“But we can make them better.” I force myself to meet Griff’s eyes, and it damn near kills me. I thought he knew what I was. I thought it was evident at Joe’s, but Griff’s staring at me like I’m something different, and I hate it. Because there’s nothing sweet, nothing lovely about me. There is only my anger and determination.
“Fine, I’ll do it . . . I’ll kiss you.”
“I knew you would.”
Liar. He swallowed too hard to have known this would work.
“Close your eyes. I’ll kiss you, but you have to close your eyes.”
The green briefly narrows, but he does it. Griff’s hands even go to his sides. He’s letting me take my time, giving me control.
I place my hands on his chest and he jerks, mutters, “Fuck” in a way that makes me smile, lets me know how much this costs him. He’s holding back for me. Good.
Before I can chicken out, I press my lips to Griff’s cheek.
His eyes flash open and I grin. “Deal’s a deal, Griffin.”
I push past him and get two steps before Griff grabs me from behind, twisting my body around so I’m suddenly over his shoulder.
“Hey!” He picked me up like I was nothing. I freaking hate that. I hate being reminded that I’m small.
“Put me the hell down!” I slam both fists into Griff, thrashing as he walks. I expect for him to fight back: shake me, drop me, something. Instead, he throws me in the pool.
“Motherfu—” I push toward the surface and wipe sodden hair behind my ears. “You bastard!”
“Yeah, pretty much.” I’m not far from the edge, but Griff leans close to give me a hand. Most guys would be laughing their asses off, but Griff’s mouth has gone tight. “Not such a nice guy after all, huh?”
I slap his hand away and swim to the pool’s edge. “Is that what this is about? Proving you’re a dick? How third-grade are you?”
“What can I say? You bring out the worst in me.”
And you bring out the worst in me. Griff offers me his hand once more and I grab it.
And haul for all I’m worth.
He falls face-first into the pool, which was the goal. But he also falls on me, which I should have thought about.
Maybe I did.
Griff tilts so he doesn’t land on top of me, but my hands are twisted up in his shirt now. His arms drag me close. We’re sinking and we’re tangled, and when we resurface, he’s pulled my legs around his torso and I’ve tugged my fingers into his hair.
This time, Griff doesn’t wait for me. His mouth finds mine, and he pulls me close like he’s afraid I’ll get away.
As if I’d want to.
Because he’s everywhere. One hand cradles my lower back, pushing me into him. His other hand plays with my hair, tangling the strands into knots. His tongue traces my lower lip gently, but I still shiver.
Which is all the invitation Griff needs. His tongue meets mine, touching slowly, softly, like he’s exploring me, tasting me. At first, it’s perfect . . . then it’s not. Without even realizing, I wrap my arms around his neck and tug him to me. Griff answers with a low moan, and then the kiss deepens and hardens.
Griff breaks away for breath, and when I open my eyes, he’s smiling. “Three years, Wicked. I waited three years, and you were worth every damn second.”
Now I’m smiling.
“Again,” I whisper, and we kiss and kiss until want rolls through me like honey and lights me up like gasoline.
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He never stares at me, never does anything
improper, when we’re around other people.
He’s too careful. Looking at us, no one would even
guess. Funny, how . . . everyone still stares at me.
That’s why I had to learn to disappear.
Right in front of their eyes, I vanished.
—Page 82 of Tessa Waye’s diary
When I wake up the next morning, Lauren’s guest bedroom is drenched in sunlight. Oh, shit! What time is it?
I slap my hand around on the floor, searching for my cell. Find it under my flip-flops. I check the time. Almost ten. Good. I’m not too far behind.
I also have a missed call from Bren. I play the voice mail twice, listening for any telltale voice inflections, but she sounds . . . okay. If Carson had discovered my hacking, Bren would not be okay. She’d be in full-fledged meltdown. Maybe Carson had another reason for coming by?
I’ll ask Bren later. I need to get going. We have to be at Joe’s before eleven.
Joe’s. Shit.
I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling. Mrs. Cross has painted it a dove gray. I’m sure it’s supposed to be soothing and all, but I think it looks like the color of brewing thunderclouds.
“Is it really that bad?”
I jump, making the whole bed shudder. Griff—who’s been inches away, who’s been watching me this whole time—starts laughing.
“Jesus, no wonder Bren won’t give you coffee. Jumpy much?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to wake up.”
I’m not sure I like that. I don’t really remember getting into bed with him. We just kind of . . . ended up here. It was three in the morning, and I needed a place to crash. Usually, I can’t sleep anywhere—not really even at home. But exhaustion hit me hard. I could’ve crashed almost anywhere, but Griff wouldn’t let me. The party was still going strong. He found us an empty guest room.
Last I remember, he was sitting with his back against the door.
But now he’s here.
I pull the sheets a little closer to me, and Griff’s eyebrows rise. His lips start to tip into a wider smile. He thinks I’m being kind of girly, and he would be right. I mean, I’m not exactly doing the whole virginal, cover-yourself bit, but I still feel way more naked than I should. I’m wearing jeans and Lauren’s favorite Honey Badger T-shirt, for God’s sake. I also shouldn’t pull the sheets closer to me, because it pulls them off him.
