Chapter 3 Penny #3
“You’re terrifying and you know it,” I counter.
“And then you play it up even more when you meet any of my friends. Talia thought you were going to murder her and nearly backed out of being my roommate because of you, ya fucking menace.” I give his shoulder a sisterly punch at the memory, but like the jerk he is, he doesn’t even drop a single grain of rice from his fork at the impact.
“Talia is the best roommate I’ve ever had, and if you’d screwed that up for me, I would’ve never forgiven you. ”
“But has she ever swiped your food from the fridge or borrowed something without asking?” he asks, looking mighty pleased with himself as he points at me with his now-empty plastic fork. I purse my lips, refusing to answer, because he already knows what I’ll say. “I rest my case.”
Griffin watches our sibling back-and-forth with a deep scowl on his face that makes me cut my eyes back to him, snapping, “This is your fault, you know? You started it by giving me a hard time for simply going on a hike, which is a nice, normal, perfectly reasonable activity.”
Griffin’s sharply arched brow says he disagrees with that particular declaration, and fine, he maybe has a point, given my history and the fact that I did slip. No, half a point. Maybe even just a quarter.
Begrudgingly, I amend, “Reasonable for most people. It’s not like I went skydiving or swimming with sharks.
I hiked a professionally plotted trail.” I walk my fingers through the air like that’s all I did today.
“And basically just sat down . . . a teeny-tiny bit hard. And unintentionally.” I hold my finger and thumb up, so little space between them you can’t see light.
He inhales loudly and deeply, his brown eyes unblinkingly locked on mine like he’s searching for the strength to deal with me. “Just be careful,” he finally says, the three little words effectively negating his earlier offer to go with me.
I’m glad. I don’t want to spend time with him, anyway—with his grunts and growls, frowns and scowls, and cutting remarks—and now, next time he tries to scold me for going out alone, I can remind him that he simply told me to be careful, something I always am anyway.
“Excuse me, I’m going to the restroom before we leave,” I clip out, sounding bratty even to my own ears.
I stand and see that I’ll have to step over Griffin’s ridiculously long outstretched leg to get out, so I glare at him for creating the inconvenience despite there not really being room for him to bend his legs beneath the tiny café-style table.
To his credit, he does try to move out of my way as I high-knee it over him, but instead, he manages to catch my back foot, effectively tripping me.
I’m going down.
Twice in one day. I’d love to say it’s a record for me, but it’s not even close. I should really consider walking around with music playing in an earbud, because if I stay on beat, there’s no stopping me. Unfortunately, this time something else stops me.
Griffin.
I land haphazardly against his shoulder, one of his arms wrapped firmly around my waist and the other around my thighs to catch me, and somehow, in my mad scramble to grab for something, anything, and hang on for dear life, I’ve clutched his head in my hands and pulled him right into my abundant cleavage, forcing him into a motorboat position.
“Shit!” I hiss, pushing him away immediately, even before I’ve gotten my footing.
But Griffin doesn’t let go, his sure grip the only thing holding me steady.
I can feel the restaurant’s air-conditioning hitting my skin way too high, which means I’m exposed in a not particularly family-friendly sorta way.
I also feel the heat of his big hand on my thigh, right beneath the dress’s band I thought was going to protect my modesty, making him in dangerously intimate territory, and when he peels his hands from me, instead of going cold, I get even hotter.
“Sorry,” I utter, annoyed with myself. Yes, I’m clumsy, but it’s usually no big deal, and I’m used to it.
Around Griffin, it always feels like a bigger, more embarrassing situation, though.
Praying I haven’t exposed myself to the whole restaurant, I shove my dress back into place too forcefully to be discreet, and more carefully, I step past Griffin. “Back in a flash.”
That is not what I meant to say, but still, I giggle at my own slip of the tongue. So worried that I’d mooned everyone, I basically highlighted the humiliating move. Griffin grumbles in displeasure. Dominic shakes his head, disappointed in me.
Fine, if that’s how they want to be, but I choose humor because, in my experience, if you can’t laugh at yourself, someone else will do it for you.
“Get it? Flash? Because everyone saw my butt? Do you think they saw the tattoo that says ‘kiss here’ on my cheek?” I turn like I’m going to ask the couple at the table a few feet away, though I’m not really.
They seem really into their conversation, like maybe it’s a first date. Or a last one.
