The waitress drops off our drinks. "Your food will be out shortly."
"Thanks." I take a long sip. It's too fast. A waste of good whiskey. But I need something quieting that voice that keeps reminding me that Anna isn't Kaylee. That no one else in the universe is Kaylee.
It's a quick fuck.
I'm going to make her come.
It shouldn't matter that she isn't Kaylee.
It's not like I've ever required an intense connection with a woman. Sure, it's a perk. Especially if we're moving past vanilla.
If I want to tie someone up, I need them to trust me. And I need to trust them to be honest about their limits.
But that comes easier than you'd think.
I take another sip. A slower one. It's good. Rich with that hint of toffee.
Anna brings her wine to her lips. Leaves a red stain on the glass.
That lipstick could be staining my cock.
But picturing those red lips straining around me—
It isn't doing anything to get my blood flowing south.
"So..." She traces the outline of her wine glass. Shoots me that aren't you going to bring up your reputation look. "Are you still punk rock?"
"I still listen to The Clash, but the rest of it—"
She nods. "Life forces you to be a square." She taps the table with her French-manicured nails. "I never was punk rock, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't grow up to be this."
"A woman with a badass teddy bear tattoo who invites guys out to bars for one-night stands?"
She laughs. "An executive assistant. But that too." She takes a long sip of her glass. "It's funny. This would have been a nightmare job to be at fifteen. But I love it."
"I know what you mean."
"And the other part... I think my past self would be proud."
"Yeah?"
"But you give yourself too much credit. I haven't decided if I'm sleeping with you or not."
That's bullshit. It's in her eyes. She's picturing me naked. She's even licking her lips.
It's not my personality or my conversational skills.
At the moment, I'm a terrible date.
But I can't muster up the enthusiasm to do better.
I finish the last drop of my whiskey.
I try to find something to latch onto.
She runs her fingers over the neckline of her tight, black dress. It hugs her tits in a way that should beg for my hands.
Only it doesn't.
I shoot her a sly smile. "You sure about that?"
Her laugh is flirty but nervous.
Her eyes spark.
She's reacting to me.
She wants me.
That used to be enough.
Pretty and willing used to be enough.
I've always been eager to get out of my head.
But now...
Her fingers wrap around my wrist. She's reaching out. Touching me. Making sure I know she wants me.
This is the part where I touch her back.
Where I smile and whisper something about what we'll do at her place.
But, fuck, her hand feels so wrong on my arm.
There's no way it will feel good around my cock.
There's no way I'm inviting myself back to her place.
Chapter Fourteen
Kaylee
Eleven.
How is it already eleven?
The numbers are there. A bold white against my cell background—the picture of the beach I took with Emma last month. The waves are crashing into the sand. The sky is bright and beautiful. And everything is simple.
Because Brendon isn't on a date.
A date that's going past eleven.
I don't know anything about her. I don't know her name or what she does or if she's pretty.
No, I'm sure she's pretty.
He used to date a lot. He didn't have a type, not as far as I could tell. Tall, short, curvy, thin, red hair, blond, brunette, tomboyish, girly, punk rock, corporate, white, Hispanic, black, Asian—there was only one thing all those women had in common.
They were all beautiful.
I've been through this a million times.
It never hurt this badly.
But that was when I was sure he saw me as a kid.
I don't know when things changed. But they have.
It was tolerable knowing Brendon was sleeping around when I was sure I'd never have him.
Now that I know he wants me too—
This is supposed to be what distracts me from everything with Grandma.
But it's even worse.
At least, with Grandma there's hope that it's not really that bad. That my parents are over-reacting.
I turn the page on my e-book even though I haven't absorbed a single word. This is the book Brendon recommended.
It should be fascinating.
It should be filling my head with thoughts of him tying me to his four-poster bed.
But it's not.
Every single word is a knife in my chest. Every single one is making me think of her. Whoever she is. This girl smiling at Brendon, looking at him with those I want you on top of me eyes.
I hate her.
I hate everything.
I pull out my cell phone and try to find a distraction.
Another message from Mom. My voicemail inbox is littered with my parents, and Grandma, reaching out. I pick up sometimes. But their check ins always come with excuses about why they're trying to run my life for me.
And I don't want to hear it.
I don't want to hear that tone.
The one that reminds me that Grandma is sick. I still don't know how sick she is, how little time we have, what exactly it is, but I know it's bad.
Even Grandma gets that tone.
It's not like her. Nothing scares her. When I was little, Mom would threaten to hire a babysitter if Grandma kept teaching me dirty words. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. Mom didn't like the ridiculous stories we made for my dolls. Or Grandma curling my hair. Or letting me use her lipstick.
Mom wanted to protect me from growing up too fast.
But Grandma never backed down. She insisted that this was what I needed. Even when Mom really did hire a babysitter—the world's most boring babysitter, who made me watch wholesome kids shows and refused to let me make my own almond butter and jelly sandwiches.
Grandma held her ground until Mom caved.
