Asking For It

by Alyssa Kress

  But if Kate knew what he was up to, she'd still kill him.

  Fortunately, no stubborn, too-pretty camp director interrupted the contest. Griffith let Orlando keep punching until his confidence outstripped his judgment and he came in close to batter his opponent.

  Griffith grabbed the kid in a clinch, whirled him off-balance, and threw the both of them to the ground.

  "Shoot!" Orlando gasped, his face in the dirt.

  Griffith lifted himself and then picked up the kid, using the back of his pajama collar. He was beaming. "You did good!" he exclaimed. "Much better than I expected."

  Orlando spat out dust and gave Griffith a disbelieving look while wiping his face with the arm of his pajamas. "Are you joking?"

  "Of course not. You take directions well, and you learn fast."

  Orlando's regard was still cautious, but he looked more willing to believe. A great deal more willing. "You mean it?"

  Griffith felt a squeezing sensation in the center of his chest. Orlando was giving him a look he imagined he would have given anybody who'd ever fed him some encouragement. "Yeah, I mean it," he said.

  Orlando grinned.

  Groaning to disguise the strange squeezing in his chest, Griffith straightened. "You could use some instruction, of course. And practice. But you could be quite a fighter."

  "Really?" Orlando said again, then asked, "Would you?"

  Griffith was rubbing the back of his neck. "Would I — ?"

  "Teach me." Orlando gestured around their impromptu ring. "Like you were doing before. Would you?" His dark eyes rose to Griffith's.

  Griffith's hand stopped on the back of his neck. Oh, jeez. "Your Miss Kate would kill me."

  The light went out of Orlando's eyes. His lashes lowered. "You're right, but...she just doesn't understand."

  No, she probably didn't, Griffith thought with a sigh. Boys needed to learn to be, well, men. Sometimes that involved aggression. Controlled, but still aggression. "Yeah, girls don't get it," Griffith agreed. "Guys need to be able to look out for themselves. It's a major bummer getting beat up. Used to happen to me all the time."

  "It did?" Orlando looked up again.

  "Sure. Then I learned how to wiggle out of situations before they got too bad." Griffith pointed at the boy. "That's the first lesson, actually. It's always better not to fight, given the choice."

  "But if you aren't given the choice...?" Orlando tilted his head.

  Griffith sighed. Deeply. "All right, tell you what. You help me, I'll help you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I don't want you to be one of my campers, Orlando. I want you to be what Kate said, my assistant."

  Orlando frowned. "You don't need an assistant."

  "That's what you think," Griffith huffed. "You should see my office in L.A. Chock full of assistants. So, you be my right hand man here, and we'll have more sessions like this one. I'll teach you everything I can in a week."

  With his eyes narrowed, Orlando took his sweet time thinking about it. Griffith knelt in the dust, his pajamas hopelessly filthy, and prayed he was succeeding in his negotiations with a teenager from East L.A.

  "We'll have a session every day?" Orlando asked.

  "Every night," Griffith corrected, "and subject to cancellation if Kate should happen along."

  "Goes without saying," Orlando muttered.

  "Then it's a deal." Griffith held out his hand.

  Orlando thought about it for half a second more, then grinned and slapped his own skinny hand into Griffith's. "Deal," he agreed.

