Griffin Page 6

  His throat works on a swallow, and it takes a long time before he seems even marginally aware of what’s going on around him.

  “Are you drunk?” I think about adding again at the end of that question, but agitating an already nervous man with a gun could be a suicide mission.

  “They know where I am,” he whispers before turning around and looking into the night through the small window beside the door.

  “I didn’t tell them,” I insist when he turns back to look at me. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Not much.” He shakes his head violently back and forth, but he doesn’t stagger when he walks toward me. Unsure, I take a couple of steps back. “Were you followed?”

  My brow furrows at the question. “Does the thought of seeing your parents bother you so much that you open the door and shove a gun in your visitor’s face? What do you think your dad would do if I had been your mother?”

  “My mom?” He looks from me to the gun while rubbing his forehead with his hand. “My dad?”

  The one psychology class I took my freshman year is not helping right now, and since I have no idea how to act, I opt for pretending everything is normal. “Have you eaten? I brought you a plate.”

  I hold the dish in front of me. When he doesn’t make a move to put the gun down and take the plate, I peel the foil from the top.

  “I didn’t have a chance to grab dessert for you, but I know you won’t eat the fruit salad, anyway.”

  Griffin hates pineapple, but I don’t offer up the knowledge that I know about him.

  “My mom made this?” He swallows, this time from the smell of the food that’s already begun to fill the air. “Did you eat yet?”

  This is the man I know. Just like every guy back home, he won’t eat, no matter how hungry he is, if he thinks there’s a woman or a child who would benefit from it more.

  “I’ve eaten,” I lie to him as I turn with the plate toward the kitchen.

  After dropping off the food on the small kitchenette table, I root around in the drawers until I find a fork. The condition of the house isn’t dirty, but the mustiness clinging to the air makes it clear it hasn’t been lived in for a while. I quickly wash the fork, drying it on the bottom of my cover-up before handing it to him.

  Suddenly, after realizing I’m only in a swimsuit and a translucent shift, I become extremely embarrassed.

  “Sit. Eat,” I urge, hoping his focus on food will take any focus off me. As he settles at the table, I look around the small house, something I didn’t have the opportunity to do the last time I was here. “Did you already eat?”

  I point to the pizza box on the living room table.

  “I think they poisoned it,” he states with a simplicity that raises my eyebrows.

  Poison? They found me?

  What in the world is going on?

  “Does it have pineapple on it?” I ask with a small laugh. He despises the fruit so much I can see him equating a mistake as poisoning.

  Frowning when I flip the lid and see that it’s only pepperoni and beef, I turn back toward him. He’s got his head nearly buried in the plate of food as he leans in and shovels the side dishes into his mouth. Once those are cleared he works on the ribs like a man starved.

  When he’s done, he wipes his mouth and fingers on a paper napkin from the holder at the center of the table before picking up the plate and the shotgun and walking to the sink. The gun is propped against the cabinet as he soaps down the plate. His eyes squint and focus out the window.

  “You texted that you needed me,” I remind him once he’s finished drying the plate on a dishtowel he pulls from one of the drawers.

  “Are you anxious to get away from me?”

  There isn’t any irritability in his voice, but that does nothing to calm my nerves. One second he was kissing me yesterday and the next he was growling obscenities. Fool me once and all that.

  “No,” I answer truthfully and don’t offer him anything else.

  “I was hoping you’d like to hang out.” The simplicity of his words and the casual shrug of his shoulders is suspicious, especially with his recent behavior.

  “Hang out?” I ask. “We’ve never hung out before.”

  “Sure we have.” With the shotgun angled down, he places the clean plate on the table near the door and walks to the couch. “I’ve known you all my life. We’ve hung out before.”

  I don’t correct him or remind him that we may have been in the vicinity of each other before, but I wouldn’t call it hanging out together. We didn’t exactly associate with the same people. He tended to stay close to his guy friends, and I was terrified of boys. Still am, if anyone is wondering.

  “I promise not to touch you,” he says, patting a spot on the couch beside him.

