Chapter 8 #2
“In my defense,” Griffin says, “I didn’t think his haymaker would be that good.”
“Was it a case for us?” Nico asks.
“I scanned the entire area and nothing registered, so everything points to it being a standard homicide,” DJ says. “Word around the bar seemed to be the boyfriend did it.”
“Get cleaned up,” Nico says. “I’ll update Donny.”
Why are DJ and Griffin reporting to Nico? The way they defer to him… there’s a clear chain of command here, and Nico ranks high enough to be the one updating Donny.
Is Nico going to be my boss?
DJ steps closer to where I imagine Nico is standing, since he’s still hidden by the wall. She leans up on her toes and glances over her shoulder. “Is she here yet?”
“Upstairs,” Nico grumbles.
“What’s she like?”
The silence goes on long enough to be uncomfortable, but Nico finally settles on: “Chatty.”
I’ve never in my life wanted to be Elastigirl more than in this moment. I’d reach across the living room and around the corner to smack him across the head with my weird rubbery arm. Chatty? Seriously?
Okay, maybe I did talk a lot in the hallway, but I was trying to be friendly. He makes me sound like a hyperactive middle schooler following people around, asking about their favorite colors and whether they think aliens are real.
I turn to go, but because the universe hates me, a floorboard whines under my foot. Griffin and DJ’s heads snap in my direction.
Griffin’s eyes find mine, and a smile stretches his busted lip. “Look who it is. You must be Eden.”
I could dart back behind the landing and run away, but that would make this weirder. There’s no way I can play it off like I wasn’t eavesdropping, so I need to own it.
“That’s me,” I say, clutching the towel tighter against my chest as I try to look as easygoing as I can manage. “Hi.”
Nico leans forward into the doorway, glancing through the living room to where I’m standing on the staircase. His eyes drop to the towel, then back up to my face. The towel suddenly feels way too small.
“I’m going to go change,” I say.
I trip over my own feet in my rush back up the stairs. There’s a laugh behind me as I close the door to my room, and I lean against it as if there’s a chance they might come charging after me.
Why. The hell. Did I go out there in a towel?
What was I thinking? Oh right, I wasn’t thinking, because I don’t think ahead. I just feel something and act on the feeling and suffer the consequences as I go.
I bang my thumb knuckle into my forehead. How did I think I could be sneaky? I’ve never been sneaky a day in my life. Forget feet, I trip on air. Of course they were going to see me.
I yank on a clean pair of jeans and the Wicked sweatshirt I bought when Mom and Dad took me to see the show for my twelfth birthday, as if the act of wearing clothes could erase the fact that just happened, then crawl back into bed.
Bob curls up next to me, and I scroll through my phone until the house settles into quiet and I can hear no more voices.
Bob’s stomach grumbles.
“Hey,” I say, glancing down at Bob, whose tail twitches from side to side. He doesn’t actually wag his tail back and forth. It does this small quiver instead, like he can’t fully commit to being happy. Not surprising considering where he came from. “You hungry for dinner?”
He doesn’t seem to be in pain walking on his cast, so I let him walk next to me to the top of the stairs. I’m bending down to pick him up when a voice behind me says, “You and I got to stop meeting like this.”
I spin around so fast I stumble to avoid stepping on Bob.
Griffin stands ten feet away with a towel wrapped around his waist. His chest is bare, his shoulders are broad, and he’s made of so much dense muscle that he must live at the gym.
His left leg is a prosthetic, a metal bar connecting to a rubber foot.
His towel sits dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his abs that disappears beneath the cloth.
I can stare for a couple of seconds before I realize what I’m doing. Is there something in the water here? I don’t remember the Ghostbusters all being this hot.
I force my eyes back up to his face, which is now sporting a grin.
“Yes,” I say, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels. Bob has backed up as much as he can without going down the stairs, glowering at Griffin with his ears pinned against his neck. “The embarrassing thing is I thought I was being stealthy.”
It’s not the only embarrassing thing about that interaction, but he should get my point.
Griffin walks over to me and reaches out his hand. “I’m Griffin, but you probably caught that when you were spying on us.”
“Actually, I did.” I shake his hand, but make sure I let go before I hold on too long because that would be weird, and I’ve already been weird enough for one day.
He steps back, putting about a foot of distance between us. “So, Eden, what brings you to our humble haunted headquarters?”
“I need the money,” I say. “And the ghost-proof walls.”
“That’s how Donny got me, too.”
My eyes drop back to his prosthetic. I wonder if he lost his leg when he died.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“About a year and a half,” he says. “I bet Donny gave you the doom and gloom pitch, but it’s not all bad.
Ghost hunting comes with a lot of perks.
Free room and board. Only occasional mortal peril.
Plus, I get to watch DJ lose her mind every time I do something stupid, which is often.
And there are few things as cool as learning history from the mouths of people who lived it.
You haven’t lived until you’ve listened to Nico try to explain cryptocurrency to a soldier who died at Gettysburg. ”
My head can’t quite wrap around that image, but it sounds hilarious. “That does sound insane.”
“You’ve got to be a little insane yourself to fit in around here,” Griffin says. “But I heard you punched Nico in the face, so I think you’ll do just fine.”