  It was a hell of a thing, Griffith thought, as they shook on it. This particular negotiation hadn't involved one penny of money, but he felt as if he'd just conquered the hill.

  ~~~

  She'd been hoping to avoid him, but no such luck. As Kate swung into the back quad on her last round through the camp on Wednesday night, Griffith was sitting on the steps in front of Bunkhouse Three. Though it was nearly midnight, he was still dressed in Arnie's T-shirt and jeans. His weight was behind him on his elbows, his legs stretched in front of him.

  There was nothing overtly masculine about the pose, but it struck Kate that way all the same. Pure Y chromosome. It was so strange — and uncomfortable — to notice. About anybody, but especially about Griffith.

  Her stride checked. Her impulse was to halt in her tracks, whirl, and head back to her own, private cabin. It wouldn't even have been irresponsible. If Griffith, an adult counselor, was awake and hadn't noticed anything amiss, then all was well among the kids at Camp Wild Hills.

  But it would have been cowardly and a clear sign of weakness. She couldn't let Griffith see her run away from him.

  So Kate moved forward instead of turning. With a long, confident stride she walked right up to him.

  "I would say you're up late." She made herself smile. A light, unimportant smile. "But so am I."

  His own smile curved only half his mouth. "I'm enjoying the quiet."

  An appreciative snort escaped Kate. "You do have to wait a while to hear that."

  Griffith's smile spread to both sides of his mouth. He shifted to pat the stairs beside himself. "Take a load off."

  Kate hesitated, but the offer was so unflattering it hardly seemed dangerous to accept it. And it would be death to let him know she felt threatened. "Thanks." She settled onto one of the steps below him. Feeling the heat of him, the sense of his male bulk so close to her, she heard herself cravenly add, "but I can't stay long."

  Griffith uttered a noncommittal grunt. After a moment of silence, he remarked, "But it's not exactly quiet, is it? You got your crickets. They're quite a few decibels. And every once in a while the coyotes go at it. I think last night I heard an owl screech."

  Hating herself for the nervous gesture, Kate crossed her arms over her chest. "Is that what's keeping you up, the sounds of nature?"

  He chuckled. "My condo in L.A. is triple-sound-proofed. I couldn't hear a procession of fire trucks, much less a squadron of crickets, but no. The sounds out here don't bother me." He paused. "Quite the contrary, actually."

  "Maybe you could make a tape," Kate suggested. "You can play it back once you get home."

  It was risky to mention his infamously-delayed return to L.A., but Griffith merely smiled, and then angled his chin upward. "I couldn't take home that."

  "That?" Kate looked up.

  "Only about a million stars. You can't see that in L.A." Griffith's voice deepened. "And each one sitting in its own precise spot. It'll be sitting in that spot tonight, and a thousand nights from now." He tipped his head. "Do you realize we're looking at the same stars that Alexander the Great looked at?"

  Kate, her gaze still upward, felt a shiver run over her. "I never thought of it like that." It made her feel a little dizzy, actually, to contemplate the notion.

  "I did," Griffith announced. "At least, I used to. I used to think about things like that all the time. 'How big is the universe?' 'Why am I here?' 'Does anyone care?'"

  With her gaze firmly fixed on the stars, Kate felt a nervous flutter inside. Griffith was supposed to be shallow. He wasn't supposed to contemplate such questions.

  Unfortunately for that theory, he went on. "Think. The stars up there are watching our silly struggles the same as they watched the Trojan wars."

  Kate swallowed. He really was not supposed to be like this. He was actually making her think. "So either your life is as important as the conquest of Troy," she said, "or world events are no more important than your own measly story?"

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Griffith's teeth flash. "You could put it like that."

  "The stars are indifferent?"

  "Or...eternally concerned."

  Kate shook her head while lowering her gaze. "There's no way of knowing."

  "Nope." Griffith's smile faded. "It's a question is what it is. And I haven't thought about those kinds of questions in a long while." He paused, flattening his lips. "Haven't had the time."

  Kate's lip
s flattened, too. She lived up here where she could look at the stars and listen to the crickets whenever she wanted. But how often did she? How often did she just sit on her porch and think about life?

  Meanwhile Griffith sighed. "Sometimes, it's just too much. Maybe that's why I stopped looking at the sky. It was easier to ignore it. Go about my business... Assume that's more important."

