Emma rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what you see in him.”
“He’s your brother.” When that fails to get a reaction, I press on. “He let me move here. He bought me a room full of furniture.”
“I thought we agreed to stop talking about that.”
We did. I couldn’t take anymore of Emma getting mad on my behalf. “He’s hot, Em. Even you can see that.”
“I guess it runs in the family.”
I laugh. “Humble as always.”
I move into the kitchen before she can press the subject further. There’s way, way too much I see in Brendon.
His eyes.
His smile—the rare times I get it.
That protective stare.
Those strong shoulders.
The tattoo spreading over his chest.
The other going down his arm.
That look he gives me when I’m sitting on the couch, when he asks if I’m reading something good.
Just… everything.
I let my head fill with thoughts as I make another cup of vanilla black, stir in enough honey for the drink to taste sweet, grab enough chocolate for both of us. Enough for my thoughts to turn to the bliss of the cocoa bean instead of the bliss of Brendon.
God, I have it bad.
There’s no getting over him. Not with those drawings of his in my mind. Not with the way his eyes lit up when I mentioned dirty demands.
He wants me too.
How will I ever think about another guy?
I move back to the couch, hand over Emma’s chocolate, settle in.
We get lost in the flow of the movie-talk about nothing combination. It’s familiar. Comforting.
It feels like this is a normal lazy summer day. One where I’m sleeping over because I want to, not because my parents bailed on me. One where I look at Brendan as Emma’s hot older brother, a guy so far out of my league we’re playing different games. One where Grandma is okay.
Everything else feels far away. It’s just me and my best friend in our own world. I’m not alone. I’m not medicated. I’m not aware Brendon’s sketchbook is full of dirty drawings of me.
I’m just home. Safe. Happy.
“Hey.” Brendon’s voice flows into my ears. He moves into the hallway. Then down the stairs.
He’s wet. Fresh from the shower. Wrapped only in a towel.
I… he… Fuck.
There’s water dripping off his dark hair. Down his chest piece—the shaded black and grey roses. It drips down his side, across The Ramones lyrics, all the way to the Latin quote jutting out from his towel. Sic Transit Gloria.
Glory fades.
What does it mean to him?
What would it feel like to trace every link of ink?
To have that warm, wet body pressed against mine?
On top of mine?
I’m pretty sure my jaw is on the floor.
My cheeks are burning. I must be every shade of red.
Emma grabs a pillow and tosses it at her brother. He moves into the main room just in time to dodge it.
She folds her arms over her chest. “You’re not wearing clothes because…?”
“There’s this thing called a shower. You use it when you want to get clean.”
“And what do you know about being clean?” She taps her fingers against her bicep. “You think the girls you throw away stay quiet about your preferences?”
Brendon raises a brow.
Emma looks to me and rolls her eyes. Isn’t he annoying? “What are you trying to prove? We know you’re sculpted out of marble. Who goes to the gym twice a day?”
“People who are sculpted out of marble.” Brendan moves into the kitchen. “Smells like pancakes.”
“You want some?” Emma asks.
“No,” he says. “I have dinner plans.”
“Oh.” I press my palms into my thighs. “You and Ryan meeting to talk about the buyout?”
“Huh?” Emma looks to me. What are you talking about?
Brendon shakes his head. “No. I have a date.”
Chapter Twelve
Kaylee
Brendon has a date.
He’s seeing another human being.
Romantically.
I’m going to throw up.
Emma presses her hands together. “You could make us more pancakes before you go.”
“I’m running late,” he says.
“Who are you dating?” Emma’s voice is casual. Like this isn’t the worst news in forever.
Okay, that’s not even close to true. Everything with Grandma is worse. But Brendon on a date…
Touching some girl.
Kissing her.
Binding her to her bed.
I… I’m going to throw up.
“We’re not dating.” His voice is curt. Obvious. We’re meeting for dinner and a fuck.
I try to settle back into the routine of watching and laughing and teasing, my body refuses to relax.
Nothing helps.
Not even my dirty thoughts.
They all go wrong. He’s touching me, stripping me out of my clothes, dragging his lips over my neck.
Then she’s there.
Some girl with big tits and pretty lips and a tight dress that screams please take this off.
He’ll fuck some girl he barely knows.
But he won’t even talk about sex with me.
It’s bullshit.
Total bullshit.
He moves into the kitchen. Comes out with an apple between his hands.
Takes a bite.
He shoots Emma a stern look. “No guys or drinks while I’m gone.”