12. Griffin
Chapter 12
Griffin
Roman
Sorry. Won’t be able to make it tomorrow.
I roll my eyes at my brother’s message. After days of texting him, that’s what he responds with? I scroll back through the thread, reading everything I sent him.
We’re having a surprise party for Ian’s 50th next Saturday. You should come.
I don’t know why you refuse to answer, but I know he’d want to see you.
If you don’t come, Taryn will kill me.
Come on, man. What the fuck? You can’t take two seconds to text me back. Like I don’t have my own shit to deal with.
Roman
Sorry. Won’t be able to make it tomorrow.
I stab at the keypad, having to delete multiple times because my thumbs are too big and I’m too ticked off.
At least fucking call him and say happy birthday to him tomorrow.
With a huff, I hit send, knowing he won’t respond, and smack my phone on the table with more force than necessary before snatching it back up to check I didn’t crack the screen or scuff the table.
But, fuck.
I understand addiction is a disease, but at some point, you have to take responsibility for your life. Roman has been wallowing in self-pity for over a decade now. Enough is enough.
What makes it worse is Ian blames himself for the way Roman’s life has turned out, but it’s not his fault. He’s done everything he could to help, even paying for multiple stints in rehab. Roman just doesn’t seem to want to fix his life.
I don’t have time or patience for him, but Ian has a soft spot for our little brother. Always has, and now the little shit isn’t even coming to his birthday party. For all of Ian’s bluster, he wears his heart on his sleeve, which leaves him vulnerable to people like Roman who’re happy to take advantage of his kindness.
And it pisses me off.
Because Roman has to take some personal responsibility and get his shit together. Ian deserves better than silence. We all deserve better.
To my utter amazement, Roman responds.
Roman
I will, and it’s not that I don’t want to go to the party. It’s that I can’t.
What do you have going on that’s so important?
Roman
It’s not for a text conversation. Sorry, man. I’m trying.
Roman
I swear.
I close my eyes and rub at the back of my neck, trying to roll out the knots of tension, but it feels like they’ve been there my whole life. The stress I carry in my muscles won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, so I stand, intent on heading upstairs, when notes of music drift up to the kitchen. I stop to listen.
After the helpful advice Andi gave me last week, I spent hours thinking about it. Thinking about how I was letting my kids down, and with how she seems to be bonding with them, I took her words seriously. I never thought my children would want to spend time with me. After all, I never spent much time with my own dad. The good memories I have of him can be counted on one hand. The rest are of him drinking and throwing temper tantrums before he left for good, leaving Mom to take care of the four of us on her own.
I’ve been raising my kids the best way I know how. Possibly a little too militaristically. Since that conversation with Andi, I learned Grace and Logan really did want to hang out with me. It was actually quite simple, though I’d been nervous to ask them about it. More nervous than they would ever believe I could be.
But since then, there’s been a seismic shift. My kids are smiling more. They’re laughing. Hell, I’m laughing. And we’re playing together. I’ve loosened the reins on having such a tight schedule for them and tried to relax more around the house, inviting them on a run with me, which turned out to be a long walk where I got to know my children, and they me. Grace informed me that Andi has been teaching her how to play the guitar for the talent show, while Logan and I have played basketball together every day I’m home, even if for only a few minutes like today because it was all we could fit in.
It’s been… Well, it’s been amazing. All because Andi had the audacity to tell me the truth. I’ll never be able to repay her.
With the kids asleep, I quietly make my way to the basement door and lean my ear against it, listening to Andi playing. I don’t recognize the song, but I do recognize her voice, quiet as it is. She told me she was a songwriter, but I don’t know why it never occurred to me that she sings too. Maybe because I’ve been so wrapped up in my physical attraction to her that I couldn’t imagine her level of talent.
Curious, I silently open the door and sneak down a few steps, enough that I spot her sitting on the floor, her back to me. She’s wearing my zip-up again, and it never fails to hit me hard. That she has a piece of me with her. On her.
I sink down to sit on a step, sure to stay quiet so I can enjoy the show, the way she rocks back and forth, the neck of the guitar sticking out on her left side, her head bobbing along. I wish I could see her face, know if she is smiling or has her eyes closed. I imagine both.
I assume this is her first love, playing music, and I don’t know shit about it, but she’s good. She sings about broken dreams and heartache, and though her voice cracks on a high note, it’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. I suspect anything she played would be the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.
She finishes singing then strums a few chords. I don’t move, wanting to hear more, and Cat joins me, nudging at my leg for a pet. I try to shake him off, but he continues, and I glare at him to leave me alone. I’m busy. When he continues to paw at me like he doesn’t get enough attention, I silently call him an asshole yet give in, petting him, which earns a purr.
Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal, I wouldn’t mind, but in the quiet of the basement, he might as well be screeching. Andi swings around, startled.
So much for stealth mode.
I lift my hand. “I, uh…heard you upstairs and came down to listen.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was so loud. I won’t play at night anymore.”
“No.” I stand quickly and practically jump down the rest of the steps to get to her. “It’s okay. Please, play whenever you want.”
“It’s a little late for you to be awake,” she notes, and I like that she’s learned my schedule. Although, I guess she had no other choice with how I wanted her to do her job, run the house like I would. But that’s changed now.
I shrug. “I was texting with my brother.”
“Ian?”
“No, Roman. He’s my younger one. He’s in New York…doesn’t talk to us much.”
She opens her mouth, like she wants to ask a question, but stops herself. Good. Because I wouldn’t know the first thing to say about my relationship with Roman. Still, I’d tell her all of it. Whatever she wanted to know.