  Kate started to feel dizzy again. She understood what Griffith was talking about. How weird was that? "Well...maybe we all have to do that, a little bit," she said. "Assume."

  "A little bit." Griffith emphasized the word 'little.' Then he paused, as if he'd just heard her. "So you do that, too? Ignore it?"

  "Uh..." Kate stared at her knee. Had she admitted that? To him? "Doesn't everybody?"

  "I have no idea." She could sense Griffith staring at her. "What do you assume is important enough to ignore the big questions?"

  Kate rubbed at the material over her knee. "This camp, of course." She frowned fiercely at the worn denim, still baffled she was revealing any of this — to Griffith. But he seemed to be listening. Worse, he seemed to be understanding. "I pour all of my energy into this place," she went on. "And it's a good cause. I know it's a good cause, but..." Suddenly, a host of emotions plugged her throat, emotions she hadn't let out in years. Grief, uncertainty, guilt. "But it's just one thing," she managed to say.

  "Huh."

  Kate glanced over at him. He was looking back at her, his eyes dark in the dim light shed by the bunkhouse porch fixture. So quiet. So...knowing. Her heart started beating hard and fast.

  "So, you're like me," Griffith said at last, softly.

  Something lurched inside Kate. "Oh, please. How am I like you?" she asked, lifting her chin.

  He smiled. "You're running."

  Her insides lurched again. "Oh? And what would I be running from?"

  "The same thing I am," he replied with a laugh. "Myself."

  She could only stare at him, thoroughly disarmed. That he would admit such a thing...to her. And just as bad, her sudden sense of identification. The night shifted around her, the air resolving itself into bonds stringing between them. Ideas, understandings, sympathy. Kate felt as if she'd become caught in a web of unexpected connections.

  The web pulsed, and then, as if following the trail of one of the strands, Griffith leaned toward her.

  No. Oh, God, no. But he leaned yet closer.

  His lips touched hers.

  There was strength and softness, warmth and wet, in his lips. There was the astonishing reaction to the mere touch of his flesh to hers. And there was...significance. As Griffith pressed his lips to hers, Kate felt the invisible bonds in the air thicken and pull. She felt her lips melt against his.

  In about a year, the kiss ended. Kate could not move. It was as if those bonds had become a hundred blankets, wrapped around her, cushioning her from everything, even her own thoughts. Slowly, with great effort, she opened her eyes.

  Griffith was staring right at her — and he looked about as shell-shocked as she felt. Kate's heart went ka-blam, and then tried to beat out of her chest. The cushion fled. A thousand thoughts — a thousand denials burst in her brain.

  Oh, my God. What? What had just happened?

  She drew in a deep breath.

  Griffith put his index finger on her lips. "Don't say it."

  "What?" Her lips trembled beneath his finger.

  "Don't say it was a mistake."

  Kate felt as if he'd just pushed her off a cliff; it was the same horrible falling sensation. Not a mistake? Was he insane? With a firm movement, she lowered his finger from her lips. "I obviously don't have to say it." Her tone said, very clearly, we both know it was.

  A mistake. An accident — a fluke.

  She couldn't read his expression. All she knew was a pathetic gratitude that she'd regained enough possession of her limbs to stand up. She looked away. Being careful not to glance back, not to meet his eyes again, she walked away.

  But even as she walked, she felt the invisible bonds between them stretch, as if they refused to break.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Once Kate had stalked off into the night, Griffith went back into the bunkhouse and fell asleep, his insomnia forgotten.

  It was as if he'd finally accomplished something that had been left undone.

  Which was ridiculous, Griffith told himself the next morning as he hustled nine kids out of their beds and into their clothes. He yawned and scowled and reckoned he hadn't accomplished anything the night before, except maybe to open a very iffy can of worms.

  With one arm propped on a bunk bed, Griffith regarded the progress of his troops and reflected on the can of worms. He had no business kissing Kate. Not only was there the whole Wildwood thing between them — a little matter she didn't even know about! — but they lived in different worlds. Kate was outdoors, nature, kids. He was indoors, money games, grown-ups.

  Griffith's scowl deepened.

  "You wore that shirt yesterday," he told Elroy, who was pulling on a very dirty Star Wars T-shirt.

