach twists. It's not the hangover. That's down to a dull ache.

  It's all the dread in Mom's green eyes.

  The frown on Dad's face.

  He's in his suit. He just came from work. And Mom is in her usual trendy outfit—she does hair at a nice place by the beach. And she usually works on Fridays. She usually works Wednesday through Saturday.

  Neither one of them should be home.

  Even though my feet are throbbing, I don't move. "I'd rather stand."

  "Please, honey." Mom motions to the dining chair. "How about I put on some tea?"

  She's nervous. Scared. Which means it's bad.

  I don't want to make it harder for her.

  But my feet refuse to move toward the table.

  I'm not ready for a blow. Any kind of blow. Things are finally good. College starts in a few weeks. I've got my school schedule and my work schedule ironed out. I've got a nice chunk of change in my savings account.

  And I'm healthy enough I'm not thinking about how I'm healthy every three minutes.

  Mom moves into the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle. She's the person who got me into tea. We still spend afternoons lingering in tea shops together, talking about books and movies and clothes and boys.

  Or we did. Until last year.

  My parents don't know much, really. Only that I wanted to see a shrink. But that's enough they treat me differently. Like I need to be handled carefully.

  Like right now.

  Mom fills the tea maker with four scoops of vanilla black. My favorite. Brendon never let me forget my favorite is vanilla.

  Dad looks up at me with a sad smile. His hazel eyes are as streaked with regret as Mom's are.

  This is something awful.

  I tap my toes together. Then my heels. My non-skid shoes are special order Converse knock-offs. They're actually approaching fashionable.

  They're a lot more comforting than the looks on my parents' faces.

  I continue staring at my scuffed black shoes.

  Mom strains the tea into two cups and brings both to the table. She lets out a heavy sigh as she takes her seat.

  Again, she motions to the chair opposite hers.

  This time, I sit.

  I press my knees together.

  My toes. My inner feet. My heels.

  My shoes are still worn in all the same places.

  "Kaylee, Grandma, she isn't doing well. Mike, I mean your dad, had an opportunity to take a promotion that will put us back in New Jersey." Mom's voice is steady, like she's talking about the taste of the tea and not our lives uprooting. "He's taking it."

  I continue staring at my shoes.

  "We talked to the Kanes."

  Does she really see Brendon as another parent enough to call him by his last name? When we first moved here, and Emma and I became instant friends, she used to complain about him being a bad influence. That was before the accident. Before he became Emma's dad as much as her brother.

  Still, he’s only twenty-six.

  That’s young.

  At least that’s what I tell myself. That an eight-year age difference means nothing. That there’s a chance he sees me as something other than a naïve kid.

  "We agreed. It's best if you stay here." Mom folds her arms in her lap and straightens her back. Her posture is stiff. It's this is our decision and you don't get a say.

  "What if I want to be with Nana?" There's no if. Of course I want to be with Grandma. She lived with us until we moved here. She was my first friend, my closest friend. She still is. We still talk about Days of Our Lives and Harry Potter. She still tells me every piece of my fan fiction is amazing. "What if I want to watch soaps with her all afternoon and listen to her complain about whatever terrible reality show she's watching all night?"

  "I know it's hard, honey. It kills me thinking about my mom all alone, especially when she's ill. But you know this is what she'd want. She wants you in school. She's so proud of you." Mom's smile is earnest. Sweet.

  She's right. Grandma has always talked about the importance of school. She's always the first one cheering when I bring home straight As—and I always bring home straight As.

  "Brendon made a generous offer," Dad jumps in. "He said you can stay with him and Emma."

  What? My lips press together. When the fuck did he do that? He acted normal this morning. And last night...

  "He's not my first choice, honey, but this is for the best. Especially with everything that happened last year. Grandma's care is going to be expensive. We're going to have to sublet the apartment. We can try and stretch things so you can stay here. But we'd have to rent out a room. And we figured you'd rather live with your friend than with a stranger." Mom's throat quivers. It's her tell.

 
They can't stretch things.

  They can't afford to help me financially.

  And I can't afford to cover half the rent here. Not if I want enough time to ace my classes.

  This is an obvious solution.

  A smart solution.

  But fuck them for not involving me in this decision.

  For forcing me to choose school over Grandma.

  For treating me like a child.

  I push myself to my feet. "When are you leaving?"

  "We're flying out Sunday," Dad says. "We need to clear out by the end of the month."

  "That's a week and a half away." That's bullshit.

  This is all bullshit.

  Still, I nod an I understand.

  I take calm steps to my room.

  Press the door into the frame.

  Plant on my bed.

  Then I hide under my headphones, blast my best angsty playlist, pull the covers over my head and try and fail to feel okay.

  When I'm tired of wiping tears off my cheeks, I grab my Kindle and try to lose myself in all the shit going wrong in Katniss Everdeen's life.

  This series is usually instant comfort—I've read it at least two dozen times now—but it's not sticking today.

  Nothing is.

  Chapter 4

  Brendon

  "You fucking asshole!" A pillow smacks into my bedroom door.

  It's not a brick.

  Or a knife. Or Emma's fist.

  That's something.

  I hit pause on my music. Emma's ragged breath replaces the rhythmic hum of The Clash.

  It's funny. My sister is as punk rock as it gets. She doesn't give a fuck what anyone thinks of her. She stands up for her friends no matter the circumstances. She dyes her own hair and sews half her clothes.

  She's everything I wanted to be at sixteen.

  Whereas—

  I'm not exactly a square. I'm not sure you can be a square tattoo artist. But I'm a mortgage paying, Kelly Blue Book checking, Starbucks drinking upstanding member of society.

  More or less.

  If Mom could see me now...

  She'd still think I'm a waste of space.

  But she'd have to admit I have my shit together.

  "Why the fuck am I hearing this from Mrs. Hart and not from you?" There's the fist against my door. "Brendon. Don't be a coward. Look me in the face when you admit you're conspiring to ruin my best friend's life."