My hand goes to rub the back of my neck. “That wasn’t my best first impression.”
“Are you kidding? That was legendary. Do you know how many people have wanted to do that?”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Don’t get me wrong. Nico’s a good guy, and Donny’s second in command, but sometimes, he gets into this whole team leader mode where his face gets extra serious and extra punchable, you know?
” Griffin makes this exaggerated stern expression, his eyebrows drawing together and his mouth setting in a hard line that I’m guessing is supposed to be an impression of Nico.
“All brooding and ‘follow the protocol’ and ‘stop singing Bee Gees songs in the haunted house because it’s not helping me focus, Griffin.’ The guy needs to learn to live a little. ”
There’s genuine affection in Griffin’s voice when he talks about Nico, even through the teasing.
Maybe Nico’s attitude this morning wasn’t personal.
His job as team leader must be to keep everyone safe.
I guess a random girl with no experience showing up like this really throws a wrench in the works.
It gives me a lot of respect for him, which is annoying considering I want to stay mad at him for that orphanage dig.
Griffin shifts his weight to his right leg, and the towel rides lower on his hips.
I shouldn’t be staring at him, but then again, is there anything wrong with appreciating what someone’s so clearly putting on display?
“Anyway, enough about Nico. Let’s talk about something more interesting.” He gestures at himself with both hands like he’s presenting a prize.
I choke on a laugh. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone wearing a towel that’s one wrong move away from this getting awkward.”
“Who said I’d feel awkward?” he asks.
“I never said you’d feel awkward.” I push my finger into my sternum, trying hard not to look down at him again. “Me. I’d feel awkward.”
“That’s understandable,” he says. “Most people find me pretty intimidating when I’m like this.”
I’d think he was one of those guys who was obsessed with himself if he didn’t look like he’s holding back a laugh.
Him standing here making jokes about his own abs is ridiculous.
Everything in my life is so heavy. So serious and scary and exhausting, but this is silly.
When’s the last time I got to just joke around with someone without worrying about saying the wrong thing or being too much?
I can feel myself relaxing, my shoulders dropping from where they’ve been permanently stationed near my ears since I got here.
“I’d offer to go get you a bigger towel,” I say, “but I don’t think I could find one big enough to cover your ego.”
He clutches his chest as if I’ve wounded him. “Here I was thinking we were having a nice conversation.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” I tip my head to the side. “I thought I was trying to grab dog food from my car, while you were out here catching pneumonia in the hallway.”
“If catching pneumonia is what it takes to get the pretty new girl to check me out, then it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”
A blush blooms on my cheeks, mortifying and impossible to control, but underneath it, there’s a giddy kind of happiness I don’t know what to do with. Pretty. When’s the last time someone called me that?
Last night. That ghost called me pretty last night, right before he stuck his fingers in me.
The ghost obviously didn’t call me pretty as a genuine compliment. Griffin probably doesn’t mean it as a genuine compliment, either, given how easily he offered it up. I’d bet he says that to everyone, but part of me wants to hold on to the feeling it gives me a little longer.
When did I get so starved for attention that a simple compliment even an old lady at a grocery store could have given me makes me blush?
I glance over my shoulder at Bob to make sure he’s still there, as he’s been suspiciously quiet. He’s sitting at the top of the stairs, shivering—not in the way he does when he’s cold, but in the way he does when he’s overwhelmed by emotion.
“Do you find that these lines work for you?” I ask. “I mean, historically?”
“God blessed me with an excellent sense of humor.” He’s trying to look serious, but his eyes are dancing. “Among other things.”
I roll my eyes. “Usually when guys feel the need to brag about their measurements”—I scrunch up my face and make a small pinch with my fingers—“there’s not much worth measuring.”
He shakes his head. “You can’t even insult me without smiling.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You’re fighting a smile right now.”
“Am not,” I insist, even though I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching up.
Griffin points at my face, triumphant. “I win.”
You know what? If his game was to get me to smile, he did win, because now I’m grinning ear-to-ear.
Maybe I lost whatever game we were playing, but honestly, it doesn’t feel like losing.
It feels nice to just stand here in a hallway talking to someone who isn’t looking at me like I’m a burden or a problem to solve or that girl from the news.
I’m just a person. Someone worth joking around with.
“Okay, well, I’m going to feed my dog,” I say, trying to pull myself back before I get too comfortable with this feeling. “You should go… put on pants.”
“Not a shirt?”
“And a shirt.”
“If you insist.”
Okay. Time to go. I only make it a couple of steps before his voice stops me.
“You should come to dinner tonight,” Griffin says. “I’m cooking.”
I turn around, hugging myself. “You cook?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” His grin is infectious, and the kind of smile that makes my entire body want to smile back. “Not to brag, but I make a mean chicken parm. People have wept after tasting it. I’m pretty sure I could open a restaurant with that recipe alone.”
“Your humility is inspirational.”
“Come on, what do you say? Meet the others without having to spy on them from the stairs.”
I nod, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Okay.”
“Seven o’clock.” He does a finger gun at me. “Don’t be late, or Benji will eat all the garlic bread.”
He goes through the door right next to mine, and the click of the latch echoes in the empty hallway.