Find Me

by Romily Bernard

  So I stare at Joe. I listen as he runs through the scam again, and I know, without a single doubt, that this is who I am and who I will always be.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  Everyone thinks I’m a good girl. If they only knew.

  —Page 11 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  An hour later and we’re on Joe’s front porch, blinking up at the sunshine. The way we’re both squinting, you’d think daylight was a hacker’s natural enemy. I study Griff’s pale skin and my equally pale arms and think I might be onto something.

  “You okay?” Griff asks.

  Am I okay? At first, the question startles me; then it just makes me sad, because I have no idea how to answer him.

  “Yeah, sure.” You’d think I’d feel more comfortable around him now. He’s apparently like me. He steals. He cheats. He takes advantage of people’s natural urge to help. It doesn’t make me feel any better at all, though. I stare at one of the few people I should be able to say almost anything to, and I can’t think of a single word.

  “How do you feel about the job?”

  I grimace. “Oh, it feels peachy. Nothing like knowing Joe’s boinking a junkie he’s involved in his scam to make me feel all warm and tingly inside.”

  I sound bitter, and I am. It’s dangerous for Joe to do this. You can’t trust a junkie. If something comes loose, it’ll be from Heather’s end. There are too many lives tied up in this. Lauren, Lily, Bren, Todd. Naming them off makes my chest shrink.

  Griff nudges his chin toward the bike parked in the driveway. “You want a ride home?”

  Ha! Bren would die if I rode up on the back of a motorcycle. I rub the tight muscles along my neck and realize she would die if she knew about any of this.

  I drop my hand. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

  “Why’s that?” Griff’s voice is as even as ever, but his eyes are still hard.

  Because I shouldn’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Because you’re using your powers for evil, but when I look at you, I still see the guy who kept Matthew Bradford from punching his girlfriend. I see the guy teachers adore, and that makes you . . .

  Dangerous?

  I don’t want to know. Seeing him involved in this disappoints me more than I care to think about. I want to ask how it happened, but I don’t think I could handle the details. I liked him better before. “You don’t have to be nice, Griff.”

  Something flickers inside those bottle-green eyes again, but I head for the sidewalk, walking fast enough that I don’t have to think about it.

  Until he comes after me.

  “Let me give you a ride. It’s got to be almost an hour’s walk, right?” Griff’s hand cups my upper arm, and I yank away.

  Stupid move, though. It only makes his fingers trail down my arm, shooting stars across my skin. “It’s forty minutes.”

  “So let’s ride.” Griff pushes his hair away from his eyes. I’ve known the guy for almost three years, and he’s always needed a haircut. Except I haven’t noticed—really noticed—until now. “Forty minutes turns into ten.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll walk with you.”

  I back up another step, but it’s no good. Griff still follows me. What’s the deal here? He’s a criminal with a conscience? Doesn’t want me walking home alone? “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your bike’s here.”

  “So?” He’s too close again. “I’ll get it later.”

  “If it’s even still here.” I stare at him like he’s an idiot, and it might not be that far from the truth. “You should know how easy it is to steal those things. I mean, all someone would need is a van and two guys to just pick it up and . . .”

  And I just backed right into his argument.

  Griff’s smile is lit-fuse bright. “Exactly. So you should just say yes and save me from getting my bike stolen. Come on.”

  Reluctantly, I follow him. It’s a ride home, for God’s sake—we’re not getting married. It doesn’t mean anything. Except it feels like it does. Before now, we barely spoke, and now I know what Griff really is . . . but I still keep seeing him as a good guy.

  Griff’s Honda is lowered, black, and stripped down. Minimal chrome. No accessories. Even the stripe is just a glossy black strip against the tank’s flat black paint job. It’s not what I ever would have pictured for Griff.

  But it’s perfect for him.

  “You like it?” He hands me an extra helmet. I hesitate, almost ask if all the bimbos he picks up wear it, but then decide not to bother. It’s none of my business, and I don’t want to know anyway.

