Eight years ago - Jonas
Iwatch Kenna hurry toward the house, arms crossed over her chest as if she’s trying to hold herself together. The little skirt of her Wonder Woman costume swings around her gorgeous thighs. I’m kicking myself, and I’m not sure if it’s because I kissed her or because I let her go. I run a hand down my face and let out a long breath, debating if I should go check on her or let her be. I don’t like the idea of her home all alone, but I’m not her parent and technically, she’s an adult. Technically. And I’m a monster.
When I heard Kenna’s voice on the phone, choked with tears, I couldn’t get my ass in the car fast enough. It didn’t matter that I worked a 14-hour shift at The Pub today. Hearing her teary voice was enough to strip every last bit of exhaustion from my mind and send me running for my keys. I could pretend that my concern was completely innocent. I could pretend that I didn’t want to see Kenna. I could, but what’s the point of lying to myself?
Kenna Carpenter was a late bloomer, a scrawny tomboy, until she hit her late teens. It was so easy to see her as my best friend’s kid sister. But last year, right around her seventeenth birthday, her string-bean body filled out. And along with her tempting new curves, came an air of confidence that manifested as quick-witted sass. If I’m a sucker for anything, it’s a smartass with curves. Almost overnight, Kenna Carpenter became the very definition of jailbait.
So, I’ve been avoiding her. Not that it was hard. I’ve been so busy over the last year that I’ve barely slept. The day after I graduated college, I threw myself into the day-to-day operations at the gritty little restaurant my dad ran until his death two years ago. My dad poured his heart and soul into The Pub and it’s all I have left of him. I’ve worked open-to-close every day for the last six months, making sure I don’t miss a damn thing.
Besides, if I work myself to the bone, I don’t have any energy left to think about Kenna.
It’s not just the jailbait thing, either. Sure, she’s technically legal, but I owe her family a debt of gratitude that I can never repay. My mom left my dad when I was young, and she sure as hell didn’t have any interest in taking me with her. Dad did his best to raise me. He was supportive and loving, but running The Pub took nearly all of his time. There were nights he didn’t get home at all, leaving me to my own devices or having me stay with the Carpenters.
And Dean’s parents took me in. Happily. They fed me, helped me with homework, even took me on family vacations. When my dad passed unexpectedly from a heart attack, Dean’s mom was the one who called me at school and broke the news. Dean’s dad refused to let me drop out of college. He even took a sabbatical to run The Pub for me until I got my degree. If it weren’t for the Carpenters, I don’t know what I would have done or who I might have become.
That’s why it’s so fucking wrong that the only thing I want in the world is to follow their freshly legal daughter to the front porch, pin her to the wall, and kiss her breathless. I want to slide my hands under that skirt and slip my fingers into her heat. I want to make her come on my hand, hear her gasp my name through those devastating lips. But I can’t. Even that one, sweet kiss was crossing the line.
A shadow emerges from the side of the house, and I tense. But then the figure steps into the light, and when he does, a fresh wave of guilt rips through my chest.
Dean.
My best friend stalks toward my car and I roll the window down, praying to every God I can think of that he didn’t see me kissing his baby sister. He lifts his chin in greeting, but his brow is furrowed. Oh, fuck, he looks pissed.
“Hey, you left your phone at my place,” I say as he gets close. “Kenna called it and needed a ride. I just sent it inside with her.”
Dean stares at me for a long second, and my heart sinks. He saw the kiss, alright. And he’s definitely not happy about it.
“Not. Kenna,” he says through gritted teeth.
“That wasn’t—” I can’t finish that sentence. It was exactly what it looked like, and what I really want is so much worse.
“You know I don’t judge you, Jonas. But she’s just a girl. I don’t give a flying fuck if she’s legal. She’s innocent, and if you think I’d let you take her to that club, drag her into that lifestyle, you don’t fucking know me at all.”
His words are cold and angry, and I can hear the betrayal in his voice. I stare at my hands on the steering wheel, and I know he’s right.
“I wouldn’t take her there—”
“But you’d fuck her? Would you keep her here in Sugar Creek? Have her work at The Pub forever? You know she worked her ass off for that scholarship. Don’t be the reason she doesn’t get out of here.”
“I wouldn’t!” I bark back, and I’m not sure which part of that I’m answering. All of it, I guess.
Dean runs a hand through his hair, the harshness easing out of his voice. We’ve been best friends for the better part of two decades and even though he’s not one for saying sorry, I know he feels like shit. “I meant what I said, dude. I don’t judge you. If that was a lifestyle she chose, I wouldn’t say a fucking word. Just… don’t give her a reason to miss out on her life.”
“I would never.” My voice goes flat, anger giving way to the empty ache I’ve become accustomed to since my dad died. It’s my base existence and I should be used to it by now. Occasionally, other emotions crest over the top like a wave before receding, leaving me empty all over again. The sadness is exhausting, and I don’t want to think about it for another second.
“Promise me,” he demands, voice hard.
“I promise,” I mutter as I put the car in reverse. I back down the drive, leaving Dean standing there in the dark as my headlights turn toward the road.