Dirty Boss (Dirty Rich 2)

"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 Four

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."

&nb

sp; 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.