  “Yeah, it’s a cool bike.” I pull the helmet on and buckle the chin strap. It’s a little snug, which is good for head injuries, but seriously bad for my hair.

  “It’s a different-looking bike, though,” I say. “You don’t see many Hondas like this around.”

  Griff’s face lights up like I just said something wonderful. It kind of makes me cringe and glow.

  “No,” he explains. “It’s vintage. Everyone around here goes for Harleys, but this is a 1978 Honda CB400. My dad and I stripped it down to be a café racer.”

  I have no idea what that means, but I smile anyway. It’s getting easier and easier to do that with him, but it’s not something I’m going to think about. Griff smiles too, but once I slide behind him, his shoulders stiffen.

  Wonderful, my touch repulses him. I try to shift away, put a little more space between us, but Griff’s right arm snakes around to pull me closer. Suddenly, I’m smashed up against his back, my heart knocking around in my chest like sneakers on a spin cycle.

  “You okay?”

  “Um, yeah.” I ease my right hand around, groping for the usual handholds. The bike doesn’t have any. If I want to stay on, I’m going to have to hold on to Griff. “So how did you know where I live, anyway? How did you know which window was mine the other night?”

  “I know a lot about you.”

  Especially now. Griff fires the engine to life, and the bike shifts forward like it’s eager to take off. He cuts a quick look over his shoulder, grinning again.

  It’s probably the helmet making my face hot. There’s no way he just got me to blush. “You ‘know a lot’ about me? Stalk much, Griffin?”

  His grin stretches even wider. “I like it when you’re mean. Don’t be a chicken, Wick. Hold on to me.”

  “Right. Like you scare me,” I say, and force myself to slide one hand round his waist. Griff isn’t what I’d call super built. He’s not like some of the football players or wrestlers who go around with biceps shaped like softballs and no neck. He’s . . . spare. Wiry. And when my arms circle his waist, I realize he’s also incredibly hard.

  I tug back a bit. That is something I so do not need to know. Except I’m grabbing hold again, way harder than before, because Griff guns the bike onto the street, leaving a smear of tire and smoke behind us.

  Fine. Excellent, actually. We whip around the corner, heading for the highway, and my heart leaps. This is faster than I was expecting. A lot faster. Griff seems to be enjoying the speed and, if I’m being honest, so am I. The faster I can get away from Joe and my dad and their plan, the better.

  Except it shadows me. I press my cheek between Griff’s shoulder blades and hear my fear grow pulse and breath. The faster we go, the faster it follows.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  He says I’m beautiful, and it only

  makes me feel ugly.

  —Page 40 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  Okay, so this might be all kinds of awesome. Griff’s bike is fast, but he’s also a pretty amazing driver. The way we whip through the turns like we’re weightless, the way he slides us through traffic li
ke we’re greased . . . yeah, it’s all kinds of awesome.

  It still takes me to the first red light before my shoulders begin to unknot. I straighten, belatedly realizing two guys in a minivan are admiring Griff’s bike. To our left, there’s a cop eyeing us. I go back to looking at the Minivan Men until one of them waves.

  “Friends of yours?” Griff coasts the bike forward as the light changes, and I hope we’re going too fast for him to hear me laugh.

  Shame how the elation all goes away as soon as we pull into my driveway. I slide off the bike and face Griff, feeling heavy enough to sink through the concrete. “So how’d you get caught up with Joe?”

  “He stopped by the school.”

  “Seriously?” I pull off the helmet and hand it to him. “Was he trying to steal something?”

  “No, I think he was looking for you.”

  Me? Shit. I hug my arms close around myself, try to look like I’m not thinking about how much that scares me, how much it makes me wonder if Joe ever came looking for Lily.

  Griff watches me. He keeps turning the helmet around and around in his hands, his eyes all wrinkled up. “My mom’s brother was picking me up. He knows Joe, and they started talking. Paul—that’s my uncle—told him I was good with computers. One thing kind of led to another.”

