Playing, p.36
Playing, page 36
"I'm not Emma's keeper," I say. I don't add fuck you for this date bullshit. Fuck you for acting like it isn't a knife in my chest. And for doing it in a towel, just to add insult to injury.
But he doesn't know I know.
He doesn't know I'm crazy about him.
He...
He must have some idea. There's a connection between us. He gets me in a way no one else does.
And he's different with me. He smiles. Laughs.
I watch him walk away. Watch his back tense and relax. Watch that towel slip lower and lower on his hips.
My body screams all of him now, please.
My heart is more reluctant.
He's going on dates.
I... I can't deal with this. Even if it's inevitable.
"Excuse me." I tug at my dress. "Pajamas."
Emma nods. "He's weird, huh?"
"Yeah. Annoying."
"Finally, you see it my way."
I do. I see exactly why Emma has a problem with her brother.
He demands his way.
But offers nothing.
I just barely restrain myself from stomping up the stairs.
Okay, that's bullshit. My steps are as light as they usually are. I'm still the good girl. The one who keeps things together. Who doesn't cause a scene.
The hall is dark.
There's light coming from Brendon's room.
And his door is open a sliver.
And there he is, in front of his bed.
Turned toward the wall.
Naked.
It's only his back.
His ass.
His legs.
Fuck.
I've never seen a guy naked before. Not in person. Not one I wanted to see naked.
But Brendon...
Heat pools between my legs. I want him. Every inch of him. Every way I can have him.
I want the sight, the sound, the taste, the smell, the feel of him.
I want him owning every one of my senses.
I...
He pulls on a pair of boxers.
Steps into his jeans.
Turns.
I jump out of the way just in time. I think. I hope.
God, I hope he didn't see me gawking.
He can't.
That's so...
I dart into my bedroom. Fumble out of my dress and into my pajamas.
A tank top. Panties. Sleep shorts.
That's it.
I'm barely wearing anything.
And he's there, barely wearing anything, thinking about me naked.
About to go on a fucking date.
I move back into the hallway. Nearly run downstairs.
A few moments later, Brendon walks through the main room. He grabs his keys from the table and slides them into the front pocket of his skinny jeans.
"Text me when you go to bed." He looks to Emma. "Or if you need anything."
She nods. "I won't wait up."
"You too, Kay. Text me if you need anything." He holds my gaze. Promise?
I'm pretty sure I can't request him naked in my bed. So I force my lips into a smile. "I'll be fine."
He takes that as a yes, turns, walks out the door.
On the way to his date.
With some girl.
Some girl who isn't me.
Chapter Thirteen
Brendon
This place is all squares—the stools, the tables, the couches, the patrons.
Candles flicker. The soft yellow lamp in the corner offers just enough illumination to make out the menu.
This place isn't my scene. It's hers. Upscale. Pretty. Filled with people in suits. The kind of people who gush over sauvignon blanc.
I don't get it. Wine tastes the same to me.
We're ten minutes into conversation, but I'm not absorbing any of it.
I'm thinking about that look on Kay's face. Like I stabbed her in the gut.
Anna's laugh grabs my attention.
She turns to show off the ink on her back. "It still looks good."
"It does."
"That's a compliment."
"Mine too. You designed the tattoo."
She tilts her head to one side. "I'm not sure I buy you as humble." Her smile lights up her blue eyes. They're hard to see from under her silver makeup.
And her lips are red. Bright red. Think about where these lips could be red.
But I'm not thinking about ordering her onto her knees.
I'm thinking about how Em wears her lips that color.
I try to ignore that Emma has a sex life. She's an adult. She can do what she wants. I'm not going to tell her that sex is wrong or dirty. Not like I can talk.
But I still prefer to not connect the dots.
I try to shake it off. "No?"
"No." She leans into the table enough for her breasts to press together.
She has nice tits. They'd feel good in my hand. Or around my cock.
"You seem like the type to brag."
"About?"
Her laugh is bold. Knowing. "I guess you don't have to. Not when you have a reputation."
I try to imagine Anna in my bed. Pressing her against the wall. Rolling that dress to her waist and tearing off her bra.
The image flickers in my head. For a second.
Then it's Kaylee against the wall.
My hand up her skirt.
Those doe eyes of hers looking up at me with every ounce of trust in the world.
This isn't how tonight is supposed to go.
I'm supposed to smile at Anna. Return her flirty glance. Go back to her place—I only bring women home when Emma isn't around—and get her begging for release.
But none of that appeals.
I force myself to look back in her eyes. Force my voice to that I know you want to fuck me tone. "Do I?"
She laughs. "Now, I'm pretty sure you're playing coy to mess with me." She wraps her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. Takes her last sip. "I got here early. Right after work."
I nod.
She motions to the bar. "Let me back up." She pushes her empty glass away. "How about a drink?"
"You're buying?"
She laughs. "Well, I did invite you out."
"Doesn't matter."
"You're old fashioned, really?"
In some ways, yeah. I nod.
"The old-fashioned tattoo artist. Hmm... I guess I can see it. Just don't tell me you have a problem with feminism. I can overlook a lot of deal breakers with someone so... well, you know you're handsome."
I nod. "Why would I have a problem with feminism?"
She shrugs. "A lot of guys I... date. They're threatened by women with power. Or a woman who knows what she wants. Or wants to pay."
"I always pay for a first date."
"And the second date?"
They're rarer. Third dates too. Fourth dates—it's been a long, long while since I've had a relationship that lasted longer than three dates. "You negotiating?"
She laughs. "I guess so."
There. The waitress is walking by.
I hail her. Motion to Anna.
She orders another glass of white wine, some specific label, and a brussel sprout salad.
I order Jameson and sliders. Good whiskey, but not look at how much money I have showy.
Anna leans a little closer. "I think you might have me if you tell me you're a feminist."
"I have you already."
Her voice lifts. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah."
"Not so humble, I guess."
No. Not so humble.
I lean forward. Stare into Anna's blue eyes. Try to find something to latch onto—something I want.
She's hot. Smart. Funny.
But all I can think about is Kaylee.
Those big, green eyes.
All the hurt in them.
Because of me.
Necessary hurt, yeah. She needs to know I'm not available.
I need to know it.
I need to convince my body and my heart that there's no way I'll ever have Kaylee in my bed.
But, fuck, the thought of stripping her out of that sweet sundress, dragging those cotton panties to her ankles, and planting between her legs—
"So." She stares back at me. "Are you a feminist?"
"Who wouldn't be?"
"You'd be surprised."
Not really. I'm well aware of how shitty people can be. "I was punk rock when I was a teenager."
"Yeah? Red hair?"
"Once." I run my hand through my dark hair. "My girlfriend did it for me." It was more of a fling, but close enough. "My hair practically melted. Had to get one of those half-shaved haircuts."
"I can't imagine that."
I tug at my t-shirt. "Imagine this with an anarchy symbol."
She laughs. "And now?"
"I've lost an appreciation for chaos."
"And your hair?"
"I no longer strive to piss off my parents."
She laughs. "Good. The dark hair suits you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You've got the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing down pat."
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.
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.