  Elroy pulled his head out of the shirt sheepishly. "Does it matter?"

  "It matters." Griffith pointed to Elroy's cubby, where a stack of clean shirts were folded. Elroy sighed and pulled one out.

  He should be cleaning up his own act, Griffith thought, as he watched Elroy climb into a fresh shirt. He should start by keeping a good distance from Kate Darby. His tenant.

  Had he really told her not to call that kiss a mistake? For the love of Pete. What else were they supposed to call it? He couldn't get involved with her.

  Down at the other end of the bunkhouse, Orlando was snapping his fingers in front of Kane's face. The boy was sitting in a trance on his bed. "Wake up, dreamer. Time to get dressed."

  Kane blinked and sent Orlando a blistering glare. "And who made you my boss?"

  "I'm not your boss, but I am the assistant counselor in this bunk."

  Kane sneered. "Since when?"

  "Since now. Start getting dressed already." Orlando didn't wait for a reply, but walked past Kane to pat Asher on the shoulder, murmur something in Carlos's ear that made him laugh, and then continue on through the bunkhouse.

  Kane scowled, but got up from his bed and trudged over to the clothes in his cubby.

  Griffith, meanwhile, was transfixed. Orlando's behavior was almost exactly a match for the way he, himself, had taken charge two days ago. Orlando was copying Griffith.

  A sensation sizzled through Griffith. It was a sensation close to what he'd felt the night before on the bunkhouse steps while looking into Kate's night-dark eyes.

  It was a sensation that made him feel as if this was the world he actually lived in. A world made of people who saw him.

  Who liked him.

  Who even admired him.

  Just him. Not his car, or his office, or his condo. Him.

  Griffith abruptly straightened, taking his arm from the top bed. No, no, no. He was going off into crazy land again, just like last night. Nobody liked him, or at least not that much. He needed his car, his office, and his condo...and Wildwood. He'd be the laughingstock of the business community if he didn't follow through and build his 'dream community.'

  "How does this look, Griffith?" Elroy planted himself in front of Griffith, his hands on his hips and his chest thrust forward in a Terminator T shirt. A hopeful smile graced his face.

  The sizzling sensation assailed Griffith again, but he determinedly ignored it. "The shirt looks fine, Elroy. Just great."

  Elroy's smile beamed.

  Oh, boy. Griffith turned away quickly. "Is everybody ready?" he asked.

  "Almost," grunted Kane, hauling up his pants.

  "That man needs shoes," Griffith observed, not seeing any sneakers near the kid.

  "I'll find them." Orlando hurried up. "You get on your socks, Kane. We're almost there."

  His previous dispute with Orlando forgotten, Kane rushed to his cubby for a pair of socks. Orlando tossed him a pair of
shoes.

  "All right," Griffith pronounced, while Kane was feverishly tying up his laces. "Take your places."

  "It's Kane's turn to lead," someone said.

  "I'm ready!" Kane hustled to the front of the line.

  "Attention!" Griffith called. "And...march."

  With each boy peering anxiously at the feet of the kid in front of him to keep time, they marched out of the bunkhouse. Griffith was taking the tail, and had just cleared the door when he saw Arnie standing at the bottom of the little porch's steps.

  The big guy was grinning at the sight the boys made, but his expression sobered as his eye caught Griffith's. "Got a minute?" he asked.

  Orlando glanced back at Griffith.

  "You take 'em on in," Griffith directed his new, and apparently competent, assistant. "I'll be there shortly."

  Orlando nodded, and continued on behind the marching line. Griffith turned to Arnie. Something serious was clearly on the guy's mind. Griffith wondered with fleeting chagrin if Arnie had witnessed Griffith's little scene with Kate the night before.

  But Griffith was not a man to lay his cards down first. He clasped his hands behind his back, widened his stance, and gave Arnie a cool and noncommittal smile. "So, Arnie. What can I do for you?"

  Arnie took a hasty glance around, grimaced, and took Griffith's elbow. "Let's go inside."

  Griffith's eyes narrowed. But he said, "No problem," and led the way back into the bunkhouse.

  The place seemed very quiet with no kids in it. Arnie took another careful look around, then dug something out of his front trouser pocket. "Here," he said. "I happen to know for a fact you don't have any, having gone through your pockets while you were unconscious last week." He thrust a small, orange box at Griffith.

  "What the — ?" Fortunately, Griffith managed to suppress any expletive, which would only have made a harrowingly embarrassing moment even more so. Arnie was holding out a 12-pack of Trojans.