Page 2 of Heart Throb

I think he considers taking his bat and going ham on the two of us, but he realizes he wouldn’t get far. Tucker mumbles something unintelligent under his breath and then backs away. “This isn’t the end of this,” he says clearly. “Your daddy owes me.”

My father owes me nearly two decades of birthdays, holidays, and being a good father, but you don’t hear me bitching. “Write to him in prison. I’m sure he’ll send him something from the commissary.”

That’s when I round on Griffin. He’s tucking the pistol back in his belt, sucking in his gut to do it. He’s put on a couple more pounds since I last saw him, but it looks good. “And you,” I glare. “What are you doing here?”

Griffin glares at me and flips the script. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were being bullied by your dad’s dealers? Now I gotta move in. Shit.” He turns around and heads for the front door, mumbling obscenities under his breath with each step.

“Grif, tell me what you’re doing here,” I follow him.

He pulls out his keys and lets himself in. I didn’t know he had his own set. “Your dad told me to watch over you. He said to check in, thought his friends might get a little antsy now that he was going up the river, but he didn’t mention any of this. Why is this place trashed?”

I peer past Griffin, afraid for a second that the place was broken into. But the living room looks like normal and everything is fine. “What are you talking about?”

He looks at me like I’m insane. “Is this a joke? This place smells like a gym. Your dad’s shit is everywhere. That couch is upside down.”

When the police raided the place, they raided the place. “Yeah, and? I’ve been busy and I haven’t had time to straighten up. I stay in my room and use the kitchen when I have time. I work three jobs, Grif. I’m trying to keep my head down so the police don’t attempt to indict me along with my father. I didn’t choose to get caught up with his mess. Give it a year or two and I’m out of here.”

I pretend not to notice the pity on Griffin’s face even though it’s as clear as day. Instead, I clear my throat, grab some trash on the floor, and walk it to the can in the kitchen. “See? It’ll be clean in here in no time.”

He doesn’t look impressed. “I’ll take your father’s room.”

“I’m eighteen. I don’t need a babysitter.” I didn’t need anyone before, I don’t need anyone now.

“No, what you need is a guardian,” Griffin glares. “To protect you from scum like the guy with the bat. I’m free security, baby. I’ll pack my bags and move in tomorrow.”

I head toward my bedroom without looking back at him. “Whatever,” I grumble. “Do what you want.” I’m not the boss of Griffin Mitchell. I can’t tell him what to do. If he wants to move in here, he can. I won’t make it a hospitable environment though.

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