by J. Kenner
“They don’t know about the scars. They just want to unmask my mysterious man.”
“Same difference as far as I’m concerned,” he said.
“I know.” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, she turned to look at him. His hands were tight on the wheel again, and he was focusing intently on the traffic. Too intently, it seemed. “Griff?”
He drew an audible breath, then spoke without looking at her. “There’s one place I never wear the hoodie or the gloves.” He turned to her. “That’s where I’m taking you.”
She started to ask where, but realized he would tell her when he was ready. So she simply nodded and sat in silence as he maneuvered past the University and then down Red River to Dell Seton Medical Center, Austin’s still-new teaching hospital.
He parked in a visitor slot, then raised a shoulder in a shrug. “We’re here.”
She followed him inside without question, unsure of where they were going until she saw the signs for the burn unit. “You volunteer here?”
“Sort of. I talk to the patients. I try to come regularly, and I always come when they call to tell me a kid’s been admitted.”
“I—” She broke off, unable to speak through the tears clogging her throat.
“It’s not hero shit. I just want them to know that they’ll find a way to survive even with the scars.”
She nodded, realizing as she did that he’d done that. Maybe she wished he were more open, more out there. But he’d done what he said—he’d found a way to survive. And he’d found a way to let her into his life. Which under the circumstances was pretty damn impressive.
They’d reached the double doors that led into the burn center, and he tugged off his hoodie, then pulled off his gloves, shoving them in his pocket. “Ready?” he asked, then pushed the intercom when she nodded.
A nurse responded, and as soon as he identified himself, the doors opened. Obviously, he’d meant what he said when he told her he came regularly.
“Just two on the floor today,” a nurse with a nametag identifying her as Angie said. “Jessie and an infant.”
“A baby.” The sadness and horror in his voice mirrored her own emotions.
“He’s stable, but in a sterile environment.”
“Parents here?”
“They were,” Angie said. “They’re in a consult with the surgical team right now.”
Griffin nodded. “Give them my number. Tell them they can call me if they have questions or just need to vent.” He glanced around. “Jessie awake?”
“She’s in the playroom.”
He gestured to Beverly and they started walking deeper into the unit. “This is a good day. I’ve never seen the unit with less than five patients, usually more.”
“Who’s Jessie?”
“She’s like me. Her body keeps rejecting the treatments. So she’s been in and out for months. She was trapped in a house fire. Arson. Her father. He’s in jail. Mom’s getting counseling. At first, Jessie was a wreck. Now she says the burns were the price of getting her and her mom free of the asshole. She’s fifteen, by the way. Older, though. The stuff she’s been through ages you.”
“I guess so.”
“This center only handles burns covering up to thirty percent of the body. More, and they get sent somewhere else, usually San Antonio. Jessie’s just under the limit. Her arm, the side of her face, part of her torso. She’s great. You’ll like her.”
They’d reached the playroom, a large, glassed-in open area with toys designed mostly for toddlers. There was an easel with a pad of large drawing paper, like the kind used in corporate meetings. A tall, slim girl stood there in hospital scrubs sketching, her dark curly hair pinned up—except for the red, raw area of her scalp where no hair grew.
From where she stood, Beverly could see the violent scarring on her neck that presumably descended beneath the scrub shirt. And when Griffin stepped into the room and she turned, Beverly had to force herself not to flinch in sympathy and sadness. The burns covered a pattern similar to Griffin’s, though more of Jessie’s mouth was impacted. A sad fact that affected her speech, Beverly realized, when the girl turned to Griffin and slurred her cry of, “You’re here!”
“Hey, Jess. I want you to meet my girlfriend, Beverly.”
Jess’s eyes went wide. “I know you! I saw you in Suburban Love Story. You’re amazing!”
Beverly laughed. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you to say.” She nodded at the drawing—a portrait of Jessie, but without the burns. “I’d say you’re pretty amazing, too. That’s an incredible drawing.”
“Too bad life really doesn’t imitate art, huh?”
“You’re still pretty, Jess,” Griffin said. “Don’t let it beat you down.”
She rolled her eyes. “Pretty on the inside, you mean.”
“And the outside. I mean, hell. Who decided what pretty was? I say we make up our own definition.”
Jess shot a glance toward Beverly. “He’s so freaking Pollyanna,” she said, and Beverly had to hold her tongue as she shot Griff a questioning look. He was saying to Jess the things she said to him.
Griffin, probably wisely, averted his eyes.
It quickly became clear that the two knew each other well and they caught up on the news of her treatments, her mother’s adjustment, and what was in store next. Soon Beverly joined in and they moved on to fashion and movies and boys.
“I got into the Devinger protocol,” Jessie said to Griffin after they’d been chatting for a while. “Thanks for writing the letter.”
“No problem. You need anything else?”
“Just luck. Another skin graft scheduled for tomorrow. They’re hoping it’ll take better. My boob,” she added to Beverly with an eyeball roll, and Beverly was once again amazed by the kid’s attitude.
