Tempting

by Crystal Kaswell

  "I didn't think you'd conspire with her parents. How should I know what you'd do?"

  "Come by the shop tomorrow. I'll have her key."

  "I'll tell her."

  "I will."

  Emma scoffs. "She's not gonna want to talk to you."

  "We'll see."

  "Yeah. We will." She slams the door on her way out.

  The office is a sparse room—a desk, a bookshelf, a few framed prints on the wall. Kay can make use of most of this. But the decor isn't right. It's bold, angry, loud.

  She's soft. Quiet. Subtle.

  She needs Monet not Lichtenstein.

  I did pay attention during one class. The one class I wasn't supposed to take.

  Successful guys don't know shit about art.

  And certainly not about tattoos.

  I move everything but the desk into my room.

  There. The black workstation is too dark for Kaylee, but there's no way it's staying black for long. Within a week it will be covered in some mix of lyrics scribbled in silver Sharpie, magazine tear outs, and band stickers.

  We argue all the time about the merits of pop-rock and pop-punk vs. punk. Sometimes, I admit I actually enjoy Blink 182. Other times, I tease her about her habit of falling for the broken bad boy. Then I turn over the words in my head, obsessing over the way her green eyes light up every time she sees me without a shirt.

  Which is a lot more often than it should be.

  Fuck, I'm already thinking about Kay. About the way she takes slow, careful steps when she's modeling a new outfit for Em. About the way she sings along with Emma's favorite Disney movies—with every ounce of emotion in the world. About the way those blue glasses frame her eyes.

  I plant on the sprawling four poster bed in my room. I've given this thing a workout over the years. But not lately. Lately, every time a woman so much as touches my arm, I feel sick.

  Like I'm betraying Kay.

  But I'm not.

  We can't be anything.

  Ever.

  I'm a million years older than her.

  I'm her guardian.

  Her caretaker.

  And, fuck, as much as I'd like to say Mom was wrong, she wasn't. I'm not the kind of guy who brings home the sweet, smart girl. Not unless she's trying to piss off Daddy.

  There's no way I'm avoiding Kaylee now.

  Which means I need to figure something else out. Some way to resist her that doesn't involve locking myself in my room when she's around.

  I stare out the window, watching the waves crash into the sand. Same dark sky. Same silver moon. It's comforting, but it doesn't offer any clarity.

  I want Kaylee.

  I can't have her.

  Sheer willpower is still my only technique for resisting her.

  Part of me hopes she hates me for this move thing.

  It will be easier to stay away if she isn't looking up at me with those sweet green eyes.

  Giggling as she rests her head on my shoulder. How can you like action movies when you hate "sell out music"? Is anything more by the numbers than yet another Die Hard sequel?

  Better to get this over with.

  I pull out my cell and I text Kaylee.

  Brendon: You okay?

  Kaylee: About what you'd expect.

  Brendon: I'm getting a key made for you. I'll leave it at the front desk. You can pick it up whenever.

  Kaylee: Thanks. I'll stop by before work.

  Brendon: You want to talk about it?

  Kaylee: What's there to say? My parents are moving across the country and they aren't asking my opinion about it. I hated it when I was ten, and I hate it now. At least then they invited me to join.

  Brendon: Would you move with them if they'd asked?

  Kaylee: I don't see how it matters.

  Brendon: Your grandma okay?

  Kaylee: No. But I'm not in the loop with the details. I have no idea if she has a few weeks left or a few years.

  Brendon: I'm sorry she's sick.

  Kaylee: Thanks. This isn't on you. You made a generous offer. I do get that. And I appreciate it. Really, Brendon. I do.

  Brendon: It's nothing.

  Kaylee: It's a lot. I just...

  Brendon: Wanted to be consulted?

  Kaylee: Want things to be different. But that too. I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow.

  Brendon: Sweet dreams, Kay.

  Kaylee: You too.

  Chapter Five

  Brendon

  The bell rings as Kaylee steps inside the shop.

