Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)

“Thank you, Nostradamus. And thank you again, because if you’re right and it’s a hit, then I owe you part of the credit.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me. A walking, talking inspiration for artists the world over.” I smile, but the truth is that I’m thinking of Wyatt. Of that one sunset long ago when he took my picture under the canopy of a massive oak, and he swore that I was his muse.

“At least you have the easy part,” Griffin deadpans. “Being the inspiration is a hell of a lot easier than doing the work.”

“Hey!” I protest for form, but the truth is he’s right. Years ago, I started giving him bedtime story prompts. I came up with a scarred boy who lived in the shadows of an imaginary town, and who grew into a detective who worked in the shadows, fighting for the innocent.

Not very original, I grant you, but I was only a kid trying to entertain her brother in the hospital. I’d set the stage, and he’d spin out most of it, with me taking over when his meds made him groggy.

Soon, we were telling the stories all day, letting the detective’s adventures entertain us when another afternoon of bad television was too much to bear.

Now, of course, Griff’s taken the original kernel of my story and run with it. His scripts are amazing, and Edmond—the hero, in a nod to The Count of Monte Cristo—is brilliant, scrappy, tortured, and honorable.

Griff’s written at least five new episodes since the last time I recorded, and I flip through his story bible to see what’s happened.

“Ha! I knew Detective Wilson was going to be suspicious.”

“Yeah, you’re very smart. You ready?”

I take a sip of white wine, then nod, and he switches the microphone on.

I don’t notice it when we’re not performing, but my brother has an amazing voice. Deep and melodic and sexy. And that’s just another reason I think the podcast has a real chance of becoming something.

“You still need a name for the show,” I tell him when we finish recording the first scene, and he’s doing something with the soundboard.

“It’s on the list, believe me. But it’s a very long list.”

“You need to be more organized.” I spend my life making sure everything I do is set up eons in advance, with all the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted. But Griffin just goes with the flow. Sometimes that makes me jealous. Most of the time just thinking about it makes me crazy.

“Ready for the last bit?” he asks, then starts the recording and cues me when I nod. I dive into the words, giving it my all, which really isn’t hard because the story’s so good. And this is a particularly fun episode because I’m a detective who’s giving Edmond grief, and even though I love my brother, that’s a role I know how to play.

When we finally wrap and he shuts off the microphone, I actually applaud. “I don’t know how you do it. I think each episode gets better.”

“I guess I’m just swimming in talent,” he says, and I roll my eyes. Not because he’s exaggerating, but because it’s true. And every time I think about that, it makes me a little sad. Because in Hollywood everything is about appearances, and I’m so very afraid that talent alone isn’t enough.

“Any new gigs?” I ask.

“I’m recording an audiobook, which is fun. And I get to work from here, which is a plus. And we’re going to start recording the tracks for the movie next week. That’s going to be a blast. Not lucrative, but you can’t have everything.”

He’s just been cast in an independent film as the adult voice for the kid who stars in the movie. It’s not much money, but the exposure should be amazing.

“I did get my signing check,” he adds. “That was handy. Paid off my last two therapy bills.”

“I hate that you’re always working toward a bill,” I say. What I don’t say is that I wish I could afford to pay for his physical therapy.

He shrugs. “It’s the American way.”

I scowl. I don’t like talking about his scars and the nerve damage and all the medical mess that goes along with it. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all go away, but the only wand I have is the clinical protocol, and I just walked away from the money to pay for it.

“By the way, they called me about the first appointment for the Devinger Protocol,” he says, referring to the protocol I was just thinking about. “You know you’re the best sister ever, right?” My insides tighten up, just like they always do when we talk about his treatments. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He crouches in front of where I’m still sitting, then takes my chin in his hand. He forces me to look him in the eye.

“And you’re amazing for getting me enrolled in that program.”

I lift a shoulder and twist my head, freeing myself. I’ve already paid the first five thousand, which pretty much cleaned out my bank account. That was to hold his spot and cover the initial testing and evaluation. The fifteen I’m still trying to gather covers his full enrollment into phase one of the protocol. And, if the results are in line with expectations, he’ll be invited into phase two for free, where we could expect even more dramatic improvement.

“I still can’t believe you can afford it,” he says.

“It’s not that expensive,” I lie. “The hard part was getting all the paperwork in.” That wasn’t a lie. It had been a nightmare getting all the signatures I needed so that I could get the records in order to submit the files. “Besides, I told you. I started a savings account for you back when you were twelve.” That also isn’t a lie. But what he doesn’t know is that since I’d been a minor, my dad was on the account. And he cleaned it out without telling me the year I started college.

“Well, I think you’re a goddess. A responsible, overly organized—but in a good way—goddess.”

“OC Draper,” I say, reciting Nia’s name for me.

“Give her a hug for me tomorrow.”

“Will do.” For about five minutes when I was in college, I thought my brother and best friend might actually date. But they defied me by just becoming friends. Which is probably better, as I don’t run the risk of weirdness if they were to break up.

Still, it bothers me. Mostly because Griffin never dates. But when I point that out to him, he always points right back at me.

“Different reasons,” I always counter.

“Bullshit,” he says. “I don’t like the way women look at me. You just don’t want to be seen. Same issue, different sides. At least you can blame Dad and his fucked up version of morality and Karma or whatever the hell ridiculous philosophy he used to keep you and Mom in line. All I can blame is my mirror and my ego.”

And me, I think. You can blame me.

Except he never does.

But I blame myself enough for the both of us.





15


Twelve years ago