“I like waking you up,” Griff says, putting both hands behind his head. Hmm. When he does that, his T-shirt pulls against his chest and . . . and I have trouble concentrating. “You’re cute when you’re sleeping.”
“You were watching me sleep?” Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. I narrow my eyes, bump up my chin so he can’t see my panic. What if I snored? What if I drooled? “You know that’s creepy, right?”
Griff’s smile spreads into a full-fledged grin. “I couldn’t sleep. You kept kicking me.”
“I didn’t.”
He’s awfully close again. “You did.”
I glare at him. I meant what I said. It’s creepy to watch someone sleep. It is.
But somehow, it doesn’t feel so creepy when Griff’s the one doing it.
I rub one hand across my face, try to concentrate on something else. “We should probably get going.”
“Sure thing.” Griff starts to ease closer to me and I freeze. “But we don’t have to rush off. I have my bike. It’ll take less than twenty minutes to get to Joe’s.”
“I—I—” I don’t know what to say. We’re only inches apart now, and my brain has stalled. Griff’s body slides lower along mine, and I have to stifle a gasp. He still smells like grass and chlorine from last night, and his hair has dried in messy spikes.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me again, but Griff turns his head so his whispers rush past my ear, making my skin leap like it’s electrified. “I like waking up to you, Wicked.”
I dig my fingers into the covers so I don’t dig them into him. “I thought you were awake because I kept kicking you.”
“Yeah, true” Griff’s hand drifts up, up, up my neck until it’s cupping my jaw. “But mostly, I was up because I wanted to do this.”
His lips press against the corner of my jaw . . . my cheek . . . my mouth. I roll into him, and he pushes me down, pins me to th
e bed.
“Again,” he breathes. “What the hell, Griffin?”
It’s a really pissed-off male voice coming from the other side of the bedroom door, and it makes me jump so badly I thump my forehead into Griff and my face turns thirty different shades of red.
“We’re busy!” Griff shouts, covering my ears with his hands so he doesn’t deafen me.
“Like I fucking care,”, Matthew Bradford bellows, and starts beating on the door. “Your bike’s in my way, man. I’m gonna run it over if you don’t come move it.”
“Fuck off, Bradford. I’ll be out in a bit.” Griff smooths the hair back from my face. Where I would be jumping from the nearest window to get away from Bradford, Griff’s utterly unfazed. His smile is slow and secret, like I’m the only person left in the world.
“Let’s get going,” I whisper. “He really will run it over.”
Griff laughs. “No, he won’t.”
But he lets me up anyway, goes to the door while I stumble into the attached bathroom. I shut the door and snap on a light.
Wow. I blink at myself in the mirror. Maybe I should have left that off. I totally need a Ho on the Go bag. I don’t have anything that’s going to cover up this walk of shame. My hair is a tangled red mess. There’s mascara pooled under both eyes. And my clothes . . . yeah, my clothes look totally slept in.
But Griff wanted me anyway.
We pull into Joe’s just before eleven. Griff parks in the driveway and shuts off the engine. For a moment, we both sit and stare at the house as Griff’s fingers trace circles on my left knee.
“You know,” he says at last, “Joe showed me that code you wrote, the one that gets you past the mark’s firewall.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, it was impressive.”
“It’s not impressive to screw people.”
“True.” He twists a little so our eyes can meet. “But you’re much better at coding than I am.”
I search his face for any hints of bullshit.
“You sound surprised,” I say, even though Griff doesn’t. I’m no good with compliments. It’s easier for me to react like he wants to start a fight.
“You know,” Griff continues, “most of the time, I backdoor my way into a company’s system, scam some secretary into giving me system information. I don’t code. I lie. It gets me what I need. But you’re not like that. You have real talent, Wicked.”
I look at him more closely. Now I am suspicious. This has a Hallmark Very Special Moment feel about it. Griff’s eyes flick forward, concentrating on Joe’s house now. His hands spin his motorcycle helmet in slow circles. “Have you thought about quitting?”
I laugh, swing one leg over the bike so I’m standing.
“Every damn day,” I say, and the honesty surprises me. It’s one thing to know you’re awful. It’s another thing to admit it to someone else.
Especially when that someone else is Griff.
He skims his fingers down my arm until they brush across my hand. “Then why haven’t you quit?”
“How can I? Everyone has certain skills in life.” I turn toward the house, take a deep breath so I can push myself closer. “For better or worse, these are mine.”
“What are you talking about?” Griff puts his hand on my elbow, pulling me to a stop. “If you want out, you just quit. You walk away.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to get it. He’s already put most of it together. He even said it out loud last night.
The skin between Griff’s eyes knots up. “You really are afraid. You really think he’ll hurt Lily or the Callaways.”
“No, I know he’ll hurt them. You don’t know what my dad and Joe are really like, what it was like to grow up with them. I have to be prepared. Hacking allows me to do it.”
Anyone else would start in with the denials. It doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to run. You have Bren and Todd. Griff, though. . . . He just nods. I pass him my helmet and our fingers graze, making my heart stutter.