  She's in her work outfit—dark jeans, a black button up shirt, black non-skid shoes.

  She hugs her pink purse to her shoulder as her eyes flit around the room.

  Ryan nods hello. Runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

  She nods back. Smiles a polite I'm trying to act like everything is great smile.

  The client sitting in his chair isn't at all shy about giving Kaylee a long once over. His eyes are practically bugging out of his head.

  My hand curls into a fist. It's a reflex.

  Nobody like him is getting anywhere near her.

  "Hey Kaylee," Ryan calls. "How are you?"

  "Good. Thanks." She presses her lips together. "I'll just be a minute."

  He nods.

  She crosses the room to my spot at the front desk.

  Leighton is running late. My next appointment is in thirty minutes. So I'm working on a mock up here instead of in my chair.

  The light is better here.

  But there's not enough privacy.

  I need the space to think.

  To let images flit through my mind and fit together.

  Kaylee's steps are soft but steady. "Hey. This... I know you're only trying to help."

  I nod as I pull her spare key from my pocket and hand it over. I wouldn't assign myself such charitable motivations, but I'm not going to argue with her. "You have a moving date in mind?"

  "I'm off Monday."

  "I'll meet you at your place at nine."

  "I'll be okay on my own."

  "I know."

  "I don't need your help."

  "Take it anyway."

  She tilts her head to one side. "Fine, but only because I'm running late and I'm not in the mood to argue." She taps her fingers against the counter. "I... I guess I'll see you... everywhere. Since I'm your new roommate."

  "It will be a good thing."

  She nods. "Eventually."

  I want to wrap my arms around her and refuse to let go.

  That can't happen.

  Neither can a handshake or some equally painful brush off.

  Kay and I hug. Period. I need to find a way to be okay with that.

  I step out from behind the counter.

  She leans in to the gesture.

  It's quick but tight.

  And, fuck, I feel her everywhere.

  I have to force myself to pull back. She's a kid. You're supposed to protect her. "You sleeping over tonight?"

  "Maybe. Em's trying to convince me to go out. But I think I'd rather crash at home." Her eyes go to the clock. "Shit. I gotta go. I'll see you soon."

  I nod goodbye.

  Watch her ass sway as she walks away.

  This time next week, Kaylee is going to live in the room down the hall.

  I'm going to have to resist her twenty-four seven.

  Will power isn't gonna cut it.

  I need something a hell of a lot stronger.

  My twelve o'clock is sitting in the teal chair, her face pressed against the wall, her tongue between her teeth.

  She squints.

  Bites her tongue.

  Squeezes her thigh with her free hand.

  Her gaze goes to the mirror. She watches me work.

  At first, it bothered me. But I'm used to it now.

  Clients love watching ink mark their skin.

  I can't blame them.

  I love it too.

  And this girl—she's barely older tha
n Kaylee—is a trooper. It's nearly two now, and she hasn't asked for a single break.

  I check in. "You okay?"

  She murmurs something. When I arch a brow, she nods.

  "This is the last line."

  "Thank fuck," she whispers.

  My lips curl into a smile. This is her first piece of ink, and it's a big fucking tattoo—a teddy bear with its arms hanging off, stuffing spilling from its guts, its eye missing, its nose askew.

  I don't ask what it means. I never do. Tattoos are personal. People talk when they want someone to listen.

  Mostly.

  Some people don't say shit, even when they're desperate for someone to listen.

  Besides, there might not be a backstory. It might be as simple as a love of teddy bears.

  It's better to skip assumptions.

  I place the needle over her skin, work the angle until it's just right. My eyes meet hers through the mirror. "You ready?"

  She grits her teeth as she nods.

  I turn the gun on and draw the last line down her shoulder, all the way to the middle of her upper arm.

  She's done.

  I pull the gun away, set it down. "That's it."

  Her shoulders slip from her ears as she sighs. She shifts her torso so she can see the reflection.

  Her eyes are saucers.

  Her smile is spread over her cheeks.

