Griffin, page 3
Then the way he kisses. His mouth hard and dominant on mine. The pads of my fingers trail my bottom lip as if remembering Griffin’s mouth on mine. Griffin, what a name. Gruff, almost feral, and sexy as all that.
The first kiss started out chaste, then I got a taste and it left me longing for more. So not like me. I know better than to fall for a pretty face or a man who has all the moves.
But damn.
Already a jangle of nerves, I was destroyed by his mouth. The stroke of his tongue, the press of his lips, all of it. Him. He was carnal and confident and nothing mattered.
Those college jackasses no longer existed.
What killer?
Not even Finch. His dead body had haunted me up until the second the kiss began and then he no longer was. None of it mattered.
That isn’t me. I like kissing, but I don’t get off on kissing random strangers. A kiss needs a connection for it to be good. But clearly, none of that mattered with Griffin.
Who was he? Was our chance encounter just that? Or… He could be dangerous, just as dangerous as the man who killed Finch.
But then…the second kiss…he asked me.
The rasp of his words twirls in my mind. “Kiss me.”
No, asked isn’t right. He told me, and I did it without a second thought.
Oh my God, I need to get over tonight’s events. Move on. Forget about the kiss and Finch and…I have to talk to Angel.
Fishing a key from my pocket, I unlock my bedroom door, and Nugget meows, strolling from the dark open doorway of my brother’s room. The cat’s orange fishbone coat makes him look like a tiger on the prowl.
“Hey, beautiful boy.” I scoop Nugget into my arms, enter my bedroom, and shut the door.
Suddenly exhausted, I flop onto my bed, and my four-legged friend joins me, burrowing into the crook of my neck. I’m still not myself—shaken and weak as if recovering from a really bad virus, I don’t feel a hundred percent.
My cheek strokes Nugget’s soft, ginger fur, and his instant purr lowers my heart rate. “Sorry I wasn’t home sooner.”
I slide my eyes closed, and Nugget stands to pad his way down my sternum. His paws, claws out, squish and dig at one of my small breasts.
“Ouch.” I roll onto my side, clutching the now sore nipple, and my indifferent feline slinks over my hip to snuggle behind my knees.
Still restless and done putting off the inevitable, I nab my phone and the dreaded package from the bag—an oatmeal brown envelope, about four inches thick, folded and taped. It could be cash although it doesn’t yield to the touch like it should. Do I want to know what it is?
Before I can second-guess myself, I dial Angel. She’s expecting me to drop off the package tonight and stressed that I had to come by the salon tonight, not tomorrow.
The phone rings and rings, kicking into voicemail, and at the sound of her voice, I’m assaulted by visions of Finch lying on the floor dead. I can’t leave a message. What would I say?
“Hey, Angel, it’s Cora. I wasn’t able to do the exchange. Finch was shot in the head. He’s dead and lucky me, I got to see the whole thing. Oh, and by the way, the killer saw me. So I’ve got that to deal with.”
I should call the cops, but how would I explain fleeing the scene of a crime?
The beep at the end of Angel’s prattle snaps me back to the phone call, and I hang up without leaving a message.
I’m safe now, but maybe it’s better to tell the police. They could protect me. Though the killer didn’t follow the truck. He has no way of tracking me down, and if I tell the police, wouldn’t that only put me in more danger once they found the guy?
What if they didn’t believe me? My family isn’t exactly strangers to the police. I don’t even know who the man is, only what he looks like.
And how much would this mess with my life? It already has. Angel’s dragged me into something dangerous, and that’s why I have to talk to her first. I’ll try again later, or hopefully, she’ll call me since she’s expecting me at the salon.
I’m not going there. Leaving my home doesn’t feel like a good idea. But maybe I should go find her? I can’t think straight. I’m jittery as if I drank a hundred cups of coffee and yet bone-tired. Still, I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.
The package taunts me and I don’t know what to do. Just having it in my room feels fatal like I’m strapped to a ticking time bomb. I know too much but not enough. The sooner I give it back to Angel, the better.
Dallas. He’ll know what to do.
Despite being my brother and only four years older, he’s more of a parent than Lu ever will be. And that’s why my stomach flips as I send him a text. He isn’t going to like what I have to tell him.
Me: I need to talk. Can I call you?
Angel is his ex, older than he is at thirty. They were together for close to a year, and while they remained friends, he’ll be pissed with her for tonight, and like me, he’ll want answers about this mysterious package and what she’s into.
My text sits unread and while I could call him, those are only for emergencies. My text is forewarning. Though I’m no longer in danger, this is important. I wait several minutes and the sent notification remains. The text is unread.
I dial my brother and get voicemail. “Dal, it’s me. Please call me as soon as you get this. It’s important.” I’m about to end the call when I add, “I’m at home. Safe. Just really need to talk. Call anytime. I don’t care if I’m sleeping.”
Still anxious and needing a shower, I gather the drawstring of my bag in one hand, readying to stash it away when a loud crash in the backyard causes me to pause.
Normally, I’d ignore something like that. It’s the weekend, so noise in our neighborhood isn’t unusual, but not this time. Not after tonight’s events.
