Griffin, page 1
Griffin
A Scarred Hearts Novel
S.M. West
Contents
Playlist
1. Cora
2. Griffin
3. Cora
4. Griffin
5. Cora
6. Cora
7. Griffin
8. Griffin
9. Cora
10. Cora
11. Griffin
12. Cora
13. Cora
14. Griffin
15. Griffin
16. Cora
17. Griffin
18. Cora
19. Griffin
20. Griffin
21. Griffin
22. Cora
23. Cora
24. Griffin
25. Cora
26. Griffin
27. Cora
28. Cora
29. Cora
30. Griffin
31. Cora
32. Griffin
33. Griffin
34. Griffin
35. Griffin
36. Cora
37. Cora
38. Griffin
Epilogue
Also by S.M. West
About the Author
Griffin Copyright © 2022 by SM West
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, storylines, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.
This book is for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work by not contributing to piracy and purchasing a copy for those you wish to share it with.
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Edited: Happily Editing Anns
Cover Design: KiWi Cover Design Co.
Cover Photo: Michelle Lancaster, @lanefotograf
Cover Model: Chris J
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"He who treads the path of love walks a thousand meters as if it were only one." —Japanese proverb
Playlist
Listen On Spotify
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“Heaven Can Wait (The Aston Shuffle Remix)” – LSD feat. Sia, Diplo, and Labrinth
“Killing in the Name of” – Rage Against The Machine
“Sleep on the Floor” – The Lumineers
“100 Miles and Running” – Logic (ft. Wale & John Lindahl)
“Saturday Sun” – Vance Joy
“Whole Wide World - Unpeeled” – Cage the Elephant
“New York, New York” – Daemon, Zech Biship, Amorie
“I Could use a Love Song” – Maren Morris
“Ends of the Earth” – Lord Huron
“Love Brand New” – Bob Moses
1
Cora
“Oh, God.” I grab a beefy forearm as a sweaty bare chest crashes into me. A huge hand latches on to my waist and stops me from tumbling backward down the stairs. Gratitude should overwhelm me, but this so-called rescue does nothing to lessen the frenetic beat of my heart, not when the jerk’s other hand brazenly gropes my breast.
Like a rising tide, bile shoots up my throat, and glassy, bloodshot eyes leer down at me. “Sorry, darlin’.” The boozy stench of his stifling breath exaggerates his slur.
Shuddering, I wish my knife was in my hand not strapped to my calf, which feels like a million miles away. I slap the frat boy’s grabby mitt from my body.
“Back off.” Both my hands flatten against his hot, slippery chest. Ick.
He may be twice my size, but he’s so drunk I easily shove him away. The asshole chuckles and stumbles into the wall. Relief drowns my lingering panic as the newfound space between us grows wider. A few people, clutching red Solo cups and laughing, parade between us.
What am I doing here?
I was on my feet all day, and now I should be home in bed with Nugget and the latest Sarah J. Maas book. Instead I’m traipsing through a house of sloshed college kids on an errand for Angel, my boss.
I should’ve said no.
She cornered me to ask a favor, and even with a fully formed no on my lips, I hesitated, broom in hand and a pile of clipped hair at my feet. No matter how suspect her request was, I couldn’t say no.
At twenty-two, I’m still living at home with my narcissistic mother, and though Dallas, my brother, helps however he can, this job is my ticket out of here.
The intoxicated asshat jolts me back to the house party. “Hey. Where ya going?”
Ignoring him, I hurry down the hall, adjusting my backpack straps on my shoulders while weaving around the partiers. Anxiety grips my ribs and squeezes until my bones ache. I want to get this over with.
Seven doors, four on one side and three on the other, line the length of the hall. I’m looking for the third on the right. My stomach muscles clench, disrupting the ball of nerves multiplying within me, all because of the mysterious package burning a hole in my bag.
Angel had said, “It’s a simple exchange. Find Finch, drop off a package, and pick one up in return.”
If it’s so simple, why am I a nervous wreck? And why couldn’t she do it?
Her mother. A sweet old lady dying of cancer. That’s why. She had to take care of her mother.
Suck it up, Cora, and get this over with.
Standing outside the closed door—the one I want—I pause to wind my mass of hair off my sticky neck into a sloppy topknot on my head. A haze of smoke, pot, and who knows what fills the air, mixing with the crushing number of bodies and making this place hotter and more humid than a barbecue smoker.
I rap harshly on the wood and open the door, not bothering to wait for a response. Not that I could have heard anything over the throbbing bass.