  I don’t know if that is a good thing or not.

  “Are you drinking more?”

  At this, his eyes narrow as if I’m challenging him.

  “I don’t mind watching a little TV, but I can’t handle the guy from yesterday.”

  Shame marks his face before he can school it to be impassive. Instead, he opts for a brilliant smile.

  “Not even the kissing part?” His words don’t get me on the couch, but the wink he tossed my way does.

  Chapter 11

  Griffin

  “Thank you,” I tell her after she sits on the couch and places her hands in her lap primly. “After yesterday, you could’ve easily told me to fuck off and left.”

  She cringes at my profanity, and I want to kick myself. I was taught differently, as she’s well aware. Cussing in front of her, or treating her like she’s one of the guys is unacceptable.

  “I’m sorry for the way I acted.” It’s a simple apology, encompassing yesterday as well as the verbal slip up just now, and it’s the best I can do. Hopefully, she’ll forgive and forget, and we can move past it.

  A quick dip of her head is all I get as her eyes stay laser-focused on the TV. She must be anxious because the antibacterial soap commercial playing on the screen isn’t exactly interesting on any level, but she can’t seem to look away. I keep my eyes on the side of her face as the regular programming continues. I know she can see me watching her in her periphery, but she never turns her head to acknowledge me.

  While she feigns interest in the decade-old western, I don’t hide the fact that my interest is in her. How have I never actually looked at her before? Of course, I knew both she and her twin sister were pretty. It’s hard to come from such great stock as Kincaid and Emmalyn Anderson and end up the ugly duckling, but she’s much more than merely pretty. Hell, just the curve of her bottom lip is enough to make my jeans tighten uncomfortably.

  Texting her, effectively taking the chance of putting her in possible danger took all damn day, but the longer the sun stayed in the sky, the easier it was to believe nothing really happened last night. It wouldn’t be the first time I was awakened by gunfire only for someone in my company to insist it was a nightmare, but it was the first time it’s ever happened while I was alone. She wouldn’t be here if I thought she was actually in danger. My fall from glory has been swift and traumatic, but even still, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her or anyone for that matter.

  I jolt when a shootout begins on the TV, and like the angel her parents know she is, she simply grabs the remote and turns the channel. She doesn’t look at me or grill me about my reaction. She just takes away the issue. One simple action and suddenly I see her in a whole other light. She’s no longer the little girl sitting quietly in the corner, observing everyone’s every move. She’s no longer the scrawny teen in her twin’s shadow. She’s amazing, and this realization hits me in the chest like a wrecking ball. She’s a giver and a nurturer. It’s second nature for her to step in and take care of others, and I’m asshole enough to take that knowledge and run with it. It won’t be completely intentional on my part, but eventually, I’ll use her up. I’ll ruin every good thing about her, because good girls like her could never love or forgive the e
vil things I’ve done, no matter how much I beg for forgiveness.

  “I love this show,” she whispers as if the confession shouldn’t be shared with anyone.

  Looking over at the screen, I expect to find something ridiculous like the OC or Vampire Diaries, but instead, the screen is filled with an old lady holding up the ugliest lamp I’ve ever seen.

  “Is this—?”

  “The Antique Roadshow,” she says with a sparkle in her eyes. She only gives me the briefest of looks before turning her attention back to the screen. “I always wanted to go into that old, condemned motel off of Highway 180 when I was a kid. I was certain I’d find tons of treasures.”

  Her cheeks pink, and I love that her simple confession makes her blush.

  “That’s dangerous,” I warn her, even though I’m certain as an adult she’s less tempted because she realizes it wouldn’t have anything but cheap junk someone would stock a crappy motel like that with.

  “Daddy always said, ‘don’t even think about it, baby girl. It’s a felony to go into someplace you don’t own.’’”

  I grin as she lowers her voice to sound more masculine. She doesn’t even get within a mile of her dad’s booming voice, though.

  “It’s filled with vagrants. A lot of crime happens out there. They should just burn the place down,” I tell her.