I pull back the thin curtain and stare into the kettle-black night. Pockets of brightness shine from under the streetlights and inside the homes. Something moves through the dark, provoking the inky-onyx shades of night. It’s subtle, and if I wasn’t glued to the window, I’d miss it.
Not something, someone. A large figure climbs over the back fence into our yard.
“What the hell?”
My forehead presses to the windowpane and I squint, trying to get a better look.
No way I can make out much, but it’s definitely a person. I’m guessing a man given his size. He slinks along the fence, and his form slides under the soft glow of a streetlight.
My breath catches. The world tilts on its axis.
Holy shit.
It’s him.
The killer.
Deep within, my heart thrashes against my ribcage, drumming a wild and vicious beat. Run. Run. Run.
My feet fly down the stairs, and I grip the backpack in one hand and my phone in the other. Something inside me collapses in on itself. Chest tightening, lungs stiffening, every breath hurts, ripping at my insides, on its escape.
How’d he find me?
Keep your shit together, Cora.
I race toward the front of the house, open the door, and hesitate. Should I warn my mother and her john? What would I say? They’re likely high, as if they’d even believe me. They’re probably safe. The killer freely roamed the frat house not caring about others getting a good look at him. He’s after me because I saw him kill Finch.
My scruffy Vans hit the uneven slabs of concrete outside my front door. I can do this.
Cross the street.
Duck into the back of the houses.
Keep running.
I tear into the road, single-minded, as if I’m in an alternate universe where only I exist along with my escape route. Nothing else matters.
The bright lights of a truck descend on me, and I’m blinded, stumbling to a stop, head turning to face the vehicle. Any moment now and it will hit me, but that doesn’t happen. The truck screeches to a halt with only a few feet to spare.
The driver rolls down the window. “Cora?”
Breathless, I’m in the middle of the road. “Griffin?”
My eyes are playing tricks on me. What’s he doing here? He dropped me off close to an hour ago and should be long gone.
He glances toward my house. “Where you going?”
Does he see him? While I want to look, to know if the killer’s close or seconds away from grabbing me, I can’t. It’s just like at the frat house, on the staircase. I can’t.
My knees shake and I falter, contemplating my poor life choices, all of which I’ve made within the span of a few hours. It started with trying to make a good impression on my boss of only two weeks. That’s why I said yes to the errand.
My next mistake was trusting Angel. She may be as innocent as I am, but something tells me she knew the exchange, or at least the people I’d have to meet with, could be dangerous.
Now this guy. Griffin. Is he a good Samaritan or part of this?
I don’t fucking know.
He sticks his head out the window, a thunderous frown blanketing his all too pretty features. “Cora, get in the truck.”
Behind me, in the dark, a gruff male voice yells something but my mind’s too muddled to make any sense of it. That’s when I sneak a glance over my shoulder. I can’t see him or even make out a silhouette, but he’s near. I sense him.
The truck inches closer, veering around me, until I’m faced with the passenger door. Griffin leans across the seat and pushes it open. It’s an invitation… Or is it a dare?
Going with him could mean the difference between life or death. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m already dead.
Do I take my chances and run, hide out somewhere, and hope the killer never gets his hands on me?
He knows where I live. I don’t know how that’s possible, but he does. And it isn’t like I have anywhere to run to.
Or am I brave enough to get in the truck with Griffin? A stranger who was supposed to be long gone and yet, he stuck around.
What kind of choice is that?
“Cora, move your ass.” His growl is rough and impatient, and strangely, it shakes something loose inside me. Whatever has me stuck.
I jump into his truck, and the door isn’t even closed when he peels away. My head whirls toward the side window, and there, outside my house, a lone, dark figure stalks to the curb, watching us leave.
Demanding doesn’t even begin to cover Griffin’s tone when he asks, “Who the fuck is that?”
“Do you think he’ll find us?” I’m trembling and might vomit.
“Cora, start talking. What’s going on?”
“I just need you to drop me at…”
Where?
I can’t go to Keziah’s. My best friend lives only three streets over, but I’d be putting her in danger. That man found me, knows where I live. It probably isn’t a leap to think he knows my name, and maybe everything about me.
How is this possible?
I’m a dead woman.
Griffin squeezes my knee. “Cora.” Our eyes collide and his, pools of blue, are kind despite their perpetual intensity. “You’re coming with me.”
Though I only just met him, it’s clear to see he’s the strong, silent type, not easy to reach, but something about him instantly puts me at ease. Even the way his jaw tightens, lips thin, and brow furrows, as he guns the truck down the road.
He settles me.
I can trust him…I think.
4
Griffin
Cora’s chest heaves, cheeks red as she swings forward in the truck, eyelids partly shuttered. Slowly, like melting ice cream, she slips down the seat, as if trying to make herself small or invisible.
The tall, faceless man stands at the curb, watching the fading taillights of my truck. He most definitely saw the license plate though it won’t lead anywhere. He won’t find us.
I tried to get a good look at him, but this guy sticks to the shadows. Even so, he’s the same man from earlier tonight. No doubt.
Once Cora was inside her house, I sat in the truck for way too long, failing to grasp the compulsion eating at me to stay. To wait. But for what? I hadn’t quite figured that out.
