Page 31 of Mess With Me

The world goes silent for a moment, then he does something to the bottom of my helmet, and his voice sounds in stereo. “Can you hear me?”

I nod.

He pulls off his jacket, hooking it over my shoulders. “Put your arms through.”

It’s hot out, but I’m shivering, and the jacket feels warm and like a second person holding on to me. Another Griffin.

“I need…” I croak, but I can’t form words. I’m trying to say shoes—I lost my shoes at some point—in the stairwell? On the street? I have no idea where. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “I need you to take me away.”

“That’s the plan, Angel,” he says. “Hold on.”

I snake my arms around him, resting my helmeted head against his back. Then we’re turning around, moving toward the road. A moment later, we explode out, joining the busy traffic.

We move fast, leaving all this behind.

CHAPTER8

Griffin

We pull into the roadside diner right after crossing the border into Vermont at around eight. I pass this place every time I take this back route home, but I’ve never stopped in it before.

“It might be shit,” I apologize. I try not to look at the way Sasha shakes out her hair after removing her helmet.

I haven’t seen her face since I pulled up next to her in that alley, and I have to turn away from it now, my chest tight. The relief I felt at seeing her there, after a thousand taut seconds of not knowing whether she’d be okay, hits me like a hammer even now. I’ve only felt that kind of relief a few times in my life: Once, when Jude fell into the Quince River as a little kid and Dad went in after him, pulling him out a full two minutes later, blue-lipped but sputtering weakly. Another time, when I was overseas and our baby sister Chelsea was in a brutal car wreck, but they told me she was going to be okay. When I found someone I thought I’d lost in the rubble of a factory explosion, her walkie still clutched in her hand.

That time, my relief was short-lived.

This time it won’t be. When I pulled her onto my bike, I vowed to myself that I wasn’t going to let Sasha Macklin out of my sight again. Not for a fucking second.

I know that’s impossible, but I’m not worrying about that right now.

I hold the restaurant door open for her.

“God, I’m so hungry I could eat a cardboard box.”

“I’d kind of like to see that,” I say, even as I scan the restaurant, checking out the exits and assessing any possible issues.

She laughs softly, and the sound is a balm to my ears.

The place is sparsely populated at this hour. An older couple sits at the row of booths on the far right of the room; a family with two tired-looking teenagers sits at a table in the middle. There’s a bar up front with a couple of truckers at it, a middle-aged blond server pouring coffee for one of them.

“Seat yourself,” she calls out to us, not looking up.

I relax just a little. This is fine. Better than fine. This is the middle of nowhere, off the main roads, halfway to Quince Valley.

“There’s no way he could have followed us, is there?” Sasha asks after we seat ourselves in a booth far from any of the other patrons.

“No.” I know because I made sure of it. Right after we got out of Sasha’s neighborhood, I pulled over and asked for her phone. After removing the SIM card and tossing it into a garbage bin, I dropped her phone onto the ground and crushed it under my heel. “I’ll get you a new one,” I promised. She just sat there, nodding, with that huge helmet on her head, still too shaken up to argue. I took us on several circuitous trips through side roads, as well as a gas station stop where I filled up and bought Sasha a pair of rain boots, which were the only footwear they had that fit her.

“He didn’t even follow us out of your neighborhood, Sasha. You made sure of it by losing him yourself.”

She meets my eye. “I wouldn’t have without your help. Thank you, Griffin. Sincerely. I…I promise to make it up to you once I figure out what to do.” Sasha’s eyes dart out the window to the road, where a lone car goes by, taillights glowing behind it. She brings her hand to her lips, then drops it again. I remember how she did that at the wedding, when I was watching her from afar. It’s a nervous tic.

“He’s not here,” I remind her. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to let my guard down.”

Sasha drops her hand. “Thank you.”

Fuck, I want to scoop this woman up in my arms and hide her from the world. Instead, I pull out the laminated menu and hand it to Sasha.

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