I play her voicemail. Soak up every bit of strain and worry in Grandma's voice as she insists I need to call my mom, give her a proper update.
I will.
Soon.
Tomorrow even.
Grandma gives the best advice. She'll know what to do about this. She'll know the exact steps I need to take to get from lovesick puppy to over him. She always knows.
Only soon...
No. I'm not thinking that. Not yet. I don't even know if it's true. She might have years left. A decade even.
I place my phone on the couch face down and sink into the leather.
That same page is there in my Kindle. I have no idea what it says. I don't want to. I don't want anything.
Eleven ten.
It's been nearly three hours.
Is that enough time to go back to her place?
My head fills with awful images. They're at the bar in some cozy booth. He's spreading her legs and sliding his hand between them.
They're outside, in some dark, dirty alley. He has her pressed against the wall. Her back is arched. Her skirt is at her waist. He's sliding his jeans to his knees and growling something in her ear.
They're in the backseat of his car. She's under him. There's no space. His legs are hitting the seat. Her head is pressed up against the door. But neither of them care. That's how good it is. How much they want each other.
I force my eyes to my Kindle. The words refuse to enter my brain. It's mush. Meaningless. Nothing.
Eleven fifteen.
I'm nearly due for my medication.
For bed.
&nb
sp; I need my routine. It's what keeps me together. That's why I work the same days every week. Eat the same thing every morning. Take the same post-lunch walks. Read for an hour before bed every day.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Too much is going through my head. All the things I want that I can never, ever have. Grandma being well. My parents respecting my decisions. Brendon.
A normal, healthy relationship with a normal, healthy guy. Hell, even a friendship where I don't have to hide all the ugly things in my head.
I could tell Emma. She'd understand. Maybe. Or she might run away. Or she might crumble from the burden of my problems. The ones I'm responsible for carrying. Alone.
There's something outside. Footsteps. Louder than the normal traffic—there are always people moving around in their neighborhood, even in the middle of the night.
Keys jangle in the lock.
The handle turns.
The door pulls open.
And there's Brendon, surrounded by the black of night and the shiny silver moonlight.
It bounces off his hair, his eyes, that sliver of bare skin below his chin—his neck, collarbones, chest. He's dressed the same as always. Grey jeans. Dark t-shirt. Black sneakers.
And his clothes are just as neat as before. Nothing is wrinkled or stained or inside out.
I hug my knees to my chest. Stare at my Kindle like I've been reading it all night. And not like I've spent the last few hours obsessing over his date.
He tosses his keys on the table and kicks the door shut.
"You're still up?" His eyes stay on the ground.
That isn't like him. But why?
"Looks like it." My voice is more curt than I mean it to be. But who the hell does he think he is, going on dates while he's drawing dirty pictures of me?
He doesn't know that I know. He doesn't know that this is a knife in my chest. But, still, it hurts.
He moves into the kitchen. Grabs something from the top shelf. "You eat dinner?"
"The pancakes with Emma. Remember?"
"Yeah." The freezer door opens. Ice clinks in a glass. "You want something to drink?"
"Are you offering whatever you're having?"
He pauses. He's blocked by the kitchen wall. I can't see his face. But I can picture it, that way his eyes get sharper when he's thinking.
"You like whiskey all of a sudden?" His voice is even. Like this whole date thing means nothing.
"Sure." I need to loosen the knot in my gut. This is the wrong way to go about it. Alcohol is a depressant. It's for special occasions only. "You never let me drink."
"I don't?"
"Yeah. Only on my birthday."
"A drink doesn't have to mean booze."
"I'll have whatever you're having."
"Hmm."
I set my Kindle next to my phone. I smooth my sleep shorts. Adjust my tank top. This is a flattering outfit, as far as pajamas go. Plenty of cleavage. Lots of leg.
I have a nice figure. I got it from Mom. Between all the exercise I force myself to do and biking to and from work and school, I stay in pretty good shape. Not Brendon good. But good.
He moves into the dining room—well, this is all one big room, but he's in the dining area—and sets two glasses on the table.
He takes a seat and motions to the other glass.
"What was her name?" I push off the couch and move toward him. Slowly. Casually. Like wondering about this isn't tearing me apart.
"Why?"
"Making conversation." I pick up my drink and take a sip. My lips curl into a half smile. "This is apple juice."
"Is it?"
"Tease."
He shrugs.
"Did you like her?"
"She was nice."
"You're just like Em."
He arches a brow as he brings his drink to his lips. He tries to hold a poker face, but he doesn't quite manage it. His eyelids press together. A soft groan falls off his lips.
The man loves his whiskey.
But that's not where my head is going.
"Whenever she says a guy is nice, that's it. She's never seeing him again," I say.
"I liked her."
"But you didn't..." I clear my throat. But that doesn't get a reaction. "You're home early. Considering."
"Only takes half an hour to fuck someone properly."
"Oh." I stare back into his eyes. There's something missing. A satisfaction. He didn't sleep with her. I think.
"You should go to bed. It's late."
"I work later than this all the time."
