Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Griffin strides over, slamming the frame face down like that’ll undo me seeing it. His nervousness at having me in his private space is palpable, and when he scans the room like he’s looking for anything else he doesn’t want me to see, I rush to reassure him.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed! It’s cute! They’re basically your parents too at this point.”
He snorts a humorless laugh. “I don’t have parents.”
The statement is harsh, the meaning even more so. It makes me want to ask about a million and two questions about his history all at once, but knowing Griffin, that’s a surefire way to have him close up tighter than a bank vault, and I don’t want that. So I dance around the deep waters he’s treading in, and tease, “That makes sense. You probably spawned right from the depths of Hades like a demon.” Raising clawed hands and snarling in an approximation of a hell-born creature, I act like I’m gonna scratch him. It’s maybe a bit more T. rex than Beelzebub, but it gets the point across.
A tiny smile lifts one side of Griffin’s lips. “Feels like it sometimes.”
“Well, then, I’m happy to share my ridiculously awesome parents with you. Be warned, though, once they decide you’re theirs, there’s no escape. But you already know that, considering you’ve been to every holiday dinner for the last five years and are the only non-Lee in the Lee group chat.”
Something about that causes his smile to melt away until he’s frowning so hard that lines bracket his mouth.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I gesture to myself, using the quip I’ve used for so long that I don’t remember when it started. “Specifically your thoughts about a kiss that may or may not have unexpectedly knocked my socks off.” I hold my foot up, showing him that I’m not wearing socks beneath my sherpa-lined slip-ons.
“Jesus.” The epitaph is a curse, not a prayer, and he collapses to the couch, his head cradled in his hands and elbows on his spread knees. “How the hell did I get mixed up in this mess?”
I hold up a hand, helpfully answering that question as I sit on the other end of the couch, thinking distance is probably a good idea. “Probably me. I do have a tendency for messy drama. Which is totally not my fault! This time. Well, actually, I did kiss you, so maybe it is?” I tap my chin, staring off to the side like I’m considering that, then shake my head, “But you kissed me first, so definitely not my fault. Now that that’s decided, tell me why.”
“I needed you to shut up.”
He says it like that’s explanation enough, but it’s totally not. If it were, it would’ve been enough in that alley when he said it. Wasn’t then, isn’t now. “Needed me to shut up because . . .” I prompt.
“There are these two guys that are kinda, sorta, maybe . . . fwabakingku.” He swipes his hand over his mouth, distorting the mumble so that I don’t catch what he’s said.
“I’ve heard of five guys”—I lift my eyebrows pointedly, assuming he’s seen the memes too—“and Five Guys, good burgers. But what about two guys?”
He doesn’t want to say it again, and he glares at me, furious I’m trying to make him. Or maybe it was my reference of five guys. I definitely don’t think it was the mention of burgers.
“Guys fucking me?” I suggest, trying to get the sounds he made to shape into words. “Fighting me? Feeding me? Something eff-ing me. Maybe try charades? I’m really good at it, though I haven’t played since high school at Mary Beth Lomer’s sleepover. But I kicked ass, figuring out Patrick Star from SpongeBob SquarePants in record time, which was harder than you’d think. At first, I guessed Mary Beth was being a dead body, because she just laid out on the floor, spread out like a star,” I demonstrate, sticking out my arms and legs at odd angles, “but I got there, and we beat Preston Barnes in the final round. Served him right. Guy was a prick.”
Griffin abruptly pushes to his feet, looming over me. “Following you,” he spits out. “Two guys following you.”
“Like in an IG fan sorta way, or a stalkery way?” I ask the question, but my mind is already rolling as I replay the videotapes in my head of the people on the street today. It doesn’t take long before I find the guys Griffin is talking about. One more second, and I realize that I’ve seen them before. “They’re not following me. They’re following you! Those are the fans you said tried to talk to you at Yesteryear.”
He sighs heavily, sitting back down. “About that . . .”
I can read him like a book. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set, and his eyes cold. “I’m not gonna like this, am I?” I guess.