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Chapter One
GRIFFIN
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
It’s a sign. I shouldn’t have come. I consider retreating through the ivy covered wrought iron gates that I’ve only just stepped through.
“Hey, Griff!” Stacey Phelps lifts one hand and waves a little unsteadily. “Griffin!”
She was the homecoming queen of my high school senior class, and to my horror I was voted onto the court that year, so I’m not surprised she’s here. This is sort of my unofficial going away party at my best friend Derrick’s parents’ estate. I’ve known Stacey since fifth grade. We’re not what I would call friends, but we’d hung out in the same circles, and she saying ‘hi’ would be normal under normal circumstances.
But in this case, it’s fucking weird.
She’s leaning over a long, teak dining table that adorns the outside, covered dining area by the pool with her skirt flipped up over her rear and some dude’s dick deep in her lady business.
People are idiots.
“Jesus.” I grunt toward the darkening sky, shaking my head as I kick the squeaking iron gate closed behind me with my heel.
I should have just taken the front entrance like everyone else, but I thought I might be able to sneak in unnoticed if I came through the back garden. Should have known better. I’m not one for attracting attention; I’m more the sit-in-the-corner-and-hope-no-one-notices-me kind of guy. That’s not always the case unfortunately. My sheer size draws eyes, I get that.
If I had my way, I’d have my head stuck in a book or hitting some intricate math problem just to prove to myself I could solve it. But most people still see me as a varsity jacket. A football Guido. The cheerleaders used to have a betting pool on who would manage to snag me. Whoever got the first fuck apparently won a prize. That never happened.
The scene that’s greeted me raises my blood pressure. Emily Post has no protocol for this sort of thing.
I do my best to avert my eyes as I speed my steps across the ledge stone pathway, dry leaves crunching under my black boots, and doing my best to feign ignorance of the coital activities to my left.
But Stacey won’t stop fucking talking to me.
“I heard you were coming. MBA a year early, I hear. He always was Mr. Smarty pants,” she adds over her shoulder as the dick behind her thrusts forward. Every few words there’s a gasp of punctuation, her suitor seemingly finding my presence no deterrent to his dick’s needs. “Hey, Griff, come over and say ‘hi.’ My mouth isn’t occupied.” Her sing song tone does nothing to stay the violent uprising in my stomach.
“No.” I jab the word at the ground, making it very clear her offer is not only declined but enthusiastically declined, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my Levi’s, the six pack tucked between the crook of my elbow and my hip. My leather jacket opens in the front. The “Property of University of Michigan Football” lettering stretching across my chest.
“You sure? You and I never did get together. Kind of a shame don’cha think?”
I’m three long strides toward the back door into the main house, still stunned she’s talking to me as though we’re standing outside a fucking library or something. All I want to do is get inside and away from that sight. Even though it was only a split second glance, it’s now burned into my brain. The incoherent glaze of inebriation and lust on both their faces, the way they’re lit by the color changing, underwater pool lights, like some kind of weird new art installation Derrick’s step-mom has wasted her money on.
Keep walking.
Sometimes I just can’t ignore the things I should.
I take one hand out of my back pocket, my fingers twisting the door handle, but I can feel myself starting to shake. The fire flickers down in my gut.
I take three measured breaths like my high school coach and mentor Lenny Robinson taught me to do. It doesn’t work. I set the beer down on the table next to the door and breathe through my nose for a long moment.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” I spin and take a few strides back in their direction. The guy standing behind Stacey bites his lip, eyes glazed, only half open, and I doubt he’s even aware of me at the moment. I know the fucking look and I feel dirty just seeing it, but this is total bullshit. I raise my voice and clap my hands together. “Hey, asshole, yes, I’m talking to you.” I thrust my arm out straight, snapping my fingers and pointing his way.
Stacey’s head jerks back, her eyes wide, and she haphazardly brushes her tangled hair from her face. I see that she’s deep into this right now, but I can’t let this shit go, for her sake as much as anything. I don’t have any specific feelings for her one way or the other, and if she was a stranger I’d be having the exact same reaction.
I look back at the dude, his eyes light on me and he loses his happy “O” face, hip thrusts paused, caught in between shock and release.
“What the fuck, man? We’re busy here.” He narrows his eyes at me and I step forward so he can get a good look at who he’s messing with. I stop at the other end of the table though. Any closer and I’m going to get a view of things I care not see.
“Yes, unfortunately I can see you’re busy.” I look quickly at Stacey, whose eyes are locked onto me. “But if you are any kind of man, you wouldn’t do this out here.” I jerk a hand from my back pocket and wave it, fingers up toward the sky, just in case he hasn’t noticed where he is. “Show her some respect. And the rest of us as well. Take it inside.”
My hands fall to my sides, fists tightening. I count to ten because I feel the tingling starting in the back of my neck and I know what’s coming next if I don’t calm down.
What do I care, right? She’s not my girl. I don’t even know him, and I don’t owe her a thing. Fuck, I haven’t even kissed a girl in so long you would think I’d enjoy this kind of show.
The truth is I’ve never done much of anything with a girl. No one knows that but Derrick. Hell, I’m not embarrassed to be a virgin, but I don’t advertise and I doubt anyone that knows me would guess that is the case.
I must be from another century, right? I’ve seen too much of this sort of disrespect for sex, from both sides of the gender spectrum. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of sex, and I think it should be enjoyed enthusiastically by both men and women. When the time comes and I find the right girl, all bets are off, I want to do it all and then some. Nonetheless, all women deserve to be treated like something precious.
The dude grunts my way, poison darts shooting from his eyes. “Back the fuck off, man. I’m not forcing her, move the fuck on.” He lets go of her hip raising his hand with a dismissive flap in my direction.
I stifle a laugh at his bravado. It’s hard to look tough with your jeans around your knees and your ass hanging out in the October chill. I’ve also got about six inches of height on him, and from the looks of him, he’s from this side of the tracks decked out in his bow tie, plaid button down and cashmere sweater. It’s all good, I don’t care how he dresses, and having money is great, but I doubt he’s ever fought off a mosquito.
I know what it means to work. I shoveled shit at a horse barn all through high school. Three jobs in college, swinging a hammer, cooking the line in a greasy diner and shoveling snow in a Michigan winter puts hair on your balls and callouses on your hands. So this trust fund baby best be wise to keep himself in check. Three years of college football has me layered with forty additional pounds of lean muscle than when I left this town the end of my senior summer, and I was already one of the biggest guys in our class then.
My face heats and I have to reach out to grab the top of a chair on the opposite side of the table. I squeeze the top rail of the wood, raising the chair off the ground a few inches before slamming it back down, shaking the entire table, Stacey included. “I’m going inside that door.” I twist my head toward where the party is roaring inside. “But I’m going to turn around when I get in there and you’d better be fucking gone.”
