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I shrug. “His older brother knows someone who was in a match.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, Griff.” I huff and cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t ask a bunch of questions. I just knew you were going to be there, and I wanted to see you.” I shrug. “So I asked if I could catch a ride, and he said yes.”
The corners of his mouth turn down, like he’s rolling something unpleasant around on his tongue.
“What’d you think of the place?” he asks, apparently deciding to let the Wade thing drop.
“Honestly?” My nose wrinkles. “It just looked like an old, dirty warehouse. I like The Castle better.” The Castle’s an old, rundown building too—the juvenile detention center Griff and a few of his friends were sent to years ago. Griff and my brother bought it when it went to auction and turned it into their own personal fight club. It’s in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by overgrown wilderness. “Even though it’s in rough shape, it has that whole romantic, gothic thing going for it.”
“Romantic.” Griff snorts, a dark edge creeping into the space around us. “Nothing romantic has ever happened there.”
“Then why buy it if it has such bad memories attached?” I ask.
“I don’t want anyone else having access to my ghosts.”
I’m not sure what to make of that. Griff’s never spoken much about the time he was incarcerated, even in his short letters. “But that’s how you met Vapor and Eraser, right? So something good came out of being there.”
One corner of his mouth slowly slides up. “That’s true.” He glances over at me. “Thanks.”
Pleased I brought him back from whatever dark ledge of memories he was about to tumble off, I reach over and rest my hand on his leg. He sighs, clutches the steering wheel tight, then finally rests one hand over mine, giving it a gentle squeeze.
All too soon, he pulls up in front of the old Victorian home that once belonged to my grandparents.
“Tell your brother I’ll be over in the morning to help him work on the railing.” He nods toward the house.
My grandfather left the big, rambling home to Remy, and my brother’s put a lot of work into fixing up the place—even more so after I moved in. Something’s always breaking or needing to be repaired. But it holds warm memories of our grandparents, so I understand why Remy refuses to sell it.
“You know, if you’re going to keep putting in so much work here, you should probably take Remy up on his offer to move into the guest room.”
Griff releases my hand and stares out the window. “That’s a bad idea.”
“Why?”
As if it pains him, he tears his gaze from the house and focuses on my face. “I can barely keep my hands off you now. Under the same roof? It’d be asking for trouble.”
“Oh,” I whisper, completely shocked by his admission.
Guilt settles on my shoulders. One of the reasons my brother keeps asking Griff to move in is to help him pay the bills. I’ve offered to take more hours at the grocery store where I work two days a week, but Remy won’t allow it. I’m sure it would make things easier on Remy to have a roommate to split the living expenses with. But because of me, the two people I care about most in the world have to struggle—and participate in dangerous, underground fights. Can’t forget that part.
“I’d behave myself,” I say.
The corners of Griff’s mouth turn up and he lets out a soft snort. “I know you would, Muffin. It’s me I’m worried about.”
Oh, really?
“Why?” I ask innocently. “Are you worried I’d sneak into your room late at night and tempt you into doing something inappropriate?”
“What?” He frowns. “No.”
“Are you suuuure?” I tease, enjoying watching him squirm for once.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Really? You wouldn’t like me waking you up in the middle of the night?” I unbuckle my seat belt, place my hand on Griff’s shoulder, and twist my body until I’m straddling his lap. In my head it was a smooth, sexy move. In reality, it’s awkward, and my knee slams into the door handle. He reaches down and eases the seat back but it’s already as far as it will go. My butt rests on the steering wheel, and Griff wedges his hands between my cheeks and the wheel.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, amusement coloring his words.