“Just pee so we can go. I need my beauty sleep before the game,” my brother clips out in annoyance.
I can’t add a tally mark in my column for that one since the scores are me versus Griffin, but still, irritating my brother always warrants a point in our never-ending battle.
I hurry to the restroom, taking care of business and washing my hands, but I guess I wasn’t fast enough, because when I step back into the dining room, there are two new occupants at our table.
A blonde sitting in my spot next to Dom and a redhead beside Griffin.
The women are obviously on their A game, smiling and batting their lashes while twirling their hair.
Might as well have “DTF” written on their foreheads, or maybe on their cleavage.
My first reaction is to march over there and run the women off. After all, Dominic is annoyingly protective of me, so turnabout is fair play. He’s due for some cockblocking.
But I don’t do that. The women aren’t doing anything wrong. They just only see the pretty exteriors of the pro athletes, and either don’t know or don’t care that they’re assholes beneath the hard muscles, chiseled jawlines covered in scruff, and cocky arrogance.
Or hell, maybe they do know and they’re into that?
Some girls are. Fuck knows I’ve seen that with my brother over the years.
I swear the more he acts like a jerk, the more girls flock to him.
I’m sure that’s true for Griffin too. I’ve even had teammates and friends ask me to hook them up with my brother, his bestie, or both—though if they’re into that, I don’t know or want to know about it.
Luckily, I’m not one of those types of girls.
I like guys who care and are soft inside, not filled with acidic barbs and thorny nettles.
Which is too bad, because though I hate Griffin, I can admit he’s hotter than hot, but only on the outside.
Inside, where it matters, he’s made of solid permafrost ice.
So I don’t intrude. If Dom wants to date Blondie, that’s on him. And if Griffin is into redheads, that’s fine too. It’s not my business or concern.
Instead, I wave to the workers behind the line, pointing back at my brother and Griffin with a knowing smirk that they return, and slip out the door.
Free from the overbearing guys and their barked orders about what I should and shouldn’t do, I walk the few blocks back to my apartment. I’ve already kicked off my boots and turned on the television when my phone dings.
You ditched us?
Dominic’s text doesn’t have a single emoji, but I can read the hurt anyway.
You looked busy. Didn’t want to interrupt, I reply.
Never too busy for you, PND. You home?
I can’t help but smile at the initials of my family nickname. As maddening as he is, Dom’s a good brother.
Yeah, settled in to binge watch Drag Race. See you tomorrow at the game?
You know it. G’night, sis.
GN, bro.
I don’t ask about Blondie. I especially don’t ask about the redhead, though I am curious how that ended up. Is Dominic texting me while Blondie waits for him? Is Red already riding Griffin’s dick since he didn’t have to do the brotherly check-in thing?
Probably so. He’s got a reputation for being a good-time guy.
And I do mean good time. Girls talk, and though Griffin doesn’t fuck around with cheerleaders, he can’t help but be swarmed by puck bunnies who are all too excited to share on social media about their time with the oversize, tattooed, alphahole hockey player.
Not that I care. Or read the posts and watch the story-time videos. Nope, I’ve never spent a night scrolling the comments on one of those posts. Not a single night.
A knot twists in my gut, but not wanting to examine that too closely, I decide it must’ve been the spicy salsa in my protein bowl and turn up the television a bit more. Mrs. Rosenthal bangs on the wall almost immediately.
“It’s not even loud,” I yell back at her, trusting she’ll hear me through the wall.
She probably can’t even hear the television but is simply banging because she heard me come home.
I used to think she was lonely and wanted some sort of connection with her neighbors.
One offer of a freshly baked batch of cookies cured me of that idea when she sneeringly informed me that she doesn’t eat from “strange and likely filthy kitchens.” Instead, I think she wishes she could live alone in the middle of nowhere, with nothing and no one to disturb her peace, but unfortunately, she lives smack in the middle of the city, with neighbors on every side.
I wait for her to bang again, but she stays quiet.
And as RuPaul tells the queens they’d better work, I almost forget about the women at Pro-Bowl .
. . and the guys they might’ve gone home with.
Well, the guy, because I don’t care what my brother does, as long as I don’t have to hear the TMI details of it.
But Griffin? Yeah, I’d like to know. For science, and nosiness. The science of nosiness!