Two guys, barely dressed, spring apart, and the pungent odors of sex and sweat soak the room. Dang, I should have waited for the “okay” to enter.
A tall, lanky, white guy tugs a T-shirt over his head, attractive features twisting into a sneer. “What the fuck?”
The bigger one, muscled and olive-skinned with cheekbones like Kerry Washington, glowers at me. “Get the fuck out.”
Mesmerized by the sharp angles of his gorgeous face—he looks as if an artist carved him from stone—I’m glued to the spot. He growls, this time at my gawking, and his ferocity snaps sense into me.
“Uh, um, sorry.” My gaze skips over the messy room and lands on the bed.
The sheets are in disarray, a wet spot on one side of the mattress, leaving no question what these two were up to. My timing sucks.
“I’m looking for F-f-finch.”
The tall one, who reminds me of Adam Driver, shares a quick look with cheekbones and says to him, “Later.”
Driver barrels toward me with the door at my back, and I’m too busy watching his lover to anticipate what’s coming until it’s too late. His large frame knocks into me as he leaves the room, and I flounder, shooting out a hand to brace against the wall. My fingers slide through something wet and sticky. Ugh, is it jizz?
Vomit rushes up the back of my throat. No, no, no. I can’t be sick, not when I’m about to fall flat on my face. I scream and stagger, arms flailing. Somehow, I manage to stay upright.
Cheekbones, indifferent to my near spill, grabs a pair of jeans from the bed. “Gimme a minute.”
I’m guessing he’s the guy I’m looking for. “Um, Finch, do you have a washroom? I want to clean off…”
I hold up my hand, the goo still grossing me out though I dare not say or think about what it might be. This bedroom, no, the entire house, is a wet dream for an infectious disease researcher.
“In there.” He points to a door near me and nabs a blue Henley from the floor. “You Angel’s girl?”
“Yeah. I’ll be a sec.”
As expected, the bathroom hasn’t been cleaned since Dubya was President. Mold eats at the edges of the sink. The back of the toilet and corners of the tub are littered with dust, body hair, product, and stuff I don’t even want to think about.
The water’s cold and a satisfying change from the sweltering house, and despite all the junk in this tiny bathroom, there isn’t a lick of soap. Figures.
I thoroughly scrub my hands, using a squirt of shampoo for soap, and shut off the tap, resolved to have a shower the moment I get home.
Hushed voices filter in from the bedroom, and I freeze. Shit, is Driver back with his bad attitude? I give as good as I get, but that guy could do serious damage to my five-foot-two frame.
Hands wet, I slide them down my jean-covered thighs because I refuse to use the towels—who knows what’s on them. Through a crack in the door, I glimpse the back of a man I’ve never seen before. He’s tall and broad with barely even an inch of dark ha
Finch faces me although his gaze never leaves the big guy. Like an earthquake, he violently shakes. What’s going on? He’s scared and a—
Fuck… A gun.
The large man presses a gun to the center of Finch’s forehead. The boy, who despite his size, suddenly seems so young, more child than man, opens his mouth, most probably to plead for his life.
The loud, hypnotic beat blasting through the house drowns out any sound, including whatever Finch is saying, and sadly, it doesn’t matter anyway.
Pop.
A muffled burst rings out. A gunshot? I’ve heard my fair share of gunfire given where I live, but this sounds somewhat different. Maybe I have it wrong and everything about this situation has me jumping to the worst conclusion.
Thump. The dulled smack of Finch falling backward onto the carpet hits me, erasing any doubt.
No. My scream lodges like a stone at the base of my throat, and I slap a hand over my mouth, stifling any sound. The man with the gun steps back from the body on the floor, and his movement sparks the same in me. I dive into the bathtub without a care for the dirt and grime.
Teeth gritting, I pray the rings of the shower curtain don’t make a peep as I slide them along the metal rod, pulling the plastic to a close. Squishing my legs to my chest, I wedge myself into the corner of the tub with the faucet only inches from my face.
Hide and wait until it’s safe.
Thwack.
The bathroom door hits the wall and the sheer force of it rattles my bones. The stiff plastic of the shower curtain flutters, suggesting movement on the other side. Someone’s here.
The killer.
I wrestle with my fight-or-flight response.
Shut it down.
It isn’t easy.
Everything inside me coils tight—mind, muscles, limbs—poised to surge free.
Fight.
My knife.
The palm of my hand presses the handle into my calf. I can’t get to it easily, and the impulse to hike up my jeans and grab for the blade is near unstoppable. But then what? He has a gun.
Run.