  Her smile falls. “Or fix it up and use it as a homeless shelter.”

  “Fixing it up isn’t going to cure the addictions of the people that squat there.”

  Her face turns even further down in dissatisfaction, but instead of arguing or giving me another opinion, she merely turns her face back to the TV.

  “How is school going?” Crap. I wasn’t trying to make her mad, but I guess I wouldn’t want to be talked to like a child either.

  “Fine.” Her clipped answer confirms what I had already suspected.

  Rather than question her and risk making her so mad she leaves, I settle into the sofa and watch old people price prized possessions.

  My eyes are growing heavy when I feel her shift her body weight on the couch. I reach out to stop her, only seconds away from begging her not to leave when I look over and realize she’s just trying to get more comfortable. Her sandals hit the floor, and she draws her legs up and tucks them in close to her body.

  “Here.”

  I offer her the decorative pillow from behind my back and tug down the afghan folded on the back of the couch. If they’re musty or scratchy, she doesn’t let on, rather accepting them both with a whispered ‘thank you’ before she tucks her hands under her chin and blinks slowly at the television.

  I wish her knees weren’t pulled in so tight to her body. It makes her feet harder to reach, and since I have no reason to touch her, all I can do is hope that as she grows sleepier, she also relaxes enough to stretch out. I didn’t realize how much I missed something as basic as human touch until she pressed against me in an attempt to keep me from falling off the barstool yesterday.

  By the time midnight rolls around, she’s softly snoring on her end of the sofa. After stretching, all the while trying not to disturb her, I realize she’s sleeping where I’ve slept since I got back to New Mexico. Indecision is running through my head, fighting between sliding in behind her or finding somewhere else to crash when the hunger that had disappeared while she was awake comes roaring back to life.

  My eyes dart to the brown paper bag on the table near the door. I was able to resist it all day, and I swore to her I wouldn’t drink if she stayed, but she’s asleep now. Without her distraction, the need to drink is like a physical tormentor right in front of me. Telling myself, I’ll just take a few sips to take the edge off, I quietly get up from the couch and grab a bottle out of the bag. If I thought for a second she wouldn’t freak out if I lined myself up against her and held her to my chest, I’d do that in a heartbeat, but we don’t know each other like that. The low whimper deep in her throat with just the sweep of my tongue in her mouth was enough to let me know just how inexperienced she is.

  The crack of the seal as I twist the cap brings so much anticipation, my hand is trembling with need by the time the bottle reaches my mouth. I take two deep gulps of the bourbon before turning back to look at her tiny figure on the couch. The sight of her fragile body on what I’ve considered my bed for days, makes me think things I have no business thinking. That alone leads to more gulps of the burning liquid, and as the warmth spreads through my body so does the fear that I asked her to come here and it’s only going to lead to her getting hurt somehow. Deep down, I know that her pain will be inflicted by me, but as the alcohol takes its hold on my thoughts, I allow the insidious anxiety from last night to creep back in.

  I situate myself with my back against the couch, the shotgun near my thigh, and dare anything to hurt her. The familiar sound of a motorcycle infiltrates my haze, and it’s comforting until I realize I’m not at the clubhouse. I’m on Jared’s property, and the only thing that can sound that close is someone on his land.

  “Griffin?”

  My head snaps in Ivy’s direction as she lifts her head from the arm of the sofa and rubs gingerly at her eyes.

  “Someone is coming,” I hiss. “Go lock yourself in the bathroom, and don’t come out until I give the all-clear.”

  Her brows crease down the center of her forehead, and she makes no move to get off the couch.

  “Please,” I beg. “I don’t want them to hurt you.”

  The bike engine is killed right in front of the cottage.

  “That’s your bike,” she mutters as she stands from the sofa and slips her feet into her sandals. How is she so sure? How would she know the sound of my bike when I don’t recognize it myself?