Zero called, and I ignored him, not ready for his rant or questions. We’ve worked together long enough for him to know I’ll talk when ready. Besides, he knows where I am. My exact location. After we teamed up a little over a year ago, we agreed to have trackers for our phones and clothing, and digestible trackers on us at all times, to be consumed if captured.
Because, in our line of work, you never know. We’re a small team—just the two of us—and it’s a big country. More times than not, we aren’t in the same place at the same time, and we must take every precaution.
I wasn’t a total dick and texted Zero a vague reply. It was the least I could do.
Me: Job was a bust. No 20 on target. Will call later.
If I’m being honest, I also ignored his call because I couldn’t explain why I was camped outside a woman’s house when it has nothing to do with our operation.
At first, when Cora walked into the bar, I wanted to help her, or at least that’s all I thought it was. Then I kissed her.
Big mistake.
Our lips fused and something shifted.
Electrifying.
The connection stirred something inside of me, something long dormant, if ever alive. Not love or lust, but something more than the usual desire to help someone in need.
Then on the drive to her place, she was anxiety-riddled, her fear feeding an incessant pull within me, the one compelling me to stay. I only ever regretted shit when I didn’t follow my gut. So I parked the truck and made calls about tonight’s job, not knowing how long I’d stick around but not wanting to waste time.
None of my informants had seen the target. He was supposed to be in the city, only for the night. Why didn’t he show? Or did I leave The Mill too soon? Nah, he was already late when Cora walked in.
With nothing else to do but sit there, I put the truck into drive, preparing to call Zero when Cora ran out of her front door. And this was why I follow my gut, now glad I’d stayed. Even from a distance, I could tell something was wrong. Like a scared rabbit, terror vibrated from her every pore.
Cora releases a small, anguished moan from beside me, uprooting me from rehashing the time idling in my truck. She’s tiny, curled into a ball at the farthest edge of the seat bench, and my chest aches.
I turn the truck onto US 129, headed to I-85 North. “You okay?”
She scrutinizes me. Her face is in shadows, lit only by the dash and highway lights. “Why were you still there? Outside my house?”
Blinker on, I stall, not having an answer for her or myself, as I wait for the car to pass on my left before slipping into the lane. “Is this how you say thank you?”
The thin purse of her lips quickly fades, replaced by awkwardness. “Sorry. Thank you for getting me out of there. I really appreciate it, but what were you doing there?”
Her gratitude lessens the constriction around my lungs, but not by much. I’ve got a ton of questions.
“Figured the night wasn't over.”
Her frown deepens. “What does that mean?”
Okay, time to change the topic. I don’t have an answer for myself let alone for her. This isn’t going to get us anywhere good. “Who’s that man?”
She remains silent, chewing on her bottom lip. Okay, let’s try another way in. “Is he your boyfriend?”
It’s an educated guess given how she was tonight—scared, constantly surveying her surroundings and yet, she returned home to where the asshole was likely to be.
Still nothing from her.
I run a hand through my hair, exasperated. I don’t know what I’ve waded into, a domestic dispute or lovers’ quarrel?
“Cora, if he’s hurting you…”
She bolts upright. “He isn’t my boyfriend. Nothing like that. I’ve never seen him before tonight.”
“That's the same guy from earlier, though.” My tone is casual, trying to put her at ease. “From The Mill. And he seems to know you.”
She shakes. “I don’t know who he is.”
“Do you know why he’s after you?”
She pulls her legs up onto the seat, folding them under her, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Where are we going?”
I remain silent, not ignoring her but trying to figure out how best to get through to her. She’s stubborn. I’m usually the silent one, but this woman… Shit.
“How old are you?”
“Look, just drop me in Jefferson. I’ll be fine.”
“Cora, you weren’t fine at home. What makes you think you’ll be fine on the street?”
She remains annoyingly silent, and she isn’t going to like my next question, may even take offense, but it’s crucial. “Are you eighteen?”
“What?” Her fury flares by way of a red flush across her cheeks. “I’m twenty-two. How old are you?”
Shoulders squared, she faces me, and her shrewd gaze roves my body from head to toe like that’ll somehow give her my age.
“Thirty-five.”
“So let me see if I’ve got this. Because I’m younger than you and small, you think I’m a kid. You most probably think I’m stupid too because you know, I’m a woman.” Her bratty comeback pulls up the corners of my mouth when it should set my nerves on end.
“Never said any of that; those are your words and thoughts, not mine. I had to ask.” One hand drops from the wheel to rest my elbow on the door. “And you, stupid? Nah.”
She rolls her eyes. “Where are we going?”
“I have a place. You’ll be safe for the night.”
“Where?”
“It’s a drive.”
“How long are we talkin’?”
“Three hours.”
“What?” She swivels her head from side to side, looking for a way out. “No. Stop the truck.”
She’s serious and while it isn’t a smart move, I won’t keep her here against her will. I get off the highway, pull the truck onto the shoulder, and switch on the hazards.
I flick my head in the direction of the gas station and fast-food restaurant just a bit up the road. “Go on then.”
