by Beth Andrews
But Griffin had spent too many years solving his problems with violence, lashing out instead of walking away. He’d spent too many years acting like his father.
This time, he’d do the right thing.
Unable to look at Dale another second, to trust himself not to undo all his good intentions, Griffin brushed past his father.
“Don’t you walk away from me, boy,” Dale said, all false congeniality and humor gone. He seized Griffin’s shoulder and whirled him around, curled his fingers into Griffin’s shirt and shook him once, his face close enough that Griffin could smell the alcohol already on Dale’s breath. See the rage in his eyes. “You think you’re better than me because you run some dive garage? You always thought you were special, but look at you. You’ve always been worthless and you always will be.”
Griffin knocked Dale’s hand away, causing his old man to stumble back a step.
“Don’t you ever talk to him like that.”
Oh, shit. He turned as Nora, in all her huffed up glory, stalked toward them, her hair flying as she wound her way past tables of avid spectators. He’d been so focused on Dale, he hadn’t realized so many people were watching them. That Nora had moved closer, close enough to overhear his father.
Standing off to the side, Tori watched her sister worriedly, her cell phone pressed to her ear.
Nora surged up to them as if riding a wave of scorn. Faced his father. “Griffin’s twice the man you’ll ever be.”
Dale smiled, slow and easy, and slid his gaze over her, from the top of her hair to the tips of her toes. “You want to see what a real man’s like, baby girl?” he asked in a slick tone that made Griffin’s stomach cramp. He winked. “You come and see me.”
“You bast—”
“Nora,” Griffin said quietly.
She turned to him, her hair fanning out around her face, color staining her cheeks, her eyes flashing. She was like some bright, shining light, his very own avenging angel. She was beautiful.
Beautiful and fierce and smart and way too good to be coming to the rescue of the likes of someone like him.
“Leave it alone,” he told her, holding her gaze. “It’s not worth it.”
He wasn’t worth it.
“Come on,” Tori said, taking a hold of Nora’s arm. She watched Dale warily. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You have the look of your mother, don’t you?” he asked Tori in an appreciative murmur as he blocked their escape, trapping her between him and a table. “I wonder if you do anything else like Val.”
Both women blanched but Nora recovered first. “We’re leaving,” she told him. “Move.”
“What’s your hurry? Let me buy you two lovely ladies a drink. We can get to know each other.”
Nora lifted her chin. “Go to hell.” But her voice shook. Worse, under all that righteous anger, she looked scared.
His stomach churned. He wanted to yank her away from his father, wrap her in his arms and whisk her away. Keep her safe. Mostly he wanted to unleash a world of hurt on Dale. Knock his teeth down his throat.
He didn’t move. He didn’t look out for anyone other than himself. Not anymore. He didn’t lose control. Wouldn’t stoop to his old man’s level. He couldn’t. He was afraid that if he did, it would prove what everyone already believed, what he had always fears.
That he really was just like his father.
“You’re way too pretty to be acting so ugly,” Dale told Nora.
Then he reached out and trailed his fingers down her cheek.
* * *
NORA SHRANK BACK, her skin crawled. Time seemed to slow. She heard her own heavy breathing, felt the coldness of Dale’s fingers on her cheek. Then the seconds sped up and her revulsion morphed into sudden, blinding fury. How dare he touch her?
Jerking back, she raised her arm to slap his hand away. And was pushed aside when Griffin, with a low, vicious growl, leaped forward and punched Dale in the face.
Dale twisted away at the last second, probably saving himself a broken nose. Griffin’s fist connected with Dale’s cheek and he stumbled. Shook his head. And when he lifted his face, his grin promised retribution, brutality and a certain amount of glee at the possibility of the first two.
“Whoa,” Tori said, snatching Nora by the back of her shirt when she moved to jump into the fray. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He needs me,” she said, unable to take her eyes off the men. Dale smashed his fist into Griffin’s face. She cringed.
“Don’t even think about it,” Tori warned harshly, wrapping the fabric of Nora’s shirt around her fist. “You could get hurt.”
“He’s getting hurt,” she cried, biting her lower lip as Dale landed another punch, this one to Griffin’s midsection.
He was getting hurt because of her. For her.
“He should’ve thought of that before he started a fight.” Tori tugged her to the side as a jostling, shouting crowd gathered around the grappling men.
Nora wanted to argue. Wanted to rail at her sister but she couldn’t do anything but watch as Dale and Griffin tried to kill each other with their bare hands. Despite the age difference, they were evenly matched. Too evenly matched to Nora’s way of thinking.
Punches were thrown, connected with flesh and bone. Grunts and swear words and the scent of blood filled the air. Men yelled encouragement, women screeched or hurried out the door. Sarah rushed out from behind the bar, a baseball bat in her hand, watched the battle as if waiting for the right time to get in there and start swinging.