I could charge from the room. I want to get the hell out of here. But again, then what? He has that gun.
There’s nothing to do even if the compulsion to survive, to flee, only intensifies as the man moves around on the other side of the shower curtain. Past the tub faucet and through the sliver of curtain and wall, all I see is the sink.
Does he know I’m here? Is he going to kill me?
Heart in my throat, I squeeze my eyes closed for a beat.
I’m trapped.
I’m going to die.
Seconds tick by, feeling like a thousand years, but nothing happens. He doesn’t whip the curtain to one side, aim the gun at my head, and fire. I don’t know what he’s doing and dare not move.
Whack. The toilet seat slaps against the lid, the swoosh of a zipper, then the trickling stream of water. No, not water. Piss.
Someone calls from the bedroom, but I can’t make out if it’s a man or woman or what’s being said.
Voice rough and sharp like gravel, the killer says, “In here.”
We’re not even a foot apart and I sit there, still as a statue, lungs burning, ready to rupture from the air stuck in my chest. The snick of a closing zipper is followed by the man moving into my line of sight.
He places the gun on the edge of the sink to wash his hands, and I force myself to get a good look, to know the enemy, while praying he doesn’t see or sense me behind the curtain.
Tall. Black dress pants and suit jacket. He picks up the large gun, unusually long with what I’m guessing is a suppressor based on my many hours of watching crime dramas. With his other hand, he pulls a phone from his jacket and stares at the screen.
Thin black arcs span the left side of his neck and while only partially visible, I can tell the intricate tattoo is well-done. Near lifelike. A spiderweb.
He spins away from the sink and the rubber duckie shower curtain flutters once more when he exits the bathroom. “Did you find her? I know she’s here.”
Now on hands and knees, I slide silently to the other end of the tub, closest to the door, and crane my neck to peek through the opening in the curtain. This time, I spy the other side of his profile. Another tattoo on the right side of his neck. A gun.
Again someone speaks, answering his question about looking for a woman. They can’t find her. Who? It can’t be me. If he’d seen me, I’d be dead.
The voices disappear and several minutes pass. I wait, maybe longer than I should, ears straining to make sure the killer and his partner are gone.
Once confident I’m alone, fear leaks from my muscles like water wrung from a towel, and my arms and knees buckle. I sag into the cold, hard bathtub and spin onto my back, stretching out my legs on a long, ragged exhale.
Forget the loud party noises. My breath thundering in my skull is the only sound I hear. On shaky legs, I step out of the tub, grimacing at the piss in the toilet. The psycho has bad aim and never flushed. Yuck.
I peer into the bedroom. Empty. The top of Finch’s skull peeks out from the carpet at the end of the bed.
What do I do? Call the cops? Then what?
I witnessed a murder but know nothing, and when they ask why I was here? I can’t tell them about the package. Not until I know what’s inside, and even then, something tells me it’ll only lead to more trouble.
Why the hell didn’t I say no?
Get out alive—that’s the plan.
I glance back into the bathroom, making sure I didn’t miss anything, and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I don’t recognize my wide-eyed terror, though my expression feels about right.
Time to go. The longer I stay, the greater my chances are of getting caught, and I don’t want to be anywhere near here when Finch’s body is found.
Barely twenty-somethings mill in the hall, people moving in and out of rooms. A guy at the far end of the hall pauses and stares at me. Apart from him, no one looks my way, and why would they? I fit in even if this isn’t my scene.
But this guy could be the other voice in the bedroom. He looks older, late twenties or maybe even early thirties. For a split second, he hesitates like he’s trying to decide whether he should come for me or not, then he darts into a bedroom.
All the hairs on my body prickle and rise. He could be going to tell the killer about me. Have I been spotted?
I sprint to the stairs, not willing to wait around to find out and hoping I’m wrong and the guy was just some creep.
It’s slow going down the staircase with bodies lounging on the steps. My muscles seize and lungs tighten when, from behind me, a deep and commanding male voice says, “Hey, you.”
That voice.
Tonight is the first time I’ve heard it, but it’s enough to be forever stamped on my psyche.
A couple sitting on the step to my right swing their glances upward and to my back. I can’t. On wobbly legs, I take two more steps, only three more until the bottom, then I’ll run.
“Stop.” The deep rumble of his voice, sharp rocks scraping over flesh, causes me to do as I’m told.
My insides quake, organs threatening to spatter onto the floor, and I don’t want to look but should. What if I’ve got it all wrong and he isn’t talking to me? Or better yet, he isn’t the killer. It could be the asshat from earlier.