She sets down her guitar before bending to pick up Cat. He burrows into her arms, rubbing it in my face with a rattling purr that he’s able to touch her and I can’t. She sits on her bed, all comfy and cute-looking, and I feel like I’m intruding on her space, but I also don’t want to leave. So, I ask, “Was that one of your songs?”
She nods. “I wrote it forever ago.”
“It’s pretty.”
She blushes even more than before and mutters a quiet “thank you” then glances to the spot next to her on the bed. I don’t waste the silent invitation and plant myself close enough that my thigh rests against hers. She draws those big eyes of hers up to mine, biting her lip shyly, and I’ve never been more fascinated. Such an interesting little creature she is. A mix of insecurity and confidence, modesty and pure sex. I can’t get enough.
“When did you start playing guitar?” I ask, reaching out to pet Cat, which annoys him. He only wants Andi’s attention, and I get it. She sets him on the bed, and he flicks his tail—I think in a flip-off to me—then jumps to the floor to slink back upstairs.
Andi shifts to face me, sitting cross-legged, and I can’t help but admire the smooth expanse of her legs, the way the material of her shorts bunches at her hips, and how the hem of my sweatshirt covers her so it’s almost like she’s not wearing anything except that.
“About thirteen or fourteen. My grandma taught me. She started playing because of Janis Joplin. She wanted to be just like her.”
“And you?” I settle my right knee on the mattress so I’m facing her too. “Who did you want to be like?”
She taps her hummingbird tattoo. “My grandmother.”
The girl is so goddamn sweet, it makes me ache listening to her speak.
Andi’s smile takes on a faraway glint. “It sounds weird to say, but she was my best friend. We were kindred spirits, both of us born into a time and place I don’t think either of us was meant to be in.”
“Why do you say that?”
She lifts her gaze, skirting it around the room, where she’s settled in quite nicely. It’s not as tidy as I keep my room, but it’s not a mess either, merely lived-in. She has picture frames on the dresser and a wicker laundry basket that’s full to the brim. Her sneakers are next to her cowboy boots, lying on their sides.
I picture her sneakers and boots next to my shoes upstairs in my closet, but I quickly shake that idea from my mind. Especially because she clears her throat. “I was a bit lonely growing up. I have an older brother, but he’s four years older. He was okay with life there. I wasn’t. I never felt like I truly fit in. And Mimi—my grandma—she was an old hippie chick. She didn’t fit in either, but she came to live with us on the ranch when my grandpa died. And my dad…”
She slants her gaze to me, her brows drawn down. “My dad could be a real son of a bitch,” she says on a sad laugh. “He tolerated Mimi because she was my mom’s mom, but he didn’t have the same…restraint with me. I was his daughter, so he could discipline me how he saw fit.”
I instinctively curl my fingers into fists. “He ever hit you?”
She bites into her bottom lip, her eyes going watery. My tenderhearted girl. “No,” she whispers eventually. “He never hit me. Sometimes I think that might have been easier to take. A slap over his words.”
I shake my head, my voice close to a rumble. “No child deserves to be abused in any way. Full stop.”
She sniffs and nods. “That’s why I was so close to Mimi. She supported me. Loved me when it sometimes felt like no one else did.”
“Fuck, sweetheart. I’m sorry you had to go through that, but I’m glad you had your grandmother. I’m glad she was there for you.”
“That’s why it was so hard for me when she passed. It felt like…” She picks at the zipper of the hoodie as she finds her words. “She was the last person to believe in me, and she’s gone.”
I can’t sit here and listen to her heartbreak and not touch her, so I place my hand on her bare knee. When she glances at it, I’m quick to remove it, but she hits me with one of her soft smiles. The shy one that makes me want to pull her into my lap and keep her tucked up safe against me. “It’s okay.”
So, I let my palm cup her knee, fingers extending up her thigh. “You said you have a best friend, though, right?”
“Dahlia, yeah. She’s there for me.”
“And you have me and the kids.”
She catches my eyes, cheeks dimpling. “And you and the kids.”
A moment passes between us when I imagine the four of us all curled up on the couch, watching a movie together, me on one end, Andi on the other, with the twins between us. My arm on the back of the cushions, playing with Andi’s hair. Her smiling at me.
It’s too good of an image, and it takes me a lot longer than I’d like for me to push it out of my head.
I’m not sure when my fantasies went from thinking about her lips wrapped around my cock to spending family time together, but I feel like this is so much worse.
Wanting to fuck somebody is a passing fancy.
Wanting to bring someone into a family is something totally different.
And as hard as I’m trying to ignore all these bubbling feelings, I can’t.
“We’re having a party for my brother tomorrow,” I say, and she nods.
“I know. It’s on the calendar.”
“It’s a surprise party.”
“That’ll be fun.”
“I think you should come,” I blurt out.
The shock on her face melts into something that looks a lot like fondness. “You want me to come to your family’s party?”
I try to cover myself. “I think the kids would really like it if you did.”
Her coffee-brown eyes search mine, drifting back and forth, and I hope she can’t find my lie. I don’t know if she does or not, but her answering smile settles deep in my chest, warming my cold, weary heart.
“Yeah, okay. I’d love to come.”
Forcing myself to stand, I offer her a tip of my chin. “Have a good night, Andi.”
“You too, Griff.”
Then I take the stairs two at a time and head straight to my shower, the lingering scent of her stuck in my nose and the picture of her staring up at me with those plump lips curved in a sultry pout as she strips naked for me. As soon as the water is warm, I step inside and fist my hand around my erection, pretending that coming while imagining her riding my cock will solve all my problems and leave no room for wanting more.