Nora’s palms grew damp, her head light. This wasn’t anything like the fights she’d seen in movies and on TV. There were no witty one-liners, no acrobatics. It was dirty and physical and scarier than she would have ever imagined. Violent and all too real. She wanted to cover her ears, to turn away, but she couldn’t. She forced herself to watch, her breath catching at every blow that landed on Griffin, her knees trembling.
Someone shoved their way through the crowd and Nora caught the familiar sight of a dark blue uniform.
Thank God, the cops were there.
And then Layne stepped into view, her gaze somehow zeroing in on her and Tori. Though it was the briefest of glances, Nora could easily read her sister’s mind. It said: you two are so going to feel the tip of my boot on your asses when I’m done here.
“Let’s get some lights on,” Layne barked at Sarah as she and Officer Evan Campbell approached the fighters.
“You two,” Layne yelled, “break it up.”
When Layne’s demand was met with Griffin landing a right jab to his father’s chin, Evan attempted to subdue Dale by capturing his arms behind him. Dale responded with an elbow to the side of the younger officer’s head, knocking him to the ground.
“Why isn’t Layne doing something?” Nora asked worriedly. Great, she’d been reduced to the role of hysterical woman spectator. Soon she’d be wringing her hands and tearing out her hair.
“What do you suggest?” Tori asked, looking as calm as you please. As if this wasn’t the first time men had come to fisticuffs in her presence. Then again, it probably wasn’t. “Take out her gun and shoot one of them?”
Nora glanced around frantically for a weapon—a chair she could lift and swing or a bottle of wine—anything to stop the fight. To help Griffin.
Spying what she needed on the next table, she lunged for it.
“That’s our beer,” one of the guys standing on a chair watching the fight
said as she picked up the pitcher.
“Next round is on me,” she promised.
Then she whirled around and tossed the contents of the pitcher at the fighters.
Too bad she did it as Layne joined the fray.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Layne roared, holding her hands away from her beer soaked uniform top as the men continued to fight.
Nora swung the empty pitcher behind her back. “I was just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t.” Layne reached for Dale but he roared like a bear, throwing his hands up, knocking Layne back two steps. “Damn it,” she snapped, her hand going to her gun belt. “Don’t make me use this.”
Dale lowered his head and barreled toward Layne. Griffin, bloodied and bruised and dripping with beer, stepped in front of her to intercept him.
Layne shoved Griffin aside, whipped out her Taser and electrified Dale’s ass.
He jerked. Convulsed. Then his eyes rolled back and his knees gave way. He slumped to the floor, his body seizing, his mouth hanging open.
“I have got to get one of those things,” Tori said in such awe, Nora couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not.
Griffin, hair wet and clinging to the side of his neck, beer dripping down the harsh lines of his face, swayed then steadied himself by holding on to the back of a chair. His left eye was already turning an interesting shade of purple, the side of his lip was cut and he had a nasty gash on his forehead. He gingerly touched his fingertips to the laceration above his eye and flinched.
Wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at Tori, then Layne, then Nora.
“God save me from the Sullivan women,” he muttered.
* * *
GRIFFIN STEPPED OUT into the cool, misting rain. Tipped his face up to it, ignoring the sting as it hit his cuts.
“Is that really necessary?” Nora asked.
Layne, her fingers digging into Griffin’s forearm, strode across the parking lot, dragging him with her. “Just following protocol.”
“At least uncuff him,” Nora said, scurrying after them as fast as her heels and those tight jeans would let her.
“Sorry,” Layne said, sounding as if she really meant it. “But no can do.” She opened the back of her patrol car. “I’m sure you remember the drill,” she continued, “but watch your head. It’s easier if you sit then swing your legs in.”
Griffin sighed. The cut on his lip stung like a son of a bitch, his knuckles ached, his shoulders were stiff from his hands being cuffed behind his back. And now, he was about to ride in the back of a patrol car for the first time in almost fifteen years.
Sometimes life sucked.
Nothing new there, he thought, taking a seat.
Despite the rain and the fact that he and his old man were now confined to separate vehicles, most of the bar’s patrons had gathered outside. The lights on the cop cars flashed, bouncing color against the aged siding of the bar. His father’s rants about suing the Mystic Point Police Department for unlawful use of force rang in the night air.
“This is a travesty of justice,” Nora insisted, looking all indignant and stubborn, her mouth set, her hair—that damn flowing hair—glistening with raindrops. “He needs medical treatment and you’re treating him like a common criminal.”
Layne kept the door open. He expected her to say he was a common criminal—like dear old dad—but she was playing this one pretty much by-the-book. Probably didn’t want to give him any means to have the charges against him thrown out before she got him to the jail for processing.
“From all witness accounts, Griffin started the fight,” she said, her tone reasonable and rational. The opposite of her emotionally charged younger sister. “What should I do? Give him a gold star?”
