On Her Side

by Beth Andrews

  She’d make sure of it.

  “You need to talk to his son again,” Nora said. “Make him tell you where Dale is.”

  Layne gave her a look of exasperation mixed with indulgence. As if Nora was a precocious seven-year-old instead of an intelligent adult with a damn good suggestion. “Ross has already questioned Griffin and his mother and I spoke with Griffin about it when I ran into him a few weeks ago. Neither one of them have heard from Dale since he left town.”

  “So they claim.” But what if they were lying?

  Layne crossed her ankles and leaned back against the large, granite-topped center island, one of the few changes she’d made to their childhood home after she’d bought it from their father five years ago. “What would you have me do? Get out my rubber hose and beat the information out of them?”

  “Maybe you haven’t asked in the right way,” Nora said.

  “I asked in the only way I know how and it didn’t work so don’t think you’d have better luck.”

  Nora widened her eyes. “Did I say anything about my speaking to either of them?”

  “You didn’t have to.” This from Tori. “It’s written all over your face.”

  Nora started to lift a hand as if to wipe her expression clean but then slowly lowered it. Sent a bright smile at her gorgeous, overbearing, irritating sisters. “Now you’re both just being paranoid.”

  Layne and Tori exchanged a long look. Nora hated when they did that. It was as if despite their many, many differences, they still had the ability to read the other’s mind. “Stay out of it,” Layne told her.

  “More importantly,” Tori added, “stay away from Griffin York. He is nothing but bad news. Do you understand?”

  “First of all,” Nora said as she rose and began clearing the table, her movements fluid despite the anger starting to sizzle in her veins, “save that mother tone for Brandon. I’m way past the age where it’ll work on me.” Not that it had worked on her twelve-year-old nephew lately, either. He was still mighty pissed at Tori for divorcing his father over six months earlier. “Secondly, what on earth gave you the crazy idea that I planned on speaking with Griffin York?”

  “Because you always think you can succeed where mere mortals have failed,” Layne said.

  Tori nodded. “Because you fully believe you can charm what you want out of anyone.”

  Since both of those statements were true, Nora did her best to project sweetness and light and innocence. “I’m flattered you two think so highly of me. But honestly, you don’t have to worry.”

  “Just promise us you won’t do anything stupid,” Layne said, watching her carefully.

  Nora laid a hand over her heart. “I promise.”

  An easy enough vow to make. She didn’t do stupid. But she did do whatever she had to in order to get her own way. If that meant facing down big, bad Griffin York, then so be it.

  * * *

  GRIFFIN CLIMBED DOWN from the tow truck and reached back inside for a copy of the day’s Mystic Point Chronicle. Tucking it under his arm, he grabbed his cup of take-out coffee and sipped it as he shut the door. The cool, early morning breeze ruffled his hair, brought with it the briny scent of the ocean as he walked toward the garage.

  Though the tow truck and building both carried the name Eddie’s Service, they—along with the quarter acre lot they sat on, the tools and equipment inside the garage and the monthly small business loan payment—were his. All his.

  It gave him a jolt, as it always did, to see it. To realize what he’d accomplished with little more than a high school diploma and a talent for taking cars apart. An even bigger talent for putting them back together again.

  Surprise and pride mixed together to make that bump in his belly, along with a hefty dose of pure satisfaction that his father had been wrong.

  He wasn’t worthless.

  Which was a hell of a lot more than he could say for Dale York.

  More than that, Griffin had made a place for himself in this small town despite his last name and his father’s reputation. Now, for good or bad, he was a part of Mystic Point. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was accepted there, that he belonged.

  Didn’t mean he wanted to be either of those things.

  Typing in the code on the security system’s keypad, he waited while the bay door rose. Across the street, the Pizza Junction, a long building with a flat roof, was dark, the sign reading Sorry, We’re Closed hanging at an angle on the glass door. Next to it, the pounding beat of some synthesized dance tune threatened to shatter the windows of Leonard’s Fitness. Why people needed Marty Leonard, with his overdeveloped muscles and penchant for tight, bright running shorts—short running shorts—to tell them how to exercise and what they could and couldn’t eat, was beyond Griffin. Then again, he’d never been much of a joiner.

  Or one to take orders well.

  Inside the garage, he flipped on the overhead lights before turning on the iPod in a docking station in the corner. Aerosmith’s “Deuces Are Wild” floated through the sound system he’d rigged throughout the building so that when he stepped into his office, Steven Tyler’s voice met him.

  Tossing the paper aside, he sat behind his cluttered desk and did a quick check of the day’s work schedule: four oil changes and two inspections this morning, plus Kelly Edel was to bring her Expedition in for new tires. That afternoon he’d work on Roy Malone’s ancient Chevy’s transmission and, if that alternator cap he’d ordered last week came in, he’d be able to get George Waid’s precious Trans Am finished.

