Griff’s right though. I do need something else. “Problem is,” I begin, “my old builder won’t touch me anymore.”
After Todd was arrested and the newspapers hailed me as a hero, my builder freaked and went underground. He said there was too much attention surrounding me. I figured his paranoia would pass. It hasn’t and that’s kind of left me up the creek.
I know it sounds weird. If you’re into coding and computers, you should be able to build a decent system, right? Not so much. Software hackers, people like me, do software not hardware. Yeah, I know how to build a basic computer with off-the-shelf parts. The problem is what I want—what I need—requires a specialist.
Griff nods. “I know your guy went under. Thought you could use mine instead.”
“You have someone?”
“Yeah.” Griff edges a little closer and his hand—stained with faded blue ink—cradles my jawline . . . my cheek. His thumb grazes my lower lip and we both swallow. Hard.
“That would be amazing, Griff. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”
Jesus. Could I sound any stiffer? I want this thing between us fixed and I don’t know how to do it. Do I kiss him and apologize? Or do I just kiss him?
Maybe it’s because of the DVD or maybe it’s just because this is my first boyfriend, but I keep thinking about how my mom tried to fix things with my dad. She did it wrong. I wanted to do it better.
And I’m not.
“I want you to be safe,” Griff says. “My guy is . . . a bit of a dick. He’s good though. Really good.”
I nod, sounds fine to me, but there’s something about the way Griff offered his builder that makes me think he kinda sorta wants me to say no.
“Are you okay?” I ask, hoping he hears the are we okay? hovering underneath.
“Yeah. ’Course.” Griff shrugs, watching his fingers trace across my skin. His touch is so light and it makes my stomach feel liquid and heavy. “It’s just that, when I thought about being with you . . . this isn’t how I pictured it.”
I force a smile, lean into his hand.
That makes two of us.
7
Griff follows me home, leaving his bike at my house so we can head to Five Points in the Mini. The clouds above us have turned the pale cream of baseball leather, promising better weather to come, but traffic is slow. It takes us almost an hour to reach downtown Atlanta, and when we finally turn down the last side street, I’m sure Griff is screwing with me.
“This is it,” he says, motioning to the squat building on our left. Usually computer specialists work out of storefronts or their houses and we’re turning in to an abandoned restaurant that looks like something out of The Walking Dead.
“You take me to the nicest places,” I joke, negotiating around an enormous pothole. I’m trying for funny. Griff doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyes are pinned to the caving-in front awning and the man in a hoodie standing under it.
“Is that your builder?” I ask, and Griff shakes his head, mouth set.
“No.”
We park and get out, Griff coming around to my side before I can even shut my door. “Hey, I have a confession,” he says. “I had to tell him who you really were.”
I stiffen and Griff sweeps his hands down my arms. “He doesn’t take new clients, but I knew he was a fan of your work so . . .”
I force a smile. “It’s okay.”
Only it’s kind of not. I’m careful to keep my hacking life separate from my real life. Griff’s one of the few people who knows both and he gave me away. As soon as I think it, though, I smother the thought. Griff did this to help me with something he doesn’t even want any part of.
I close my hand around Griff’s and squeeze, following him across the parking lot. Up under the restaurant’s awning, the hoodie guy starts to pace. The closer we get, the harder his feet stab into the sidewalk.
“What do you want?” he demands, voice creaky and rusted, a box lid unused to opening.
“Looking for Milo Gray,” Griff says, easing sideways so I have to peer around him. “He here?”
“Maybe.” The guy moves toward us. This close, his eyes are an ashy gray like whatever’s inside him is burning its way to the surface.
Homeless. Maybe high. He doesn’t look well. His skin is the color of overcreamed coffee and his clothes are stained and rumpled. The stench is enough to make my eyes water.
“Who are you?” He’s talking to me now and it makes Griff stiffen.
“Wick,” I say.
He mouths my name, twitches, and Griff’s breath stalls. I curve my hand around his forearm. It’s okay. It’s okay.
Then suddenly it’s not.
The guy lunges at me and I duck, stumbling back and lashing out with my fist. I connect with his throat. He coughs hard and goes to his knees.
“Hey!” Another voice—a guy’s—comes from my left. I jerk sideways and the newcomer lunges forward, ripping past me to crouch by the guy. He nearly gets flattened for his efforts though. The man leaps up and takes off.