Neither is he.
His hands work my jeans loose. They crumple at my feet and he lifts me out of them. We stumble into the shower together and I yelp when the hot water hits my skin. Griff pivots, pins me to the wall. His fingers knot in my hair, angling my head for another kiss.
His mouth covers mine and I’m gone. My arms loop around Griff’s neck and he lifts me to meet him, pressing my shoulders into the wall. I love this. I love how he takes me out of me, until the water hits the dirt and suddenly all I can smell is mud and decay and I gasp.
“Wicked.” Griff loosens his grip and I stare dumbly at him, hearing a whistle in my head that makes my body go cold. Water sluices down his face, tiny droplets catching in his eyelashes. “Slow down.”
I can’t. He’s begging me to stop, but his hands are telling me how I’m wanted, how I’m powerful.
Like what happened to me didn’t really happen.
I choke on my sob so it doesn’t emerge in a scream. Tears crowd my eyes and I push away from him.
I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.
I’m already crying.
In front of Griff. Oh, God.
It’s coming out in big, ugly gasps now, bending me in half and driving my knees to the tile. I can’t stop. I’m crying for Chelsea and for me.
Because I don’t want to do this anymore.
I end up sprawled at Griff’s feet, and when he gathers me close, I want to die. This is not how I want him to see me.
This isn’t how I want to see me. Griff holds my head against his chest so our breathing comes down together. It’s almost enough to make me feel like I’ve survived it.
Until the GoPhone vibrates on the counter.
I fumble with a towel before picking it up. The screen is smeared with mud, making the incoming call barely legible. Carson.
Griff sees it too. “Whoever it is can wait.”
“It can’t—it’s Carson.” Now I’m the one who retreats, shuffles around to separate our clothes. When I pass him his T-shirt, all I can see is how my muddy fingers made the fabric look bloodstained.
Griff catches my hand and something wordless snakes between us. He wants to talk. I want to disappear. I can’t believe I fell apart. Well, I can believe it. I wish I hadn’t.
Because it feels like I just changed everything.
The phone buzzes again and Griff looks at me, the air between us wrapped with everything he will not say: Don’t answer, don’t put Carson first, don’t do this. And I have to and I’m not and I have no choice. It looks like I’m putting Carson first and I’m not. I’m putting Griff and Lily and Bren first by keeping Carson at bay. I should explain that.
I angle the phone against my ear instead. “Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
“Home. I had to check the security system.”
“We have to talk.”
“Tell him to screw off.” Griff moves toward me and, without thinking, I shy away, stopping myself too late.
“Wick? Are you there?”
I keep my eyes trained on Griff. “Where do you want to meet?”
“My house. In an hour.”
I should probably pretend I have no idea where Carson lives. Definitely shouldn’t reveal I scoped his place once because I thought it might be useful information.
“Fine,” I say, and disconnect, tossing the phone onto the bathroom counter. I stare at it so I don’t have to meet Griff’s eyes. “I have to meet Carson. His house. It’s a few minutes from here.”
“I’ll go with you . . . if you want.”
Of course I want. I should be ashamed of how grateful that makes me. I start to tell him anyway and stop. Instead, I pull up my chin.
“I’ll clean out the Mini,” Griff says, studying the wall above my head. “If it’s half as muddy as you—”
“You don’t have to protect me.”
“I couldn’t if I tried.” He walks out, leaving the bathroom door wide open.
Run after him. Apologize.
No way.
I scrub one hand over my swollen eyes. He makes it sound like I enjoy this shit, like I go looking for it. It’s not like that. It’s not.
I open my mouth to tell him it’s not about what I might ruin. It’s about what I will save. Too late though—Griff’s feet have already hit the stairs. I’m alone. This isn’t the happily ever after he signed on for, but this is who I turned out to be.
Carson doesn’t live in Peachtree City proper. He’s probably fifteen minutes outside the city limits. It’s a small house at the end of a long dirt road, bordered on three sides by thick trees that rise up like broken teeth. The odds of anyone seeing us are next to nil. Even so, Carson still makes us park the Mini well behind the house.
Griff pulls the keys from the ignition, and as he reaches for the car door, I reach for him. “Griff.”
He’s already walking away, the lines of his shoulders sharp under his faded T-shirt. Carson waits at the door and, silently, we all pile into the living room, where Carson collapses on a swaybacked couch and helps himself to the bottle of Jack propped on the coffee table.