“He did not start that fight,” Nora said. He half expected her to add a good foot stomp for effect. “Okay, yes, he started it, but Dale antagonized him.”
He fidgeted. Felt like an idiot. Because his father hadn’t goaded him into that fight. He could’ve walked away at any time without regrets. Would have walked way.
If Dale hadn’t touched Nora.
“Unfortunately we can’t go around punching everyone who aggravates us,” Layne said, her stance one of confident law enforcer, her long legs braced, her hands loose at her sides. Rain dotted her uniform. Not that she could get much wetter, not after having a pitcher of beer tossed on her. They both smelled like a brewery and his shirt was sticking to his skin.
“Look,” she continued, “he admitted he threw the first punch. Plus, there’s a lot of damage to the bar, someone has to be held responsible for it.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Dale should be responsible.”
“He will be. He’ll be charged with resisting arrest and disorderly conduct.”
Nora edged closer to her sister. “Can’t you pull some strings and make this all go away? Please. For me?”
She was pleading with her sister. Proud, arrogant, justice first and foremost, Nora Sullivan was begging. For him.
“Sorry,” Layne said quietly, “but you know I can’t do that. Mr. York is coming with me.”
“Mr. York would love it if you two weren’t standing there discussing him,” he said harshly, hating that Nora had set aside her principles, that she’d lower herself to ask her sister for such a huge favor for his sake. “Could we go, Officer Sullivan?”
“It’s Assistant Chief Sullivan,” she said through barely moving lips. “Why the rush? In a hurry to get to jail?”
“In a hurry to get this whole shitty night over with,” he clarified.
Nora crossed her arms. “The least you could do is let him get medical treatment.”
“We’ll have someone check him out at the station.”
“He doesn’t look so bad to me,” Tori said as she joined them in a hip-swaying walk that had half the men’s tongues hanging out. She tipped her head to the side and studied him, then patted his shoulder once. “Don’t worry, you’re still all sorts of pretty and the ladies—and I use that term loosely—will fall all over themselves wanting to ease your aches and pains.”
“Shut it, Tori,” Nora snapped as she held her phone up to his face. She pressed a button and the flash went off.
Rearing back, he frowned, figured it looked damn intimidating given his current circumstances. “If that shows up on Facebook, I’m suing your ass for invasion of privacy.”
She seemed taken aback. “You’re on Facebook?”
“No. But it still better not end up there.”
“I wanted to get a picture of your injuries,” she said, checking the screen on her phone. Obviously satisfied, she tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans. “But at least it’s good to see you didn’t get that witty sense of humor beat out of you,” she said with a shaky smile that broke his heart.
“I didn’t get anything beat out of me,” he said, each painful breath reminding him he was a liar. “I took it easy on the old man.” Had been afraid if he’d let loose, he would’ve killed Dale.
He’d faced down Dale, and he while he wouldn’t say he won the battle, for the first time in his life, he’d held his own against his father.
“If you’d taken it any easier,” Tori put in helpfully, “you’d be in the hospital right now.”
“Tori,” Layne and Nora both said, their tones holding a warning.
She flipped her hair back. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”
“What did we tell you about thinking?” Layne said.
Tori’s eyes hardened but she batted her eyelashes. “Bite me.”
“I’m in hell,” Griffin murmured, shutting his eyes and leaning his head against the back of the seat. Every breath was painful; every word he spoke caused the cut on his mouth to reopen. Opening his eyes he glanced at the Sullivan sisters. “And you three are Satan’s little helpers.”
Tori’s lips twitched but Layne shot him a professional cop glare, all dead-eyed and pissed-off. “You do remember the part about remaining silent, right?”
Nora ducked her head back into the car, blocking his view of her sisters. “Don’t say anything to anyone. I’ll meet you at the police station.”
He struggled to a more upright position. “Wait…what?”
“Let me handle it,” she said, patting his shoulder much the same way her sister had done.
His mind was fuzzy. He blamed her. Her and her fresh scent that seemed to wrap around him, egg him on to breathe it in. Breathe her in. Finally her meaning dawned on him. “You’re not acting as my attorney.”
“I know I’m not acting as it. I am your attorney.”
“I didn’t hire you.” I don’t want you.
Didn’t want her involved in this mess. He cleaned up after himself.
She straightened, set her hands on her hips. “This isn’t the time to be all stubborn and stoic and badass. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re handcuffed in the back of a police car. And you’re not a kid anymore. These charges are more serious. You need an attorney and I’m here.”
He scowled but it had no effect on her. “No.”
“He’s right,” Layne said. “Let him call a lawyer once he gets to the station. You’re a witness to the event in question anyway. And it’s probably best if no other members of our family are involved—all things considered.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Nora tossed her hair back reminding him of how Tori had done the same thing when she’d walked into the bar. “I’m not leaving him to face this alone.”