  "Oh my God! It's perfect." She jumps out of the chair and throws her arms around me.

  I'm not used to this. I should be. Getting ink releases all sorts of endorphins. Adrenaline. Dopamine. I'm a badass, I can't believe I did that vibes. It's easy for people to mistake the rush of a tattoo for the rush of lust.

  Or she thinks I'm hot.

  I'm well aware of my effect on women.

  It hasn't done me any good in a while. Not since I gave up on finding someone who would push Kaylee out of my head.

  Shit. There goes my clear mind. When I'm in the chair, my hands on my tattoo gun, I slip into this trance. There's nothing in my head but the work. Not my doubts, not my desires, not my parents' voices. Hell, I'm not even thinking about the client. Or about our owner.

  It's all about the ink itself.

  It's nirvana.

  I'm leaving a mark on someone's skin. Something that will last forever.

  It's the best job in the world.

  Worth almost any amount of bullshit.

  "Sit back down. I need to clean you up." My voice drops to that demanding tone. The one I use when women are naked. Or about to get naked.

  Not the kind of shit I do at work.

  She doesn't mind the Dom voice. She plants in her seat, staring at the reflection of her tattoo with a goofy smile on her face.

  Her enthusiasm is infectious.

  And she's cute. Light hair. Bright eyes. Ample tits. The kind of girl I used to take home every other night.

  I slip back into my trance as routine takes over. Wash. Pat dry. Photo. Plastic covering.

  I go through my usual aftercare speech, take her to the counter to pay, grab some A+D ointment for her, accept another hug, take a few more pictures, listen to her gush to Leighton.

  Fuck, it feels good, seeing someone that happy over their new ink.

  Nothing else fills me with that kind of pride.

  It doesn't even faze me when she slips me a business card and smiles. "I'd love to get a drink sometime. The bar down the street is great. Or we could go to my place. You haven't had a dirty martini until you've had one of mine."

  Anna. She's an assistant at some place with a corporate name.

  She wants to fuck me. She's nearly screaming it.

  But I'm still tempted to toss her card.

  She sways her hips as she walks out the door. It's a showy gesture. A look at my ass.

  Dean waits until the door swings shut to move into the lobby. He shoulder taps me. "You got her number. Nice."

  I shoot him an incredulous look.

  "Did you not see those tits? She was fine."

  "And?"

  His smile spreads over his cheeks. His blue eyes light up. "And she wants to tear off those black skinny jeans of yours. What the fuck are you trying to prove with that outfit anyway? You look like an emo musician."

  I struggle not to roll my eyes. This is a tattoo shop, not a runway. And he only pulls out that emo label to annoy me. Because he knows Emma's room is decorated with posters of eyeliner wearing musicians. And that nothing annoys me more than her blasting that shit.

  "It wouldn't hurt, honing that damaged musician look," Walker calls out from his suite. He stands up, shakes his head, shaking his long, wavy hair in every direction. His dark eyes get bright. "I doubt Kaylee would mind."

  Fuck, I know it's a Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer, but I can't deal with all four of us here. Dean and Walker together isn't so bad. The two of them give me a lot of shit, but it's good natured.

  Ryan's fine on his own. He's curt but it comes with a quiet professionalism.

  The three of them together—

  It's too many opinions.

  They're like children throwing a tantrum.

  Reacting only encourages them.

  "Yeah, I know, you know, Ryan knows, everybody here knows. Everybody but Brendon," Dean says.

  Ryan rolls his eyes. "You here to work or to gossip?"

  "Gossip." Dean smiles at his brother. Runs his hand through his hair exactly the same way Ryan does. "Especially about fucking cute blondes rocking the librarian look. You have anything to say about that?"

  "I have shit to say about work." Ryan folds his arms.

  Walker chuckles. "You really think Kaylee would give you the time of day?"

  Dean shrugs. "I'm speaking metaphorically. We can all appreciate a woman with a nice ass and fantastic tits. Especially when she wears tiny sun dresses and sweet cardigans."

