Griffin

by Marie James

  He doesn’t say anything when he climbs out of the car. The niceties I’d expect from a guy raised in the club, the common courtesy I know he possesses is nowhere to be found. I watch the window of the busy liquor store until he reemerges. I don’t know why I expected him to walk out with a single bottle, but the sight of his arms straining under the weight of a heavy brown paper bag is shocking.

  He clambers back into the front seat after settling the bag in the back.

  “Nope.” I point to the bottle of amber liquor in his lap. “You can wait until you get to wherever it is I’m taking you.”

  “I’m not driving.”

  “You’re not drinking while I’m driving either.”

  He glares at me for long moments, and I give him the exact same in return.

  “I’m not going to risk getting pulled over and get into trouble for an open container violation,” I say.

  He grumbles several cuss words under his breath, but eventually, he slides the bottle into the back with the others.

  I remain silent as he snaps his seatbelt in place.

  “What now?” he hisses when I make no move to leave the parking space.

  “You haven’t told me where I’m taking you. Are we going back to the clubhouse?”

  “Fuck no,” he grumbles but looks around as if he’s trying to orient himself with our location. “Where are we?”

  “On the north side,” I mutter without looking in his direction. Even drunk and angry, he’s still so very handsome, and I’m trying not to forget the way he has spoken to me today. The last thing I want is to forgive his horrific behavior. Crush or not, I’m not one to stand up and ask for more when I’ve been knocked down. I’m trying to force my brain to remember the lesson learned and move on, but it’s a struggle.

  “Do you know Old Man Franklin?” I shake my head. “Jared Franklin’s granddad?”

  He sighs too hard to be considered polite and shakes his head in frustration.

  “Want me to just take you to the clubhouse. Once you’re sober, you can come back and get your bike.”

  “No chance. He lives off of East Main. Drive that direction.”

  Without a word, I back out of the parking lot and head toward the part of town he’s talking about. He doesn’t make a move to speak, so I turn up the radio and hum along to the country song playing on my favorite station. I also ignore him through the next one, and the one after that.

  “Where to next?” I look over to find him staring at me. “What?”

  God, if I have something stuck to my face right now, I’d probably die. His embarrassing spill at the bar didn’t seem to affect him, but even a rogue eyelash stuck to my cheek right now would be too much to handle. It’s already going to take days to get over what happened in the bar, and I may never get over the hateful way he’s treated me today.

  “I didn’t know you could sing.”

  “What?” My hand flies up to my throat. “I can’t.”

  “Says the girl who just belted out Reba like she had possessed your body.”

  I swallow, the lump always in my throat when he’s around choosing now to double in size. His soft smile seems genuine, but what’s done is done.

  “Sorry,” I finally manage. “I didn’t mean to… I thought I was only humming.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He offers a soft smile. “I enjoyed it. You should sing again for me sometime.”

  The corner of my right eye begins to twitch like always when I’m shocked.

  “Wh-where to next?”

  “Take Browning Parkway,” he says without looking away from me.

  Nodding, I urge my focus back on the road. We’re less than a mile down the road when he speaks up.

  “The road up here on the left.”

  “There’s nothing back here,” I comment more to myself as I slow the car down to a crawl on the gravel road. “There are no houses—”

  Before I can finish the statement, a quaint little farm cottage springs up out of nowhere.

  “Wow, that’s cute.”

  “It’s quiet,” Griffin corrects, and I suddenly realize his reason for not staying back at his parents’ house.

  “It seems lonely,” I argue as I pull into the driveway and put the car in park.

  “Quiet,” he repeats. Surprisingly, he doesn’t immediately jump out of the car and make a dive toward the liquor he was so adamant about getting earlier. “Listen, Ivy.”

  My ears are perked up, waiting for him to continue, but he just stares out the passenger window at nothing. I anticipate an apology. The man I know Griffin to be would’ve never treated me the way he did. Even if my crush was more about his looks and proximity, I never once saw him talk down or treat someone poorly.

  “Don’t tell anyone where I’m staying.” Not exactly what I was expecting from him, but at least he isn’t yelling at me any longer. “I just don’t want people bothering me. I have some shit to work through—”

  “I’m here if you need someone to talk to,” I offer.

  He dips his head in acknowledgment, but I don’t miss the twitch in his cheek telling me he’s agitated.

  “I have to work things out on my own,” he says gently even though I know he’s angry.

  “Do you need help getting inside?”

  The twitch in his cheek intensifies. “I can manage.”

  With no goodbye or thank you for getting him home safely, he climbs out of the car and pulls his bag of liquor from the back.

  I watch as he makes his way to the front porch, each step less sure than the one before it. He catches himself on the porch post before he topples over. I should drive off and let him deal with his state of intoxication with some pride, but after watching him drop the keys to the door twice, I climb out and head in his direction.

  He doesn’t say a word when I gently pull the keyring from his hand and insert the single key into the lock. I step inside, and he walks past to place his bag on a nearby table. The oddly furnished home is nothing I’d consider his style, but then again it’s probably furnished by the owners since he’s only been home a couple of days.