  He stretched his arms overhead then picked up his coffee, took a sip. Not a bad workload for a Monday. Barring any unforeseen emergencies, mishaps or time sucks, he’d start his week on schedule and be out of here today by five.

  One corner of his mouth lifted. His days never went according to plan. There were always flat tires, fender benders, overheated engines or breakdowns to deal with. Hell, some days he dealt with all of them and then some.

  He loved every minute of it.

  He ran a successful business. One that had far exceeded the expectations he’d had when he’d bought out Eddie Franks five years ago. He knew what people thought when they saw him. That he was trouble. Dangerous. Like his old man.

  He’d gotten tired of trying to prove them wrong. Had long ago stopped caring what other people thought.

  So he’d kept to himself, kept his head down and worked his ass off. Now they brought their vehicles to him because they trusted him to keep their minivans and SUVs and pickups and sedans running safely. And they came back because he was damn good at his job.

  That was enough for him.

  He heard a car pull into the lot. Frowning, he checked the Kendall Motor Oil clock on the wall. Kelly was early, he thought as a car door slammed shut. No skin off his nose—unless she expected him to fit her in earlier than scheduled.

  But when he stepped out into the garage, it wasn’t a middle-aged, overweight mother of two walking toward him.

  It was a blonde. A young blonde in a light purple dress that wrapped around her waist in a wide band, the skirt flaring out slightly and ending above her knees. Her legs were bare, her feet encased in a pair of pointy toed high heels the color of sand. She’d pulled her hair back into some sort of twist, showing off a delicate neck and a pair of diamonds glittering at her ears.

  He narrowed his eyes. There was something…familiar…about her. Something more than his seeing her around town—though in a town
the size of Mystic Point most everyone looked familiar.

  But then it clicked and he realized who she was. And he could make a damn good guess why she’d come.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” he asked softly as she stepped inside. “A Sullivan in my shop. Has hell frozen over? Or is it just the end of the world as I know it?”

  Instead of scowling—the reaction he’d expect from a Sullivan—the blonde blushed, pink spreading from the small V of skin visible at her chest, up her throat to her face. But her eyes stayed on his and she even smiled as she approached him.

  “Griffin York, right?” she asked, holding her hand out. “Hi. I’m—”

  “I know who you are.” His coffee in one hand, he shoved the other into the pocket of his jeans. After a moment, she slowly lowered her arm. He raked his gaze over her. She was pretty—in an angelic sort of way. He’d never been much for angels. Or Sullivans. “You’re Layne and Tori’s sister.”

  Her megawatt smile dimmed a fraction. “Actually I usually go by Nora. Seems easier for people to say.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “You having car trouble?”

  She blinked. “What? Oh, no. No,” she repeated, holding on to the strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, “my car’s fine. I—”

  “Then I guess there’s no reason for you to be here.” He nodded toward the parking lot where her silver Lexus blocked the entrance to his garage. “See you later, Nancy.”

  “Really? That’s the best you can do?”

  “Not sure what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re trying to prove to me that I’m so unimportant, you can’t even be bothered to remember my name.” That damn smile was back to full power, as if he amused her to no end. “Aren’t you clever to target my tender feelings that way? Is this the point where I’m supposed to take my broken heart and scurry away?”

  Studying her over the rim of his cup, he sipped his coffee. “That sounds about right.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, and he wondered how she managed to convey such sincerity when she sounded as far from sorry as humanly possible. Must be that face of hers. Someone who looked like she kept a spare halo in her pocket could get away with quite a few sins before anyone realized she was like every other poor slob walking the earth.

  Flawed, untrustworthy and only out for herself.

  “I’m not ready to leave yet,” she continued. “I was hoping I could talk to you about your father.”

  He figured that’s why she’d come, but hearing her say it still gave him a twinge of guilt, of nerves, both of which pissed him off. He wouldn’t be held accountable for his father’s mistakes or his crimes. Wouldn’t feel responsible for them.

  “You don’t always get what you want,” he said smoothly, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the faded scar under his jaw. “That was one lesson the old man taught real well.”

  Tossing his coffee cup into the trash, he walked over to the car on the lift, his stride unhurried, his movements easy as he opened the driver side door. But when he reached inside, he gripped the keys tightly, cranking them so hard the engine whined in protest.

  The back of his neck heated. He gave the steering wheel a sharp rap with the side of his fist. Damn it. Damn her. This was his place. She had no right to waltz in here, looking all untouchable and superior, and bring up his bastard of a father.

  Ducking back out of the car, Griffin walked to the shelves along the far wall without so much as a glance to see if she’d left or not. He took down a funnel and tossed it on the rolling cart next to the plastic jug he used to store old oil.

