We’ve done it before. Kittens, puppies, injured animals. Once a baby squirrel. He finishes making the sandwich—two, really—handing me one.
“Thank you.”
He takes a bite, chews and then swallows. “Do you think he knew to check any discarded boxes or crates by the fence?”
I lower my sandwich. “What are you saying?”
He shrugs. “Me, you, and Sherilyn know that people dump unwanted pets out by the fence. They think they’re doing the right thing, even though half of them wander off or worse before we find them. I doubt he knew to check.”
It’s rational and reasonable, but it doesn’t take away the fact Griffin has been convinced of animal mistreatment. It’s something I can’t forgive, even if he did help me out the night before. That wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. It was out of desperation of needing my signature on that sheet of paper.
Nothing more.
11
Griffin
Group is held in the living room—the formal one near the front of the house. Despite the high ceilings, the room feels tight with five guys in the room. Felix leads the session. I guess Gabrielle is off the hook due to all the testosterone.
It’s not my first time in therapy—I’d had plenty after my parents died. It was mostly enforced by the school or my coaches. James didn’t care much. As long as I was out of the house or helping him with whatever scam he’d come up with, he didn’t pay much attention to what I did.
I spent most of my days on the ballfield, anything to stay away from the dingy apartment. He’d shown up after the funeral—my father’s younger brother and only living family member—and took me in. The inheritance money went quick; paying off debts and for the funerals. The little bit left was gone fast. Fortunately, by sixteen my scholarship was locked in. My coach helped me stay on track, handling applications and training. James wanted me to go straight to the Majors, but I’d signed a commitment letter, something he’d thought was foolish. What if I got hurt before I made my millions? My parents wanted me to go to college and get an education. I wanted to fulfill that.
Except that’s not what happened.
“I rebuilt an engine today. ’72 Camaro.”
I tune back into the conversation. Hayden, a wiry kid with a mop of curly hair, sits next to me. He’s been assigned to work at a garage after a series of car-related crimes.
“How did it feel to build something instead of take it apart?”
“Good,” he replies, looking down at his hands. “Better than I anticipated.”
The guys talk more than I expect them to; Mike with his short, cropped hair, looking like he just got out of basic training. Joseph, with a long, dark ponytail, is his roommate and they sit next to one another on the couch. Lane, my roommate, sits across from me in a matching floral print arm chair. Everyone here has done something stupid. Vandalizing, breaking and entering, drag racing, street fights. We’re all too old for this kind of thing. It’s a little embarrassing. When they found out I stole and flipped dogs, they definitely ribbed me about it.
“Tells us about Maverick Farms,” Felix says, shifting his and everyone else’s attention on me. He’s sitting in a hardbacked chair brought in from the dining room.
“Well,” I say, stretching out my legs, “there’s a lot of dog and cat cra—”
“Besides that,” Felix says, giving me a look.
I shrug. “It’s okay. I’ve never been around animals like that—you know, farm animals.”
Mike frowns. “What kind of animals?”
“There’s a few horses and two donkeys. A pig.”
“A big pig or one of those tiny, cute ones?” Lane asks.
I think of Hamilton and his pink and gray mottled skin and the thin wispy hair that covers his expansive body. “He’s not tiny. Or cute.”
Although I suspect Maverick would think differently.
“How is it going with the staff?” Felix asks, taking a few notes.
“It’s owned by a brother and sister. The guy, Paul, is cool enough. The girl, Maverick—”
“Her name is Maverick?” Lane asks, eyebrow shooting up.
I shake my head. “She’s a piece of work.”
“How so?” Felix asks. These questions make me feel uncomfortable. I’m not used to sharing personal details about myself with people, but I know this is part of the deal with the program.
I suck it up and answer, “She’s really into the animals. Like, kind of intense. She thinks I’m a monster.”
“You steal dogs, man,” Hayden mutters, “that’s a pretty terrible thing to do.”
“What? And you stealing cars isn’t terrible?” I’d heard him talk about the chop-shop he used to work with. He had quite the business before Judge Johnson sent him here.
“Yeah, stealing is wrong all around, but there’s an emotional connection with an animal,” he says, jaw clenching. I see the tattoo on the back of his neck. “I had a dog. I’d lose my mind if someone stole it and sold it for profit.”
“More than a car.”
“Cars are replaceable.”
I glance around the room, at the guys, they all give me the same look of disgust. Felix watches me closely.
“What do you think is the biggest issue between you and Mave?” he asks.
I run down her list of complaints, but the look in her eye today when she asked me why I didn’t check the box by the gate stands out the most.
I swallow thickly. “She doesn’t trust me.”
His eyebrow raises. “If you want to change the dynamic with her, then that sounds like a good place to start.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way—changing the dynamic. I’d spent my life at odds with people and walking away when things became difficult. Change was for other people, not something I considered for myself.
I stay seated after the other guys leave the room, thinking about it, about Maverick, about what brought me to this place in life. A few things—no, people—come to mind and I consider that none of them made a change for me.
Why should I do it for someone else?