  “Here you go.” I offer the keyring to him when he turns back in my direction.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, but when his hand meets mine, he locks his fingers with mine rather than pulling the keys free.

  “What—” is all I can manage before his lips are covering mine.

  My pulse skyrockets, and my brain misfires. There is no way this is happening right now. Things like my lifetime crush kissing me doesn’t happen to me. Yet, his tongue gains entrance to my mouth when I gasp in shock. I do what every girl would do in my situation; I kiss him back, clumsily.

  It isn’t until his hands fist my butt that I’m brought back to reality.

  “Not like this,” I gasp and pull my mouth away from his. “Not while you’re drunk.”

  His eyes narrow and a sinister sneer turns his once handsome mouth into an ugly slice across his face. “I want to fuck.”

  I cringe harder at the filthy words. Maybe to some, hell maybe even in the right circumstances those words would draw a different reaction from me, but right now they’re crude and tainted with his despicable behavior from earlier.

  “Put out or get out,” he snaps when I just blink at him in shock.

  “Nice,” I mutter. “It’s so very good to see you after all this time. If this is how you were acting on base, no wonder they kicked you out.”

  It’s a low blow, and right now I mean every syllable of it.

  “Clearly, you weren’t cut out to be a Marine in the first place.”

  To the best of my ability, I ignore the horrible things he says about me and the kiss we shared as I make my way out of the house, down the front porch stairs, and to the car. When I packed a bag and forced my friends to catch a red-eye out of Rhode Island, so sure I would be able to lend some sort of supporting hand to Griffin. All I was wanting was some form of closure. I either wanted him to confess to having feelings for me as wel
l or to tell me it was never going to happen. The limbo was what has been killing me, and now I finally know how he feels.

  Shouldn’t I be happy or feel some sense of resolve as I drive away from him? All I feel is a hole deep in my stomach and tears burning my eyes. This isn’t exactly the outcome I was hoping for.

  Chapter 7

  Griffin

  Regret hits me in the chest like a mortar shell the second Ivy climbs in her car and drives away. Both my words and my actions around her are despicable. We’ve said more words to each other today than I think we’ve shared in our entire lives, and leave it up to me to be an asshole and ruin whatever positive spin she might have had on my character.

  I guess her knowing the truth is better than some false impression she dreamed up while watching me from afar all these years.

  My lip turns up in a snarl when I think back to how easy things were before the military. Life was perfect. I had two parents who adored me, a brother who envied me so much he wanted to be me, and I could hold my head high with the dream of becoming one of the servicemen who was tasked with defending this amazing country.

  Now, I’m stuck in a hell so many people suffer from, yet no one really talks about. Lt. Novo is an evil man, but my guilt comes from being a coward, choosing to sacrifice innocent lives rather than end my own. It’s unforgivable. Ivy wants to be my friend, wants to offer support for something she’ll never understand. Thankfully, she’ll never have to. I don’t wish this knowledge on anybody. It’s better off for people to think real life is what’s depicted in movies that don’t usually come close to the trauma soldiers go through. So what if my suffering is only lessened with a few drinks.

  Just the thought of alcohol has me walking away from the front door in search of the bottle I wasn’t able to fully drain last night before passing out. I take comfort in the fact that it is exactly where I left it, as it calms some of my growing paranoia.

  I don’t even feel the burn as I gulp the golden liquid. It makes things easier today, but it’s also a warning for how bad things will be tomorrow.

  I don’t bother going into the kitchen. The house has been empty for months and months, so there’s no food. I haven’t gone to the store for groceries. Hell, I don’t think I’ve eaten anything except for a cheeseburger at the bar a couple of days ago.

  “Who needs food?” I ask the empty room as I fall onto the surprisingly comfortable floral print couch.

  The TV is nothing to celebrate and the fact that it doesn’t have satellite sucks, but at least the evening news fills the silence surrounding me. Noise is the only thing that silences the voices in my head. It’s the only reason I go to the bar. Being around people is the last thing I want, but I’d like to think I’m not so far gone that I’m working on becoming a hermit.

  It sure is easier to drink here, I think as I take another long pull on the bottle.

  “RIP brothers,” I say, holding the bottle of whiskey toward the TV when the news anchor announces the deaths of two soldiers.

  It doesn’t take long for me to find the bottom of the bottle I started on last night, and with each sip, the pain and regret for my choices dilute even more.

  Heavy eyes and shitty TV force me into slumber even though I fight it. I know I won’t get a reprieve, even in my dreams.

  ***

  Repetitive yet familiar loud cracks force my eyes open, but I’m already on the floor keeping my body low before my brain has time to assess the situation. Survival is second nature, and even the whiskey still coursing through my veins won’t rid me of my training.

  There’s no broken glass or fractured wood chips near the front door. None of the windows lining the two visible walls has been broken. For a split second, relief washes over me as I convince myself that it was just another dream, but then the acrid smell of gunpowder fills my nose.