  Blondie couldn’t change the rules because she had a bug up her ass about something. He never set foot in the Ludlow Street Café, the restaurant her father’s live-in girlfriend owned, where her sister Tori worked. Even back in school when he and Tori were in the same grade, Layne two years ahead of them, he’d kept to himself. He never, ever, stepped over the invisible line that had kept the Yorks and the Sullivans separated for the past eighteen years. Pretending the other family didn’t exist—let alone that they lived in the same town—had worked pretty damn well for both the Sullivans and him and his mom.

  Had worked until Valerie Sullivan’s remains were found outside the old quarry, proving she hadn’t taken off with his father like everyone in town had believed. Bringing up the very real possibility that his father had killed his lover before he’d left Mystic Point.

  And just like that, Griffin and his mother had been yanked back into the past. The police chief had wanted to know if they’d heard from Dale, if they had any idea where he was, how he could be reached. They hadn’t and they didn’t, but that didn’t stop the rumors from flying. Wouldn’t stop people from remembering that his mother had once been married to the man suspected of Valerie’s murder. Reminding them all that Griffin was his son.

  “I spoke with my sister yesterday,” the youngest Sullivan said, standing in the middle of his garage as if nothing short of a dynamite blast would move her. Which he was starting to seriously consider. “The assistant police chief?”

  He shut off the car and slammed the door shut. “Not interested.”

  “Layne said you claim not to know where your father is,” she continued as if Griffin’s words had floated in one ear and out the other without meeting so much as one working brain cell as resistance. “Is that true?”

  “I thought you were the smart Sullivan sister,” he said, pressing the button to raise the car on the lift.

  She crossed her arms, for the first time looking uncomfortable—and wasn’t that interesting? “I don’t see what my IQ has to do with—”

  “But in case you’re not as bright as they say, let me make myself very clear.” He tapped his fist against his thigh as he closed the distance between them, stopping in front of her. Though she wore two-inch heels—and he topped off at five-ten—she still had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “I’ve already been questioned by the cops. And no matter how many times you or your sister—the assistant police chief—ask me, the answers aren’t going to change.”

  “But you—”

  “So unless you’re having car problems—and are prepared to pay me to fix those problems—there’s really no reason for you to be here. And nothing for us to talk about.”

  Inhaling deeply, she sent a beseeching glance at the ceiling, as if asking the heavens from whence she came to grant her patience. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

  “Do you?” he murmured, figuring only an idiot would miss the calculation in her blue eyes. And the intelligence behind them.

  He’d been called many things in his life, but never an idiot.

  “How about we start over?” she asked, holding out her hand again. “Hi, Griffin, I’m Nora. It’s nice to meet you.”

  For a moment, he almost believed she was as innocent and harmless as she looked with her perfect face, guileless charm and dry sense of humor.

  She was good, he’d give her that. Damn good.

  He enveloped her warm hand in his, noting the relief, the triumph that crossed her expression. But when he held on past what was considered the polite amount of time for a simple handshake, that relief turned to unease. The triumph to confusion. He felt no small amount of satisfaction from that unease. And he had no problem using it against her.

  “How about this?” he asked quietly, tugging her toward him until she was so close he could smell her light, clean scent. Could hear the soft c
atch of her breath. Her throat worked, her eyes widened as they met his. “You walk yourself out of my garage, get into your car and drive off my property. Or—”

  “Or what?” she asked, yanking free of his hold, her face flush. “You’ll toss me over your shoulder, throw me into my trunk, hook my car to your tow truck and drag me out of here?”

  He could easily imagine himself doing the first and wished he could figure out a way to make the second idea work without going to jail for it. “Not that I have anything against those suggestions, but no. I won’t do anything.”

  She smirked, reminding him of how Layne had looked a few weeks back when she’d tried to arrest him for the dubious crime of being Dale York’s son. “That’s what I thought.”

  No, she thought she had him firmly by the balls. And all she had to do to keep him in line was squeeze.

  “I won’t do anything,” he repeated. “I’ll let the Mystic Point Police Department do it for me.”

  She blinked. Then she laughed. Bright, tinkling laughter that filled the cavernous space of the garage and seemed to echo back at him.

  He was in hell.

  “Keep that sense of humor,” he said. “It’ll come in handy when they take your mug shot.”

  “Come on,” she said as if inviting him to share in the joke. “You’re not going to call the police.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Why would you? It’s not like you and the Mystic Point PD have a strong relationship based on mutual trust and admiration.”

  Because he was Dale York’s son. Because he’d been a wild and rebellious kid and was an adult who didn’t take shit or back down from anyone.

  “I’m a tax paying, law-abiding citizen,” he pointed out, not getting so much as a parking ticket since he turned eighteen and realized he’d be following his old man’s footsteps straight to prison if he didn’t keep his nose clean. Watching her, he took out his cell phone. “Make sure to duck when they put you in the back of the squad car. Wouldn’t want to hit your head and mess up that fancy hairdo.”