  "And she has hypothetical green eyes and blue glasses? And a heart that beats only for Brendon?" Walker asks.

  "I'm not talking about her heart," Dean says. "I'm talking about her body."

  Walker laughs. He shoots me that you gonna take this look?

  "How do you think she'd sound screaming my name? More high pitched?" Dean imitates a woman's moan. "Oooh, Dean," he squeals. "Fuck me, Dean. Harder. Harder." He drops the put-on voice. "Or more low and breathy?" He groans. "Oh. Dean. Yes. Right. There."

  Dean has no intention of fucking Kaylee.

  And Walker is right. She'd never give him the time of day.

  Dean wants me to snap and tell him to go fuck himself. It's not happening. The shit that goes through my head is a lot worse than this.

  He presses on anyway. "The girl looks at you like you set her panties on fire. You could snap your fingers and have her on her knees."

  "You want to hear this shit or not?" Ryan's voice hits that I mean business tone.

  Dean nods. "I have a lot more shit to give Brendon, but fine."

  "Manning is selling the shop," Ryan says.

  Fuck.

  Every bit of joy falls from Dean's expression.

  Even Walker looks surprised.

  "He's giving us the option to buy him out. Any of us. Or all four of us. It's not cheap, but it's doable." Ryan stares back at his brother. "You listening now?"

  Dean nods.

  Ryan takes a minute to go into the numbers. I'm the only person with enough to buy out the place. But that would mean adding more time to the mortgage.

  There's no way I'm doing that.

  But there's no way I'm letting this shop slip through my fingers either. This place is the best thing in my life.

  "We have two weeks," Ryan says. "Think about it. Check your shit. We'll talk."

  He nods goodbye to his brother.

  Ryan shakes his head as he watches Dean and Walker return to their suites. He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. Shakes his head. "They're such kids."

  "They are kids," I say.

  His expression gets sincere. Caring. It's a rarity for him
. He's been sulking over his broken heart, avoiding anything that even resembles earnest emotion, for ages now. "They're fucking immature, but they're right."

  "I ask for your opinion?"

  "I ask you to invite your crush to hang out here so you can stare at her ass?"

  "She was here for two minutes."

  "Yeah, she never hangs out here."

  "She helps out for free."

  "That's why she's here, love of our bottom line?"

  "You have a point?"

  "My idiotic brother is right. She's not gonna wait around for you forever. And you shouldn't either." He motions to the business card in my hand. "She was cute."

  "Not interested."

  "You don't need to marry her. Just go out. Have fun. Realize there are more fish in the sea."

  "Really?"

  "Fuck off. I can be a hypocrite if I want." He is. He's been scorched Earth about romance since his ex left. There are no other fish in the sea. Not for Ryan.

  "She's almost as young as Kaylee."

  "She invited you to a bar." Ryan shrugs. "Your life. Do what you want." He motions to Anna's number. "You keep saying you don't want to be with Kay. If you mean it, then prove it. At least to yourself."

  Chapter Six

  Kaylee

  There are a dozen boxes in the living room. The space is empty. Sparse. Soulless.

  Mom is sitting on the couch, one hand in her lap, the other playing with the silver palm-tree tag attached to her plain black suitcase. She might as well scream we're leaving California, we're leaving you, we're leaving our lives entirely.

  She stands.

  Her gestures are small. Quiet.

  Her steps are nearly silent.

  She picks her purse off the kitchen table and slides it onto her shoulder with tender care. Like it's some piece of fine China and not something we bought at TJ Maxx for forty dollars.

  The table—the one that gives me bruises every time I bump into it in the dark—is one of the only things of ours left.

  Okay, that's not fair. Most of the furniture is here. We're subletting the place furnished. For college kids, the ones that go to Santa Monica College on their parent's dime, the ones who can afford to have fun.

  I shake my head. I'm not going to get jealous. Emma is one of those people. She can't help that she and Brendon inherited a fortune. She can't help that she isn't wound tighter than a ball of twine.