"Still. School starts soon. You need to get into a routine." He takes another sip then sets his glass down on the table. "Your parents left another message. They want to hear from you."
"I know." I sip my apple juice. It's better than whiskey, but this much sugar this late is a bad idea. "I'm still pissed at them."
"You consider telling them that?"
Sort of. Telling people how I feel isn't my strong suit. "Did you sleep with her."
"That's not your—"
"I thought we agreed friends talk about sex."
His eyes trace my body. It's quick. Almost imperceptible. "What have you been doing all night?"
"Reading."
He nods sounds like you.
"That book you mentioned."
"And it's helping with your research?" He draws out the last word, like we both know this isn't for research.
"Yeah. But it's not enough. Reading about the theoretical is one thing, but I want to know what it's really like. How it feels. So I can capture it properly."
"What exactly are you writing?"
"It's um..." I'm not writing anything. That's all bullshit. I go through my favorite character pairings, trying to find one that makes sense. There's no way Peeta is tying up Katniss. Or Katniss and Finnick. Or Finnick and Annie. Nobody in The Hunger Games is getting tied up. But Draco and Harry—I could see that. "It's a Harry Potter fan fiction."
He arches a brow. "Harry doesn't have it in him."
"Yeah. He's not. Draco is."
Brendon chuckles. He's disarmed. He's not thinking about how I'm pushing him to illustrate his sexual preferences. He's endeared by me writing dirty male/male fan fiction. "I didn't realize—"
"I wrote about guys going at it?"
He nods.
"It's a favorite pairing. They have a certain chemistry."
"Yeah." He laughs.
"Yeah. And I... I don't really understand the psychology of it. Not from reading. It's not enough." I swallow hard. I can't believe these words are falling off my lips. Him going on that date is making me reckless. "You... you have experience with that."
"You want me to show you what it's like to be ordered around?"
"Not, you know... not sex. But maybe you could walk me through it."
He shoots me a really look.
"Or I could ask Dean."
There. His jaw cricks. He's armed again. But he's armed with exactly the right tool. He hates the idea of Dean ordering me around. Of Dean touching me.
"If you're not interested. Or busy. I'm sure Dean would help."
"You have a boss at work. It's the same thing."
I shake my head. "But that's not sexual."
"It doesn't have to be." He stares back at me. "Put your glass on the table."
I stare back. "Huh?"
"You want to see what it's like, listen and do exactly what I say."
I nod.
His voice drops to a tone I've never heard before. One that demands all my attention. "Put your glass on the table."
I do.
"Push it aside."
I do.
"Now sit on the table." He pats the spot at the edge of the table. It's as far away from him as it could be. "And wait for my next command."
My lips press together. This is weird. But I like everything about it.
I move to the table. Take a seat. Press my legs together.
His eyes bore into mine. He waits. And waits. A
nd waits.
My skin starts buzzing. I'm not sure why, but there's something thrilling about waiting for him.
When he speaks, his voice is firm, but not demanding. "You get the idea?"
"I'm starting to."
"What else are you curious about?"
"Everything."
His pupils dilate. Something sparks in his expression. This desire deep inside him. It's only there for a second, then he's back to a poker face.
"Keep reading. You'll get it." He picks up his glass and takes the last sip. "You thinking about doing this with someone, Kay?"
"Sort of."
"Make sure it's someone you can trust." He moves into the kitchen and leaves his empty glass in the sink. "You can get pretty deep into it. None of it's wrong, but some of it's dangerous." His brow furrows. It's like he's fighting himself. "If you're not sure about anything, ask me. I'm not an expert. But I'll figure shit out for you."
I nod. "I trust them."
He stares back at me, staring at my expression. It's like he's trying to figure out who I'm talking about.
It's like he knows it's him.
Chapter Fifteen
Brendon
My Friday morning leg routine fails to bring clarity. I'm still easy to bait. I'm still giving in to all my thoughts of Kay. To her bullshit about asking Dean to order her around.
Fuck, it's like she can see into my head.
How the hell does she know exactly how I want her?
It wakes up every single muscle in my body. It's a hell of a lot more effective than squats or deadlifts. Nothing gets my blood pumping like she does.
I finish my last set and wipe off the squat rack. This is a nice place. The kind of place my mom would have gone. If it had been here when she was.
She spent half her time staying beautiful or keeping the house beautiful. It worked. Everyone mentioned her looks. Jo, the beautiful, perfect homemaker. She had the same dark hair as me and Em. The same dark eyes.
The same good looks, I guess. Dad was tall, but he wasn't typically handsome.
She always talked about the importance of fitness. Always tried to get me to sign up for some sport. Soccer. Little League. Jr. Lifeguards. Surf Camp. Summer league swim team. Then the high school one. I did it freshman year. Right before I hit that team sports are bullshit; all organizations are bullshit phase.
That was the moment she gave up on me—the day I quit swim team. I still remember all the disappointment in her eyes. The way her knife slapped across the cutting board as she diced chicken. She'd never say she was pissed off. She'd just look at me like I was a failure and recite something about my future.
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