He hooks his hand around my wrist. “What would you do if you could do anything?”
“No idea.” I refuse to think about it. That’s a question that other girls deserve to answer. “What would you do?”
Griff hesitates, then his mouth is on mine again. Both hands cup my neck, my jaw, my face. He kisses me like I’m wonderful.
And I’m grabbing him like I’m drowning.
I press close, curving my fingers around his belt loops, and he responds by bending me into him. All I can do is hold on.
Griff breaks away, breathing hard. We’re both breathing hard. I can’t look at him. I’m too transfixed by how his pulse jerks beneath his skin.
“I would do that,” Griff says.
Our eyes meet and we both look away.
“I want to see you again.” Griff runs his hand down my spine. “After this. During this.”
Our gazes meet again and, even though I know better, something inside me loosens. “Me too.” I nudge my chin toward Joe’s front door. “Get it over with?”
Griff hesitates. Something’s wrong again. His eyes have gone dark.
“Griff?”
“Right.” He shrugs and follows me toward the front porch. I make myself grab the door handle and push it open. I’ve known Joe for so many years. I’ve hacked for almost as long. You’d think this would be easier.
We walk into the darkened hallway.
“Well, you two sure took your sweet time.” The voice is coming from the step-down living room. Joe doesn’t sound particularly pissed, but a chill still climbs up my spine. The lights are low—the computers must be overloading the electrical system again—and I can’t really see much apart from Joe’s outline. My eyes adjust to the dimness, and my chill turns into a shudder.
Because Joe isn’t alone.
“Hey there, Wick.” My dad’s teeth are a stripe of white in the dark. “Did you miss me?”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Doesn’t matter if it’s been fifteen
minutes or fifteen days, there’s nothing like seeing him again.
—Page 61 of Tessa Waye’s diary
He’s back. It’s been ten months, eleven days, and fourteen hours. There have been cops and reporters and even a special news bulletin. There’s been a freaking manhunt. But he’s still back. He still slips through.
I want to laugh, but I don’t let myself. It might turn into a howl. This is what the cops will never understand and I can never properly explain. You can’t catch my dad, and you’ll never be safe.
Not as long as he wants you.
“Wow. It’s been a while.” I try to look him up and down without meeting his eyes. “How did you get here?”
“Magic.” My dad’s eyes slide over my shoulder. “Since when did you get friendly with Joe’s new whiz kid?”
I look around, suddenly remembering Griff. He’s closer than I thought. I clear my throat, turn away. This is a loaded question. I’m not supposed to have friends. My dad doesn’t allow us to have anything he hasn’t given us.
“We’re not friendly.” I force myself to walk into the living room only by sheer willpower. “So are we going to start this or what?”
But my dad isn’t looking at me. He’s studying Griff, and the hairs on my neck and arms go rigid. This isn’t good. I don’t like the expression on my dad’s face. He’s watching Griff like he’s a threat.
I know that look. Too well.
My dad’s in that dark place now, that rotten place that lives under his heart until it blooms and he can see nothing but his rage. And I don’t want Griff anywhere when that finally happens.
I take another step into the dark. “I don’t have time to hang around. I have to be back or my foster mom will get suspicious.”
It’s an aggressive push and I know better, but I don’t stop. I force my eyes to meet his, turn my bo
dy so I’m squared up with him. I make myself bigger instead of smaller like he prefers, and the result—sudden tightness in his shoulders, and tensing of his hands—ripples through him. In some ways, this is too easy.
Until he looks at Griff again.
“Don’t fuck this up,” Dad says.
Griff snorts. Not good. When Dad’s like this, you don’t want to draw his attention, and that’s what Griff keeps doing. He doesn’t know the rules—that he should be avoiding my dad’s gaze. He should be making himself unobtrusive.
Not copying me.
“No one’s going to fuck up anything,” I spit out, drawing myself up. “In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t need you here to babysit. We were doing just fine without you.”
It works. My dad’s gaze meets mine, and immediately, I want to look away. My brain is screaming for it. When he’s like this, you should never question him, never meet his eyes.
“Is that right?” The question is so soft I think my plan didn’t work.
But then he launches.
I make it two steps before his hands lock down on my upper arms, before his weight shoves us backward. We plow into the wall behind us. Dad hits me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs, and even though I know I’m supposed to be the strong daughter, I tear up.
He leans in close and wrenches my right arm back, back, back until the shoulder starts to give in the socket and my vision spots from pain.
“Answer me,” he says.
Dimly, I’m aware of a crash, and Joe starts swearing. It makes my father’s eyes skate away from mine, assess something I can’t see.
“What the hell is that about?” His attention pivots to me. “Did you find yourself a hero, Wick? Did you think your little boy could save you?”
I don’t answer, so he digs his fingers into my jaw, twists my head around so I can see Griff.
Griff, whose temple is inches away from the end of Joe’s Glock.
Dad wrenches my head around. “You were always my favorite, do you know that?”
He whispers the words like they’re some secret, but he’s loud enough so everyone can hear. The room is too quiet.
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