Page 7 of Fighting the Forbidden

The thought of Griff being arrested or something because of me is enough to sober me up. He’s been in trouble before. The months he spent in juvie a few years ago were some of the worst of my life. I sent him letters almost every day and eagerly waited for his responses—short letters that never said much about what he was going through but that I still have saved in my box of treasures. I’d die before I caused problems for him. “No. Never. I’m sorry.”

He runs the back of his hand over my cheek. “Don’t be sorry.” His forehead drops against mine, our noses lightly touching, and he stares into my eyes. “Don’t ever be sorry. I’m not.”

He’s so close. I want to kiss him. Want him to take me in his arms again. I want to promise him I’ll never tell anyone. What do a few more months matter anyway? It’s not like I’ll magically turn into a different person the moment I turn eighteen.

For a second, I think he’s going to say fuck it and sweep me off my feet.

“Come on. It’s late. Let’s get you home before Remy loses his shit.”

I groan, but take his hand. He’s right. My brother’s a tightly wound ball of protectiveness and rage. Three years ago, he stopped by and found our father taking his frustrations out on me with a belt. Remy packed up my stuff and moved me into his house that night, right after he laid our father out with a violent barrage of punches and the threat of more if he ever came near me again. Every day I live in fear Social Services will show up on our doorstep and try to force me to go back to my father’s house. Although, the closer my eighteenth birthday gets, the more my worry eases.

Maybe now there’s something else to look forward to after I turn eighteen.

Remy suffered so much guilt about leaving me alone with our father that he’s a hypervigilant pain in my ass in the watching-over-me department. As his best friend, Griff also looks out for me. As much as I resent it, I understand why Griff thinks dating me would be betraying my brother. I even love him for his loyalty to Remy. I’d never want to be the cause of trouble between them.

Outside, we stop at Griff’s shiny black 1970 Chevelle. I run my fingers over the purple-and-red pinstripes that I helped Griff pick out when he restored the car a few years ago. He even hands me the keys at his friend’s racetrack sometimes.

He opens the door, and our bodies bump together. I reach up and touch his cheek. He turns his head and brushes his lips against my fingertips, sending a soft, shivery sensation to every part of my body.

“What are you doing, Molly?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

“How does your forehead feel?”

“Better.”

“Good.”

He holds my gaze for a few seconds before tipping his head toward the open door. “Come on. Get in.”

I slide into the passenger seat and turn to admire the clean, black interior. My gaze lands on the shiny baseball bat Griff keeps behind the front seat—just in case. Griff’s door opens.

“Still keep the bat back there?” I ask.

“Never know what might go down at these things.” He shrugs as if having to beat someone with a bat to protect yourself isn’t completely terrifying.

Once we’re on the highway, Griff reaches over and takes my hand. My belly dips and swirls from the simple, sweet contact. It’s romantic, a gesture from one of my favorite books. So many unspoken feelings bubble up inside me from holding his hand while he expertly guides the car along the roads that will eventually lead to my house. My only plan tonight was to see Griff in the ring. Never in my wildest fantasies did I imagine we’d kiss or end up holding hands.

“So, who drove you to Ironworks tonight?” he asks, casting a quick, questioning glance at me.

I shift away, unlinking our hands. “A friend.”

“Who?”

“Uh, Wade? He’s a friend from school.”

A deathly sort of silence descends over us. Griff grips the steering wheel tight with both hands. “You were alone in some guy’s car all the way out here?”

“I’m alone in your car right now,” I point out.

“Molly.” Disappointment bleeds into his voice.

“He’s just a friend.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

I study him closely. The tight set of his jaw suggests that’s exactly what he’s worried about. I snort with annoyance. After all the ring bunnies and girls I’ve watched flirt with him at the racetrack over the years, he’s worried about one of my classmates.

He glances over again. “How’d he even know where the fight was?”

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