  “Where are you going?” She walks past me, too fast for me to grab her slender body, and swings open the front door. “Don’t—”

  I stop dead in my tracks when I make it to the door and look outside. My brother is grinning from the front seat of an SUV as my dad climbs off of my bike. Both of their focus is on Ivy. Hell, so is mine when the nearly translucent fabric of her bathing suit cover-up whips around her legs from the night wind.

  “Hey.” I hear her say.

  My dad mumbles something else before looking in my direction. I shift the stock of the shotgun behind my leg, but from the frown on his face, I’m certain I wasn’t quick enough.

  I only get bits and pieces of the conversation, but hearing my dad use words like ‘unsafe here’ and ‘you should come home’ makes me cringe. After my dad has said his piece, he looks up at me one more time before he climbs into the passenger seat of the SUV. We both watch, Ivy standing in the middle of the driveway, as they pull away.

  “What did he say?” I ask as she walks back onto the tiny wooden porch.

  She stills, her eyes widening as she glares at my face, more specifically my mouth. “Have you been drinking?”

  I swallow but don’t answer. She’s too close to lie to, and I know she already smelled the bourbon on my breath from my earlier question.

  “Unbelievable.” She walks inside, just long enough to grab her keys.

  She’s pissed, and as I much as I want to beg her to stay, the sight of the bottle of bourbon beside the couch holds more appeal than a beautiful, angry girl.

  Chapter 12

  Ivy

  “Go away,” I groan as I cover my head with my pillow. I tossed and turned all night after leaving Griffin, and now two nights in a row with cruddy sleep I want to hibernate for a month. My ringing phone doesn’t listen to my pleading, and when it begins to ring again, I’m forced to sit up in bed and answer it.

  “Hello?” I don’t bother looking at the ID to see who is calling.

  “Genevieve?” I stiffen at hearing my full first name. “Is this Genevieve Anderson?”

  “Y-yes,” I reply before pulling the phone away from my head to look at the number. It’s local to Farmington, and familiar, but I can’t place it.

  “Hi. This is Principal Lee at the hig
h school. I had a conversation with Leslie last week, and I—”

  “Leslie?” I interrupt.

  “Mrs. Keele,” she clarifies, and the mention of my favorite English teacher brings a smile to my tired face.

  I don’t know Ms. Lee personally, as she only took over the position last year.

  “Ah,” I respond.

  “Les—Mrs. Keele told me you might be in town this summer.”

  “I am,” I tell her even though I have no idea why she would call me.

  “We had a couple of teachers…” She clears her throat as if she’s agitated with whatever news it is she’s delivering. “We have a few vacancies.”

  “I still have a year left in school. I haven’t even begun to prepare for my state tests.”

  “Oh no, dear,” she says sweetly. “We don’t need you for next year. We need you right now.”

  “Now?” I ask. “It’s summertime.”

  “Hence, the need for summer-school teachers.” Desperation fills her tone. “Mrs. Keele said you might be interested, and before you turn me down, we need warm bodies with some basic knowledge of teaching, not necessarily certified teachers. You’ll be more like a full-time tutor for kids needing a little help to gain credits.”

  “I haven’t done any observation yet. Did you say high school? My focus has been on early childhood. I wouldn’t have a clue about how to deal with high school students.”

  “It’s not rocket science, dear. Surely you haven’t forgotten what high school was like. It wasn’t, but a few years ago, you were roaming these halls yourself. Mrs. Keele said you were an excellent tutor.”

  Remembering high school doesn’t help her bid to get me back up there. I didn’t have a horrible time. My dad running the MC stopped most people from teasing me, and Gigi brought enough attention to herself, but I was shy and stayed to myself.

  “Genevieve?”

  “I’m here,” I whisper.

  Is this something I want? Is this something I can handle? All the way back from that isolated cottage last night I vowed to return to Rhode Island, but right now, faced with an excuse to stay, I’m wavering. The terrified look in Griffin’s eyes last night at just hearing the roar of his own bike makes the decision for me. There’s something going on with him, and I wouldn’t be the person I’ve always prided myself in being if I walked away from him now.