  Using the power of my arms, I army crawl across the floor until I’m in the master bedroom. I haven’t breached this space, wanting to give Jared the privacy he wanted for his grandfather’s things, but I know any old man worth his weight is going to have firearms. Hopeful that Jared hasn’t removed them from the property, I take another moment to look at the walls and windows. Everything seems to be intact, but I don’t spring to my feet and go searching. I allow my eyes to adjust to the dim light coming in from the window, praying all the while that the person or persons outside don’t have infrared before moving into further action.

  There isn’t a closet in this old room, and from what I can tell, there isn’t a gun safe either. I’m on my way out of the room when my gaze falls between the night table and the bed. As if sent from heaven, the butt of an old shotgun seems to glow in the tiny space.

  Making my way to it, I sigh in relief when I realize it’s loaded and ready to go. My first thought is to stand tall and face my unknown enemy, but that would be idiotic. I have a couple of shells in a gun so old it’s likely to misfire the first time I pull the trigger, and I have no clue who or what I’m facing.

  I crawl back into the living room, and everything seems to be just as I left it, but that doesn’t bring any relief. One thing I learned in the Marines is that sometimes waiting out an enemy is the best tactic, and that’s fitting for myself as well as anyone outside. Silence right now doesn’t necessarily equate to safety.

  Still on my stomach, I dig through my bag until I wrap my fingers around my phone. It’s dead, which I anticipated since I haven’t charged it in over a week. I find the charging cable next, having enough wherewithal to click the sound off and hold it to my chest to block the screen when I unplug the lamp and plug my phone in.

  Even if the phone was fully charged, I’m not sure who I’d call. I’d rather die alone in this cabin without anyone I love knowing why Bradley Novo is possibly outside ready to arrange my meeting with my maker.

  Calming breaths eventually lower my racing heart rate, and not another sound is heard outside. Even as my brain tries to convince me that there’s no threat, I stay on the floor with the shotgun ready for action. After what seems like hours, the sight of the brown paper bag I carried in earlier taunts me with its contents. Risking injury, I leave the shotgun and make my way to the table. Before long, I have the bag cradled and am able to get back to a more secure position.

  Uncaring now about threats that may or may not be waiting for me outside, I twist the top off a bottle of Jack Daniels and tilt it to my lips. I drink until I forget why I’m on the floor in the first place. When the sun comes up, I’ve convinced myself what happened last night was all in my head.

  Chapter 8

  Ivy

  My vow to not let him affect me didn’t make it very far. By the time I got home last night, my face was drenched with tears. I managed to avoid everyone on the way to my room, but then the tears started anew and with such force, I had to bury my face in my pillows so no one would hear my heartbreak.

  My headache is well-earned, but a hindrance this morning. I took two Tylenol twenty minutes ago without even bothering to get out of bed, but I know the longer I lie here, the higher the chances of someone coming up to check on me. I’ve never been one to hang out alone in my room or even sleep late. I’m always downstairs chatting and getting an early start to my day. Anything but socializing sounds good right now.

  My quick shower helps to take the edge off of my headache, but it doesn’t even touch the puffiness under my eyes. Deciding to blame it on jetlag, I dress quickly and head downstairs.

  My body needs coffee like my emotions need a vacation, but I stop short of the threshold when I hear Misty’s voice.

  “He needs his family, not solitude.” His mom is talking about Griffin, and I know she’s here to interrogate me since I’m one of the few people who have seen him since he got home. I wonder if Cannon sat around and answered questions after he met up with him at the bar to give him his belongings earlier this week?

  “The man needs to sort through his problems as he sees fit,” Morrison counters, and I groan knowing that I�
�m about to get ambushed by both of his parents.

  “My son—” Misty begins.

  “Is a grown man,” her husband interrupts.

  Deciding there’s no good time to show my face, I walk into the kitchen. Misty’s hopeful eyes dart in my direction, and Morrison stands tall beside her. My parents also look at me like I hold all of the answers. Any one of them could’ve just as easily gone to see Griffin, and after how he treated me yesterday, I’m regretting that I actually did.

  “Any coffee?” I ask sheepishly as I walk toward the pot.

  “It’s after eleven,” my father states, and I don’t miss the small reprimand in his voice. He’s never been big on lazy days. Never do nothing when you can always do something runs through my head like he actually says the words out loud. He’s used that phrase for everything in my life growing up. It’s drilled into my subconscious.

  “I’ll make another pot,” my mother offers before busying herself.

  I wish she hadn’t taken my only means to keep my hands and eyes busy.

  “Good morning,” I tell the Griggs as they continue to stare in my direction.

  I’ve never felt uncomfortable around them. I’ve never shied away from a conversation or wondered what they thought of me, but after the colorful things their son said to me last night, I can’t help but feel a little out of place. Can they tell just by looking at me that seconds into the kiss I shared with Griffin, I was willing to give him everything he wanted from me? I still don’t know how I had the strength to push him away. Many of the tears cried last night were from regret and wondering if giving myself to him was what holds the power to pull him from the darkness he’s so intent on staying in.