Page 20 of Bitter Lies

“Yo, Griff,” Max calls out, stepping up to the door.

Griffin drops his arms and steps away so quickly that I wobble in place as Max looks us over suspiciously before his brows slam over his eyes and he glares at Griffin with a searing expression.

Ignoring the surge of heat still moving through me and the fucking blush painting my cheeks, I move away as casually as possible and wrap a towel around my heated skin. I’m reeling under Griffin’s caress but also curious about Max’s reaction.

Is he mad at me in general? Or upset because of Griffin’s actions? Could my brother actually be showing concern over me?

“What do you need, bro?” Griffin asks, stepping around Max as I follow and head straight to the bathroom, closing myself in and leaning against the door.

Just his touch lit a fire in me, and I’m both exhilarated and confused by it.

Further, Griffin was sure glad to see me for all his protestations about not fucking me. But what does it all mean?

∞∞∞

“Okay, first question.” Griffin’s deep rumble cascades through my veins deepening the ache already formed in the wake of his actions earlier, but he’s avoiding my gaze.

Okay, I guess we’re going to pretend whatever just happened didn’t. Although I’m disappointed, I’m not surprised, and it’s probably for the best. Griffin is like an ice cube, refreshing at first until the fucking cold meets your tongue and you get brain freeze.

We’re sitting at the dining table, with Max nowhere in sight, and shifting uncomfortably, I wait for the question, wishing myself anywhere but here. How can I possibly bare my soul to the one person who could genuinely hurt me if he wanted to? I can’t. I just…can’t.

Every part of me wants to flee, and only my stubborn pride keeps me glued to the seat as I wait for it. Because nothing but ugliness writhes beneath the surface, and I’m so very tired of holding it in.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Seriously?” Grabbing the list of questions from his hand, I confirm it is his first question, but why?

“Yes,” he says, waiting expectantly with pen poised in hand.

With a dubious look, I rub my hands down my face in exasperation. “You know my favorite color.”

“No, I don’t.” His face is so closed off I feel like I’m speaking to a statue.

What’s going on in that brain of his?

“You…don’t?”

Okay, twist the dagger a little deeper—dick. He’s known my favorite color since he sent me yellow roses in the seventh grade while I was home recuperating from appendicitis.

Fine, if he’s going to be a jerk, I might as well fuck with him.

“Blue,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.

When he looks at me impatiently, his eyes narrowed, I shrug. “What? That’s my favorite color.”

His nostrils flare as he scribbles impatiently on his paper. “Fine. Your favorite flower?”

Smiling with all my teeth, I say, “Iris.”

He glowers at me but doesn’t comment as he runs down a list of the most mundane shit possible, and I’m just starting to relax, thinking this isn’t going to be so bad when he hits me with a zinger.

“Favorite memory?” He looks up at me with a blank stare.

And all of a sudden, I’m tumbling down a rabbit hole, the remembrance both sweet and sour.

It was my fourteenth birthday, just before the end of everything and the beginning of hell. Mom planned a surprise party, and when we entered the backyard after a day at the movies, there stood all my friends with Griff at the front.

He was all I could see, and I smiled so wide my face hurt when he sang happy birthday along with everyone else, staring straight into my eyes.

---