Page 117 of Mess With Me

The man’s face has gone pale, but he can’t seem to find his words. Finally, he says, “You’re fuckin’ crazy, man.” Then he shoves his truck into reverse, and with a peal of tires, backs all the way out and screeches through another exit, making another car swerve and honk.

A smattering of applause sounds from around the parking lot, and a woman passes with her husband. I catch her hissing, “I could use even half that kind of support when I’m parallel parking, Brian!”

When I get back in the truck, I’m still breathing hard, but not as hard as Sasha.

“What the hell was that?” she demands.

I open my mouth, but not fast enough to speak before Sasha throws herself on me, her arms tangling around my neck, her lips kissing my mouth and nose and cheeks in a flurry.

“I should be mad at you,” she says when she finally releases me. “Pulling that caveman shit.”

Then she kisses me again.

I can’t stop my hands from holding her close, letting the last of my anger drain out of me. Honestly, half of that anger wasn’t even for the little shit behind us. It was at Creelman. At Sasha’s brother.

At the masked man who shot Laura all those years ago, leaving her to bleed out on the floor while I showed up too late.

But right now, that anger’s gone, and all I know is the intensity of my feelings for the woman in my arms.

“It was overboard,” she says when she pulls far enough away to speak. She grips my head in her hands. “But you went overboard for me.”

“Assholes need to be called out sometimes. That’s all.”

I pull her back into me and kiss the shit out of her for so long that I can tell the person behind us wants to honk but doesn’t dare.

A minute later, as she puts the truck into drive, calmly turning us in the right direction, she says, “Thank you, Griffin.”

I brush her hair off her cheek, swallowing down the words threatening to spill out of my mouth. Instead, all I say is “I love being your apeshit caveman.”

Which also happens to be true.

CHAPTER32

Sasha

The next couple of weeks pass surprisingly quickly. I keep myself busy with work, spending time with Griff, Glo, and of course, Chester and his deck. There’s a lot more to do than just replace the boards, and I learn more than I ever wanted to know about concrete foundations. I come to the belated realization that not all DIY is for me.

As Griff suspected, the most difficult aspect of this project is dealing with Chester, who just about lost it when we came over with the lumber after that day at the store.

“I told that hammerhead I’m fine to do the deck myself,” he said when we pulled up in the truck with the wood that first day. He wore himself out cursing at Griffin about it, overlooking the fact that it was me spearheading the mission, no matter how many times I told him.

Griffin threatened him with the doctor, which sent Chester into a new fit.

We stayed away for a couple of days, during which time the doctor apparently came by and told Chester he needed to rest. “Hogwash,” he told us when we came by next.

But he didn’t stand in our way as we began prying up the old boards.

Then several days of rain came, and while we were waylaid, I read up on all things Eleanor Cleary and did minor beautification projects around the cabin. Griffin, meanwhile, spent whole days at his desk in his shop, breaking only to eat and check in on me, and once, to run me a bubble bath and give me a foot massage because I said Vivian had run me off my feet that day. Watching that big man work his big hands on my feet had me swooning almost as much as I did when I thought about that moment in the parking lot.

Griffin’s been amazing, and not just at standing up for me at lumber stores, either. He helps when I need him and stays out of my way when he gets itchy about something I’m doing. Despite the way he keeps his cabin orderly, he’s not particular about it. He lets me rearrange items and bring in new art and potted plants and throw pillows. He never criticizes like my mom used to do about literally everything I ever tried. If he’s concerned about what I’m doing, he just retreats to his shop.

It’s almost like I’m not hiding out in his small town, fake-married to this man because I’m on the run from a terrifying situation created by my own brother.

The longer I stay here, the longer I can go almost forgetting these facts. But they’re always there, thrumming in the back of my mind, no matter how perfect this life is looking from the outside.

Or feeling from the inside.

But today the sun is out, the air cool and crisp, and the leaves already beginning to turn from green to yellow and orange as I pour my coffee in Griffin’s kitchen. He’s already at his desk, but an hour ago, when I woke up breathing hard from a bad dream about being back in the city—I’ve been having a lot of those—he calmed me down with his sleep-gruff voice in my ear, his hand stroking my hair as I curled into him.

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