  “No, one thing does not lead to another.” I stare at him, lost between sad and pissed. “We’re scamming people. How the hell does a nice kid like you get caught up in credit card fraud?”

  “First of all, I’m not a kid.” Griff twists off the bike, scowling. He shoves my helmet onto the seat and, fast as a blink, grabs my hand. “Secondly, I’m not so nice.”

  Oh, right. Because giving me a ride home instead of making me hoof it was a real dick move. I give him my best Whatever look. It usually makes guys back off. Actually, it usually makes them run for the hills, but this one just gets closer.

  “I’m not nice,” Griff repeats. “If I were, I wouldn’t have been there and you’d still be avoiding me.” He waits, waiting for me to agree or deny, and when I don’t do either, he shrugs. “Look, I really need the cash.”

  The admission makes me relax, more than it probably should. I’ve known Griff for three years, and until this moment, I’ve never been comfortable talking with him, but now that I know he’s like me . . . Jesus, Norcut would be all over this.

  I nudge my chin toward the bike. “Looks like you’re doing okay.”

  “This was my dad’s. Only thing he left behind when he took off for California . . . aside from me, aside from my mom, who still thinks he’s going to rescue us. She’s not even getting out of bed anymore she’s so fucking depressed. She lost her job because she stopped showing up, and the food stamps go only so far.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. Sorry. I shouldn’t snap at you. I’m just tired.” He sags a little, and for the first time, I notice the shadows smudged under his eyes, how the skin around his mouth is pale and tight.

  And yet he’s rubbing my palm like he wants me to feel better.

  “Even after everything Joe said, I never expected to see you sitting there,” he says after a moment.

  I shrug like it’s no big thing. “Life’s just full of surprises.”

  “No shit.”

  We stare at each other and neither of us says a thing . . . and yet . . . and yet. “You should quit while you still can, Griff. It’s not good for you. I’m not good for you. I appreciate the ride home and all, but it doesn’t change anything. You really should stay away from me.”

  I tug my hand, but he doesn’t let go. With anyone else, this would totally freak me out, and okay, maybe I am a little freaked. There’s the familiar lump of panic rolling up my throat, but there’s something else there too. Something inside me that flips when his fingers skim farther up, hitting the inside of my wrist.

  Everywhere he’s touching and everywhere he’s touched is lighting up. I feel like I’ve swallowed the sun. His fingertips streak light across my skin.

  “You sure you’re not good for me?” Griff’s voice is deeper now, rougher, but he’s holding me like I’m the one who’s about to break.

  He might be right. Griff makes me feel funny . . . happy and worse. Is this because I know what he really is? Or is it because he knows what I am?

  “I’m very sure I’m not good for you,” I say again, pushing hard against his chest even though I didn’t really have to. He lets me go. For a second, I regret it. My legs are shaking. “And I don’t think you’re very good for me either.”

  I hustle up the sidewalk, expecting to hear his engine start any second now. It doesn’t. Griff’s watching me. Part of me wants to run, but the other part wants to go down there and tell him to knock it off.

  I have the front door almost closed behind me before he responds. His voice sounds a lot more normal. There’s the familiar laugh, but underneath, he sounds like he’s flaking into pieces. “I think you’re wrong, Wicked. I think you’d be great for me.”

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  It’s getting harder and harder to play normal.

  —Page 62 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  “Who was that?” I don’t even have my shoes off, and Bren has already materialized on my right. “Was that the Griffin boy?”

  The Griffin boy? I was going to squeeze past, but her question brings me up short. “How do you know Griff?”

  “I met his mother at a PTA meeting. She was late and looked really lost. We talked a little and she said she’d be back, but I haven’t seen her since.” Bren nudges the curtains to one side, studying Griff with the same wrinkled-eye look she saves for reviewing work contracts. “The woman’s name is . . . Karen? Kelly?”

