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Cosy pulls on my arm. “Griffin, please, it’s been a good morning. Let’s go so it doesn’t get ruined.”
I’m about do exactly as she says, except I realize that Imogen is rounding the passenger side of a car with personalized plates I recognize, and behind her is my cousin Armstrong. Lincoln’s asshole brother. Amalie’s asshole ex-husband who cheated on her at their wedding reception.
Imogen looks agitated, and Armstrong looks nothing short of annoyed, which is the only expression he wears, apart from a leer.
“What the fuck?”
“Griffin, please,” Cosy begs, still trying to tug me toward the car.
“Just a minute. That’s my cousin.” I feel suddenly numb and hot all over at the same time. I cross the parking lot, dragging Cosy along since she won’t let go of my arm.
Imogen was beside herself after Amalie and Armstrong’s wedding fiasco, so there’s absolutely no reason I can come up with for the two of them to be together.
They’re too busy arguing to notice my approach. Imogen grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, voice rising enough that I can hear her. “You said you would take care of us, and now you think you can buy your way out of this? This baby is as much yours as it is mine!”
When I found out Imogen cheated on me, I had no desire to know whom she cheated with. I was already overwhelmed by the lies and the betrayal. But I don’t even know what to do with this.
“You motherfucker.” I shake Cosy off my arm, move Imogen aside as carefully as I can, and slam my fist into Armstrong’s face. Pain radiates through my hand and up my arm, but the crunch and pop of cartilage that comes from my cousin’s nose makes it completely worth it.
Armstrong stumbles back, landing on his ass. He covers his face with a palm as blood drips down his chin, splattering the sidewalk and his white dress shirt. “What the hell?”
Imogen screams. “Griffin, don’t! I can explain!”
I whirl on her, and she presses herself against the side of the car, as if she expects me to go after her next. “Explain what? That you slept with my fucking cousin, and he got you pregnant, and you still tried to play it off as mine. Was that before or after he tried to pay you off to get rid of you?”
“It was after, since it was my suggestion,” Armstrong coughs. Despite the blood pouring from his face, he smiles. Red coats his teeth, making him look insane. Which he very well may be.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him to his feet. “You’re a sadistic sonofabitch.”
His smile widens. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
“What’re you talking about? What the hell have I ever done to you?”
His smile morphs into a sneer. “Your brother fucked my wife, so I fucked your fiancée. A little tit for tat, cousin.” He motions to Imogen. “It wasn’t even very hard to convince her. She was just so lonely and desperate for attention. Willing to do anything I wanted, however I wanted it from her. I would’ve kept fucking her too, except she got herself knocked up.”
“You’re disgusting.” I punch him again, this time in the balls. He wheezes, and I release him, watching as he folds into a fetal position on the sidewalk.
I turn to find Cosy behind me. She holds out a hand. “Come on, baby, it’s time to go.” I slip my palm into hers, aware I’ve lost it, very publicly.
Imogen is still standing beside the passenger door, eyes wide and panicked, trying to open it.
I pin her with a hateful glare. “I feel sorry for that baby, but you two deserve each other.”
This time, I let Cosy lead me back to the car, and I worry that my baggage just became too heavy for her because this is next-level fucked-up drama.Chapter Twenty-Six: Heavy BagsCosy
The truest test of a relationship is sticking by someone when they’re falling apart. And that’s exactly what happens after we run into Imogen. It’s understandable considering she slept with his cousin, and Armstrong was the one who told her to go back to Griffin, since apparently he had no desire to take care of the mess they made together.
Griffin’s cousin is a serious asshole.
The concierge brings up all of our purchases from this morning’s shopping trip, which seems like a million years ago. Griffin pulls out a giant bottle of bourbon and pours himself a pint glass full. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it’s a serious glass of bourbon, whole hand, not three fingers, and no ice.
He also decides we need to start hanging art right away, which means he gets out his tool box.
I take the glass and put it aside. “How about we talk, instead of you getting shitfaced and using power tools?”