“Sending you lots of that,” Beverly said. “I’m glad to have met you, Jessie.”
“Yeah, me too. And thanks in advance for the picture and the DVD. You won’t forget? And you’ll sign them?”
“I won’t forget,” she promised, then held her smile until they were out of the room and safely in the elevator.
Then she stopped fighting and let the tears flow. “She’s got such a great attitude,” she said, when she could force words past the lump in her throat.
“She does,” Griffin agreed. “Now, anyway. When I met her five months ago, she hardly talked.”
Beverly paused, staying on the elevator despite the now-open door. “That’s because of you. You told her all the right things.”
“I wanted to help.”
“You told her the truth, you know,” she said gently. “I mean, one day maybe you should take a mirror with you.”
“Beverly…”
She shrugged and said no more. But she’d planted the seed. Because deep inside, he obviously realized that the way to really move forward was to quit hiding. He just needed to practice what he preached.
“Any chance there’s ice cream in our future?” he asked. “There’s an Amy’s Ice Cream not too far away.”
“I’m always down for Mexican Vanilla,” she said as her phone chimed to signal a text. She pulled it out of her purse and glanced at it as they walked, then came to a dead stop.
“It’s from Evelyn,” she told him. “She says, Sorry. And there’s an attachment.”
Their eyes met.
“Open it,” he said.
She hesitated, then did as he asked.
And there it was, a screenshot from Twitter. The image of her and Griffin on the sidewalk near the Paramount. And underneath it, the words: Martin’s Mystery Man Identified: Griffin Blaize. Podcaster. Screenwriter. Fourth-degree Burn Survivor.
Chapter Twelve
The story exploded.
By noon on Tuesday, that first photo of Griffin and Beverly on Congress was everywhere, along with the one of him in disguise at the premiere.
That would have been bad enough, but every social media hound in the world had started digging int
o his past. Fortunately, he’d bought his house in the name of his business trust, so he didn’t have a horde of cameramen camped outside, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t found out about him. Someone managed to prove that Griffin Blaize was Griffin Draper, and had dredged up news coverage of the fire when he was just shy of thirteen. Someone even found a picture from when he was in the hospital.
His career was splashed all over the Internet. Kelsey and Wyatt were dragged into it, and Griffin kept sending his sister apologetic emails, despite her telling him not to worry about it, she had his back, and the so-called reporters were assholes.
He agreed, but that didn’t help.
The worst was that he was essentially trapped in his house. He couldn’t even go to The Fix, because Megan had told him that photographers were all over downtown, and they were especially thick around the bar. “Probably because Beverly is the emcee. I don’t think they know you hang out here, but they do know that you’re with her, so it’s a good bet.”
Which meant he was stuck inside, Beverly with him. But he was quiet and moody. He hated that he was, and hated that he cared so damn much. Hated the scars. Hated wanting to hide them. Hated knowing that he was now the center of a media shit storm, and that everywhere he went, reporters were going to try to get a picture.
He looked at Beverly, curled up on his couch with a red pen going over their pages. They were in the final throes. The Man of the Month contest was tomorrow night, and Thursday they left for the tour. And Griffin knew damn well that the mystery would leave Austin. It would follow Beverly.
Without a mystery man on her arm, it would die down.
His stomach twisted. He hated himself, but he knew what he had to do.
“Hey.” He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Bev?”
She looked up, her smile bright but sympathetic. “You okay? The hoopla will die down, you know.”
“I know.” He swallowed. “I know how to make it die down faster.”
She sat up, her brow furrowed. “You do?”
“I’m not going with you on the press tour. Without a mystery guy beside you, they’ll get bored.”
She blinked. “Wait. What?”
“You’re the attraction, not me. The fascination is that you’re dating a mystery guy. Probably this scarred writer named Griffin. But if that mystery guy isn’t beside you, he’s not interesting. So the press will forget it and move on.”
“You’re not coming with me? I’m going to be gone for a month. Six weeks, actually.”
“We’ll talk every day.”
She sat back, staring at him. “And what about the next time?”
“The next time?”
“When the film opens in Europe, I’ll be touring over there. Will you come with me?”
He swallowed. “That would stir it all up again.”
She nodded, her throat moving and her eyes unnaturally wide. “And let’s say this thing between us sticks—”
“I want it to,” he said firmly.
“—and I end up filming a movie in Vancouver. Or a TV show. And I’m there for months. Maybe years. What then?”
He said nothing. By her side, he was a target. Here, he could stay quietly out of the spotlight.
“I see.”
“Lots of people have long distance relationships. And you aren’t away forever. Even if you were filming out of town, there are weekend flights.”
“And wouldn’t that be fun?” She licked her lips. “My parents did that. It wasn’t pretty.”
“We’re not your parents.”
“No,” she said, her voice a whisper. “We’re not. I thought we were so much more.”