  “Kim.”

  I didn’t realize Lauren was even there until she spoke. I twist and our eyes meet. Great. There’s no way I’m getting out of explaining. Lauren looks seconds away from choking on a belly laugh.

  “That’s it!” Bren throws Lauren a relieved look. “Kim. Kim Griffin. Her son is a very nice boy. Very polite. And those eyes—they’re so striking.”

  Nice boy. Very polite. With striking eyes. I stare at Bren and try to reconcile the words coming out of her mouth. This is so not what I was expecting. She should be busting me six ways from Sunday. I mean, it’s a boy, for God’s sake. We’ve never talked about boys, but I’m sure she has rules about them. Plus, I rode up on a motorcycle. We’ve never talked about that either, but I know she’d have to have rules for motorcycles. This doesn’t make any sense. Bren’s not mad and I’m not in trouble.

  “So we’ll just go upstairs.” Lauren slings her arm through mine, drags me up the first few steps. Up this close, I can see how her bruised eye has gone Technicolor. She isn’t even bothering to hide it with concealer. Knowing her mom’s commitment to perfection, it must be driving the poor woman nuts. “I have a history project I want to show Wick.”

  “Okay. Have fun.” Bren continues to stare at me. Her mouth is a little open and her eyes are wide, and now I really don’t know what to do. My foster mom looks astonished and also . . . a little happy.

  “What’s going on?” I mutter. “Why’s Bren watching me like she’s waiting for an alien to crawl out of my chest?”

  “You brought home a boy.” Lauren is almost vibrating with excitement. She tightens her arm so I’m caught against her side. “A very cute boy. Bren’s probably tearing up with joy. You’re finally doing normal teenage stuff.”

  “That’s what it takes to make her happy?”

  Lauren shuts my bedroom door behind us and grins, the bruised skin around her eye wrinkling into purple folds. “If you really want to make Bren happy, ask her to braid your hair.”

  “Oh, nice, and everyone thinks I’m the smart-ass.”

  “I get away with it because I’m adorable. I can’t help it. It’s my burden. So. Since
when did you and Griff start talking?”

  Since I discovered he’s as awful as I am. And is that really the reason? Can I talk to him now because we’re alike? I can’t really reconcile the new Griff with the guy I liked. He’s horrible now. He’s like me. He cheats his way into people’s lives.

  And yet he’s also the nicest guy I know.

  My fingers drift to where Griff held my hand. It’s still warm, and touching where he touched, I get warmer. “We’ve always talked. We’re computer lab partners.”

  Lauren nods, but doesn’t look like she believes me. “Well, whatever. We need to talk, but . . . are you okay? You kind of look like you’re going to be sick.”

  “I’m fine.” We stare at each other and I cave, slumping into my desk chair and rubbing my temples. “Actually, no, I’m not. My dad’s back.”

  Lauren gasps like I’ve just confirmed the bogeyman’s for real.

  Which I guess, in my case, is about right.

  “Is that where you were?”

  “Sort of. I was meeting with his partner. He has this new scam.”

  “So how does Griff figure into this? I mean, I’m guessing you two didn’t just run into each other.”

  “He was there too.” For a second, I don’t want to say anything further. I’m cramming down my feelings pretty well—even though they’re threatening to erupt. It isn’t my secret to tell. Then again, Lauren’s already made the connection. “Joe recruited him for some of the security work.”

  “Who’s Joe, and why does he want either of you?”

  “Joe is my dad’s best friend.” If you could call it that. Joe doesn’t really have friends. Joe has contacts, sources . . . my dad is protection. Even though Joe is afraid of him.

  “He needs my help. He needs our help,” I correct, suddenly remembering Griff’s role in all this. “There’s this credit card scam. Joe’s spearheading it for my dad.”

  I offer Lauren a wobbly smile. “I think this is the part where you run screaming from the house.”