12
Mave
The cup of coffee slides in front of me, but I’m too tired to pick it up. I’m also trapped by a pile of finally sleeping puppies.
They’d cried all night.
“I told you to wake me up,” Paul said, when he found me that morning lying on the couch.
“I figured one of us getting a good night's sleep is better than nothing.”
He’d shaken his head, grabbed his smoothie and headed out the door. I haven’t seen him since.
“You should go take a nap,” Sherilyn says now, standing over me.
“If you want me to take a nap, why are you giving me coffee? You’re really sending mixed messages.”
She glares at me and snatches the cup back.
“Hey! I was going to drink that.”
“Go to bed, Mave, we can handle it.”
“There’s too much to do.” The puppies, the rest of the farm, the open house. Everything always happens at once.
“At least go get some fresh air. Lolly could use a walk.”
“Fine,” I grumble, easing the puppies off my lap and into the box with the heating pad. “They’ll need to eat in an hour.”
“I can handle that.”
I know she can. I just worry about all the animals and feel a deep obligation to take care of them all. Not all Frayer women abandon their kids.
I get off the couch and grab my jacket. Lolly, as always, follows a few feet away. I step outside and fresh air slaps me in the face, waking me up a little.
We head away from the barn and kennel, down a path that leads to one of the pastures. Lolly manages fine on her three legs, I just have to take it a little slower. We’re making our way across the field when something zooms by my head; a second later, Dawson, the Border Collie runs past us. Lolly takes off after him.
“Dawson! Lolly!” I shout. Dawson shouldn’t be out in the pasture. Did he
get out? My mind instantly goes to Griffin. Did he not secure the pen?
Dawson races to the end of the field, stopping to scoop something in his mouth, then makes a wide arc headed back this way. Lolly barks and jumps behind him, joining in a chase she’ll never win.
“Dawson, come here!” I call. The dog spots me and runs my direction. As he gets closer I see a red ball in his mouth.
Is that what flew by my head?
“Drop it,” I say, and he obediently leaves the slobbery ball by my feet. “Good boy.”
“Oh man, I thought for a second I hit you,” a voice says, and I look up to see Griffin jogging our way. He’s wearing a tight-fitting baseball shirt, with red sleeves. He looks me over, seeming relieved that I’m okay.
“What are you doing?” I ask. I’d given him a list of jobs. This wasn’t one of them.
“Dawson had a lot of energy. I figured he could use a game of fetch.” He picks up the ball. “Is that not okay?”
“It’s fine,” I concede, surprised he’s taken an interest in one of the dogs. It makes my suspicions rise. “He loves playing catch.”
“I saw that on the card by his crate. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s throw a ball.”
I bite my tongue, instantly wanting to ask him about his baseball career—or at least about the sudden end of it.
“How are the puppies?” he asks.
“They’re good.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t think to check to see if there was anything in the box.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just get frustrated sometimes—not at you,” I clarify, although that’s not exactly true, “but at people being so careless.”
“It’s understandable. You put a lot of work into this place, all they had to do was call and I’m sure you would’ve taken them in.”
I look up at him, seeing him in a slightly different light. Knowing more about his past helps—sort of. There are missing parts. Why did he drop out of school? What happened to his dreams? How did he end up flipping dogs?
My phone vibrates, cutting into those thoughts.
AR: Injured Pit. Looks like from a fight.
A photo follows of a badly mangled leg.
Mav: Where is he?
AR: I’ve got an address, that’s all.
Mav: Animal Control?
AR: They’ll put him down.
I frown. If they hear the dog was hurt in a fight, they’ll assume the dog, a pitbull, started it. No questions will be asked, based on the breed alone.
Mav: Send me the address.
AR: Got it
A second later the address pops up.
Griffin is in the process of throwing the ball; his arm reared back, revealing the round curve of his bicep. Dawson and Lolly dance at his feet. He releases the ball in a long, smooth arc. Both dogs take off running.
He glances at me. “Everything okay?”
“Just a text.”
A line creases between his eyes. “Not another dog fight.”
“No,” I say, watching the dogs run back. “An injured dog. One that was in a fight and needs help.”
“Oh.” He reaches down and wrestles the ball from Dawson. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He hands me the ball and I toss it into the field. The throw is pathetic. A ghost of a smile tugs at Griffin’s lips, but keeps his mouth shut.
“You probably need to get back to work and I need to go check on the puppies.”
“Yeah, sure.” He calls Dawson and he and Lolly follow him through the gate.
I fight a yawn. Sherilyn is right. I need a nap. And to save a dog. And, I think, watching him walk toward the kennel, I need to find out more about Griffin McGuire.
“Remember,” Sherilyn says, “she needs two drops of this medicine in the morning. She can’t go outside and needs regular checkups.”
Gracie, the large orange striped cat, happily sits in the arms of her new owner. “She likes to snuggle and play with her toy mouse. I put it in the bag of supplies.”
“We have some toys for her at home, too.” The woman grins. “Thank you for letting us have her.”
