I'm the only person who says what I do with my body.
But I should eat.
And I need to see that sketchbook.
If Brendon wants to believe I'm taking his bribe, that's fine by me.
I nod an okay.
Brendon brings our plates to the table. He sits across from me and fixes his coffee with a splash of milk and a hint of sugar.
He brings his mug to his lips and takes a long sip.
I do the same with my tea. Mmm, sweet, sweet caffeine. Nutty, rich, warm oolong.
"So," I say. "Where's the tattoo mockup?"
He grabs his worn black sketchbook from the chair next to his and starts flipping through the pages.
This is a normal morning.
Like nothing happened last night.
Like we're still friends. Just friends.
And as much as I hate that we're just friends, it's better than pretty much every other reasonable possibility.
* * *
My opening shift drags on forever. It's a slow Friday morning, but my manager Jake talks me into staying late to cover for someone who called in sick.
Em chides me about being a pushover, but it's not like that. It's about taking responsibility. If I don't do it, no one will.
Besides
, I need the tip money.
I get home a hundred dollars richer—and that's not counting the California state minimum wage that comes with my paycheck.
I live with my parents, in an apartment in Santa Monica. It's a nice place a dozen blocks from the beach.
It's small, but it's ours.
And it's calm. Quiet. Especially on Friday afternoons.
Only it's not.
My parents aren't at work.
They're sitting at the kitchen table, looking at me with regret in their eyes.
Mom motions to the seat across from hers. "Kaylee, sweetie. Will you sit down? We need to talk."
Chapter Three
Kaylee
My stomach twists. It's not the hangover. That's down to a dull ache.