Before he had a chance to respond, she stood. “I’m sorry, Griffin.” Her voice was unnaturally stiff, her skin pale. “I love you—God, I love you. And I can’t believe I’m saying this. But this is my line in the sand. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it would work just fine. But I don’t care. That’s not what I want—I want the man I love to be beside me. Miss a few trips, sure. But as a lifestyle? No. And I can’t—”
Her voice broke on a sob. “I can’t start a relationship knowing that we don’t have the same vision, and that the life I dream of can’t ever happen.”
She started toward the door, and panic bubbled inside him. “Bev, wait.” He hurried after her. “We can make this work.”
“No,” she said, “we can’t. But you can. And, dammit Griffin, if you want me—if you want us—you know exactly what you have to do.”
Chapter Thirteen
Beverly spent the rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday morning trolling the Internet. She started out cursing every single photographer, reporter, and Internet gossip who posted anything about her mystery man or Griffin or her love life at all. What business was it of theirs, and how the hell could they justify what they did, knowing that it would undoubtedly mess up peoples’ lives?
That pity party lasted until Tuesday evening. Then she moved on to the main event—Griffin. Specifically, her irritation, her anger, and her hurt because of him.
Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t the reporters’ fault. Or not entirely. Because if Griffin could just own the fact that he was scarred and step out into the world, then they could be together. For that matter, reporters might actually treat them kindly. And even if they were nasty, it would die down soon enough. Give the press nowhere to go, and they went nowhere.
But to do that, he had to put himself on the line first. And Griffin wasn’t prepared to do that. Despite everything he’d said to Jessie—despite the fact that she knew he truly believed it—he still couldn’t get past his own fears and insecurities.
And neither could she.
She wouldn’t risk a long distance relationship. She was too afraid it would break down. But notwithstanding that fear, she didn’t want to spend that much time away from the man she loved.
And that was the trouble.
She loved him. She was certain of it.
And she was terrified that she’d never find that kind of love again. That she’d never find another Griffin.
But, dammit, she wasn’t going to settle. She wanted it all or nothing.
She just hoped that at the end of the day, it wasn’t nothing she was left holding onto.
Griffin wanted to kick his own ass.
She was his—or she had been. And he’d lost her because he was too damn scared—and too damn scarred.
But, dammit, he didn’t want to live the life she did. He didn’t want to be in the spotlight. If he was an average guy, he could probably avoid it, even with a celebrity at his side. But he had two strikes against him—he was already a player in Hollywood and his scars gave him story appeal for all those damn reporters.
How the hell was he supposed to live like that? Like some ugly bug that a kid picked up to examine under a microscope? With the press wondering why a beautiful girl like Beverly would be with a guy like him?
The thought made his stomach twist.
The trouble was, the thought of not being with her made his stomach twist more.
He didn’t know what to do, and so he finished off a bottle of bourbon and watched bad action movies on late night cable. It wasn’t a cure, but it was an anesthetic, and he was grateful to dull his pain.
The sharp ring of his phone woke him the next morning, and he blinked at the sun streaming in through the windows. He snatched it up, certain it would be Beverly.
It wasn’t. It was Jessie.
“So what’s your damage?” she said, without preamble.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on. Do you think I spend all my time painting? I’m mostly on my phone. And now that Beverly’s my new best friend, I went poking around for her.”
He cringed, certain he knew where this was going.
“You’re all over social media these days, you know that, right?”
“Yeah. I noticed that.”
She snorted. “So, I repeat. What’s your damage? Because, seriously? A wi
g? And a hat? I mean, I listen to your podcast and you sort of look like you might be one of the characters, but I don’t think that was the point, was it?”
He had to bite back a smile. Which, under the circumstances, felt pretty good.
“I knew the photographers were going to be everywhere. I wanted to protect my privacy.”
“Well, that’s a bunch of crap.”
A flare of anger sparked in him. “What the hell, Jessie?”
“Don’t even,” she snapped, and he heard the mirror of his anger in her tone. “I trusted you. I believed you. I mean, what the hell, Griffin? You come in here all rah-rah and tell us that these horrible, ugly, nasty scars aren’t going to ruin our lives, and then you go and hide? Who does that?”
He said nothing. She was right, of course. Who did that?
He did, apparently.
“Hello? Oh, come on. Did you hang up on me? That’s just the most asshole thing—”
“I’m here.”
“Well?”
“You’re right.”
Silence filled the line.
“Jessie?”
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re right.”
“Wow. Grown-ups never say that.”
“Well, I’ve been acting like a child, so maybe that’s why I can say it.”
At that, she laughed outright.
“Glad I’m amusing you. But yeah, you’re right, and Beverly is right, and I’m a damn chicken.” And wasn’t that the truth?
He drew in a breath, then continued. “But I want you to know that everything I told you was true. And I believe every word.”
“So get off your ass and do something. Flip those reporters the bird. Take off that freaky costume. And a hoodie? Seriously? Show them the real you.”
He bit back a smile. “If I do it, will you?”
“I’ve been doing it, remember? You’re the one who told me to. I’ve been walking the walk, Griff. You’ve only been talking the talk. Honestly, man, you can do better.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”