“She’s a great cat—just with a few health problems that made her harder to home.” I scratch Gracie’s head and say, “Good luck, sweet girl, I’ll miss you.”
The truth is, I will miss her. I get attached to all the animals, even though I learned a long time ago that I can’t keep them all. My grandmother, also named Maverick, is the one that instilled the deep love of animals in me and my brother. I have no doubt that the first kittens and puppies Gran and Pop Pop fostered were to distract us about Mom and the fact she wasn’t coming back. They wanted us to know there was still room to love in our hearts.
Sherilyn puts Gracie in the cat carrier and they walk outside to the car. I go check on the puppies, who are snuggled together in a pile on the heating pad, recently fed and sound asleep.
There is always something to do here. Something that needs to be cleaned, an animal that needs to be fed, but I get the same sense of loss every time one of our long-term rescues leave.
There’s one thing that will make it better.
I walk back to the office and grab my bag and keys. I pass Sherilyn on the porch.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“To run a few errands. If I’m not back when you leave, will you have Max check on the pups?”
“Sure.” She studies me. “Are you okay?”
“You know how I get when a foster leaves. I just need a break.”
She pats me on the arm sympathetically. “Take your time.”
I walk down the driveway to my truck, stopping short when I see Paul and Griffin tossing a bunch of trash in the back.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking between the two.
“Griff helped me get that old coop torn down. We were about to head down to the dump to get rid of it.”
“I need the truck.”
“You can’t take the other one?”
We have two trucks; one is this big one, with a wide back set. The other is a smaller two-seater.
“I’m just about out of gas and I need to drive into Watkinsville.”
Paul scratches his neck while Griffin shoves his hands in his pockets, not saying a word. An idea blooms in my mind.
“The dump is out that direction anyway, right?”
“Yeah,” Paul says.
“Maybe Griffin can come with me—unload the truck, then go with me while I run my errands.”
The look my brother gives me is one of confusion. It’s understandable, I’m willingly offering to go somewhere with Griffin.
“Why don’t I go with you?” The instant Paul says it, he clamps his mouth shut. Yeah no. Griffin can’t stay at the farm alone. No one trusts him that much.
“I’ll go,” Griffin says, cutting the tension that is obviously about him. He doesn’t wait, opening the passenger side door and getting in.
Paul raises his eyebrows. “You really okay with this?”
“It’s fine. One of us needs to be here and with Gracie leaving, I need a minute off the farm.”
“Promise me that you won’t kill him and dispose of his body in the dump,” he says quietly.
I laugh. “I promise.”
Before I walk away, my brother pulls me into a bear hug, squeezing me so tight I feel like he might crush my organs.
“Be good,” he says, offering the sage advice Pop Pop gave us every time we left the house.
“Always,” I reply, and we both laugh, knowing that’s a lie. Neither of us were bad kids, but we were normal kids. “Good” was relative.
I open the truck door and climb in the cab, instantly getting hit by Griffin’s warm, slightly intoxicating scent. I crank the engine and letting the AC pour through the vents. I need some fresh air.
Neither of us speak until we’re through the front gate. That’s when Griffin looks over at me and asks, “We�
�re going to get that dog, aren’t we?”
I pull out my phone, queue up the directions, and hand over the device so he can navigate.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling out of the driveway. “That’s exactly what we’re doing.”
13
Griffin
Maverick is quiet as she heads down the rural backroad, only the radio filling the small space of the truck cab. It’s tuned to classic rock and Led Zeppelin is crooning in the background, making me think of late nights after baseball games in high school.
I try not to look at the woman next to me, but it’s hard not to. Despite the fact she dresses like a ranch hand and drives the big truck like a pro, her femininity isn’t diminished. It’s probably her long, graceful neck or the way tiny silver hoops hang from her earlobes. It’s definitely the way she smells. Soft, fresh, flowery.
“How did you get into all this?” I ask, during a break in the music. “Animal rescue, in general.”
She glances my way, loose strands of her dark hair blowing from the cracked window.
“We don’t have to talk. I’m okay with that.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m sure you are, but humor me, how did you build this farm? It’s pretty impressive.”
Her blue eyes hold mine for a beat, like she’s trying to decide if I’m worthy of her time. I’m probably not.
“It was my grandparents' property. It was never much of a traditional farm—just a few cows and chickens, but when Paul and I moved in, they started rescuing animals. Kittens mostly. A few dogs.”
“You grew up there?” Is she an orphan, I want to ask, like me?
“They took us in full time when Paul was nine and I was six. Our mom…” Her hands grip the steering wheel. “She couldn’t handle it.”
“Handle what?”
“Being a mom.”
“Oh.” So not an orphan. Or not one, exactly. “That sucks.”
“Kind of, but living with Gran and Pop Pop wasn’t bad. They took care of us. Gran was an amazing cook. Pop Pop taught us everything we know about using tools and building stuff.” She looks over at me, eyes soft. “And yeah, they taught us to love animals.”
Rescuing the Bad Boy: Bad Boy Sweet Romance (Last Chance at Love Book 1) Page 5