Pretend You're Mine

by Crystal Kaswell

  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."

  My stomach drops.

  Em is pissed.

  She's right to be pissed.

  And the only thing I can do is insist I'm the adult here.

  That's being a parent. I knew what I was signing up for when I lobbied to be her legal guardian.

  But that doesn't mean I like it.

  Kaylee living here is what makes sense. She's a bright girl with a great future ahead of her. She should be in school. Even if it kills her not being with her family.

  "Brendon!" Emma bangs on the door. "I'll give you twenty seconds to explain before I... I don't know. Do something to hurt you back."

  "The door is open."

  "I know. But—"

  We have a strict ask permission before you enter policy. It saves both of us from a lot of awkwardness.

  I close my sketchbook. "Come in."

  She does. She's fuming. Her face is red. Her eyes are blotchy. Her hands are fists. "Well?"

  "Her parents are moving back to Jersey."

  Emma raises a brow. And?

  "They think she should stay here. Start school right away."

  "And you agree with them?"

  "Think about it, Em." It's not like I want Kaylee here. I don't trust myself enough to have her in the next room.

  It used to be Kaylee was just Emma's friend. She was a girl who was always good for a late-night conversation about books and movies.

  But one day, something snapped. She wasn't Emma's friend. She wasn't a girl at all.

  She was a woman.

  She was still adorable.

  But in a fucking intoxicating way.

  I've been thinking about her for months.

  It's torture every time she spends the night. Every time I see her on the couch in those tiny shorts she sleeps in, hugging her knees to her chest as she loses herself in a book.

  It's torture not touching her.

  And it's only going to get harder.

  I'm a sick fuck, lusting after the girl I'm supposed to protect.

  The girl younger than my kid sister.

  But that knowledge hasn't done shit to slow my heart rate when Kay's around.

  "Okay. Maybe Kay is better off starting UCLA rather than moving back to New Jersey right away. But you conspired with her parents." Emma folds her arms. "Did you even ask her what she thought?"

  I know what Kaylee thinks. If I close my eyes, I can see her miserable and lonely, hiding behind her Kindle the way she always does, pretending like nothing could ever upset her the way she always does.

  "I'm your legal guardian." Even if that doesn't matter now that Emma is eighteen. "This is a parent decision."

  Emma scowls. "That's a no."

  "It's the best option, Em."

  "Maybe. But you should have asked her. And me."

  "You don't want her here?"

  "That's not the point." She turns and spins on her heel. "You should have asked me. Period." She stops at the doorframe. "When is this happening?"

  "As soon as possible. Her parents are moving out end of the month."

  "You should turn this back into a spare room." Emma nods to my office. "Right away."

  "I will."

  "And get her an actual copy of the key." Emma's voice softens. "And everything she needs. If you're going to ruin her life, you could at least make her comfortable."

  "You think I was gonna leave her on the floor?"

  "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 5

  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 than 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, stu
ffing 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.