Hope for Her (Hope #1) (7 page)

I walked back up the stairs and back to my room, cussing under my breath as I tried to figure out how to get out of the house without him noticing me. I had to think fast because if I waited too long to come down, he would send someone up to fetch me.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Josh," one of my frat brothers yelled through the door, "Your dad's here."

I paused before answering. Maybe he would go away.

"Josh, man, your dad," he said in a more desperate voice. Like if he returned without me in tow, it would disappoint the great Joshua Elijah Griffin, III.

"I'll be right there."

"Okay, man. Your father is here."

He sounded like an eight-year-old boy announcing Santa Claus coming to town. My dad was no Santa Claus.

I took a look in the mirror and decided to change my shirt. No need to give him any ammunition to ridicule me. He had a list of go-to insults; he didn’t need any prompting from me. I pulled on a blue button-down and made sure to tuck it into my jeans. I also made sure my belt matched my shoes before heading down the stairs. The pain in my chest increased with every step.

"You boys don't know how to throw a party."

I spotted Dad holding court in the main room with eight of my brothers, including Randolph and Jackson, all on the edge of their seats. "Back in the day, when we threw a party, we didn't recover until a week later." He slapped Jackson on the back, and the group laughed.

"Sir, I have a game to play tomorrow."

"Hell, we played the game still drunk and had to read in the paper the next morning whether we won or not."

The guys chuckled. Randolph laughed the loudest.

I entered the room and stood by the door with my hands in my pockets.

"There he is. There's my son."

I cringed when he said it. His toned conveyed both an apology and a declaration of reluctant acceptance. It no way sounded like pride.

"Hey Dad."

My dad waited across the room with his arms opened wide, waiting to embrace me and play out this adoring father-son facade. I walked into his arms, and he hugged me, but my arms remained at my side.

"You look good son. Damn good."

"Thanks."

"How's it going?” he asked.

“Fine." I avoided his gaze and tried to shake off the heavy headed feeling. The brothers acted normal, use to my father’s visits. My chest tightened whenever I stood near him.

Everyone watched me. My father turned his attention back to Jackson.

"So, how's the team looking this year?" He wrapped an arm around Jackson's neck. I never noticed how much Jackson and my dad looked alike. They shared the same dark brown hair and both towered over everyone in their presence. If Jackson were my dad’s son, it would make more sense. My dad and I never made sense.

I wanted people to think my mother adopted me, but even at five-foot-ten, I looked exactly like her.

"We are going to be good," Jackson said. "Offensive line is solid and wait until you see Parker run. He's going to be a star."

"Parker's that boy from Miami?"

"Yeah."

"Oh yeah, he is going to be good. As long as he keeps his act together. Heard he had a little trouble in high school."

"Naw, he's got his head on straight."

"Good to hear, good to hear it. Team's all yours now. It's your job to lead ‘em."

"Yes, sir."

He turned to me. "Son, let's take a walk."

I hesitated, focused on watching the dynamic between him and Jackson. Jackson caught my eyes, but I looked away. I rubbed the back of my neck and studied the carpet.

Jackson hated my father, but based only on what I told him. In front of Jackson, in front of anyone, my dad was the ideal father.

"Brothers, it was good to see you."

"You too, Brother Griffin," Randolph said.

"Randolph. Join me and my son in my boxes for the game tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

My dad exited the room, and I followed with my head hanging. No way was I going to watch the game in my dad’s suite.

We walked outside. My dad strolled to the far end of the porch, and I followed.

"Tell me the truth, you doing okay, Son?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Did you attend the party last night?"

"I hung around for a bit but got bored."

"No temptations?" he asked.

"No sir. I'm fine." I tried hard to control the tone of my voice.

"Come on, J, I'm not an idiot. You look like shit." I hated it when he called me J.

"I didn't sleep well last night."

"You high?"

"No. I'm not high, I'm not drunk, I haven't taken a pill, and I haven't hit anyone. I'm fine."

"Okay, okay. I believe you."

"No, you don't."

"Well, I believe Jackson, and he says you’re doing fine. He’ll keep an eye on you. You know this is your last shot. There is nothing else after this. You screw this up and—"

"I know," I yelled, and my body tensed. "I'm trying here," I said in a more appropriate tone.

"Well, try harder."

He spoke all of this with a grin plastered on his face. If anyone walked by, we looked like we were an ordinary father and son chatting on a September afternoon.

No one understood how much we hated each other, except maybe Jackson. After years of pretending, we played our roles well.

My father walked off the porch to his black Mercedes parked at the curb. He demanded I meet him for breakfast and the game tomorrow. I refused to answer out loud, just nodded.

As soon as he pulled away, I sprinted up the stairs. I entered Jackson's room without knocking.

"Fuck you, Jackson. I don't need a babysitter."

He stood by his bed, packing for the game.

"What are you talking about?"

"My dad having you look out for me. Making sure I don't screw up. I don't need you watching my every move."

He turned and sat on his bed. He started to speak but stopped himself.

"What? Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"You obviously have something to say, so fucking say it already."

"Okay. First of all, I didn't agree to watch out for you. You're a grown-ass man, and I have my own life to worry about." He stood up and started pacing. "And second, I don't know what to say to you. I don't know you anymore."

I stared at him and blew out a breath to calm down, but my chest hurt for another reason. Over the years, despite all the shit I’d put him through, he stood by me. Now, it was different. I heard it in his voice. He was done with me. I turned and walk out of the room.

"Josh, man, wait."

I headed straight into my room and attempted to shut the door, but Jackson followed and blocked it. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Leave me alone, Jackson."

"You're so stupid, man."

"Yeah, well..." I sat on the bed and picked at the comforter. I hated this comforter. Hated this room.

"I don't get it. You screwed up your own life to get back at your dad for being such a dick. That is stupid. It doesn't make sense. He treated you like shit. He didn't love you. He was a terrible father to you and a horrible husband to your mom."

"What's your point, Jackson?"

"My point is no matter how much you hurt yourself, he's not going to change."

I placed my head in my hands. He sat down next to me and put his arm around me.

"Dude, I'm looking out for you because you're my best friend, but I am tired of watching you self-destruct." Jackson squeezed my shoulder.

"You're not going to hold me and tell me how much you love me are you?" I asked as I shrugged his arm off my shoulder.

"Fuck you, Josh." He pushed me back and stood up.

I stood up.

"Listen, I hear you and I get it."

"Yeah, good," Jackson said. “And if you need extra motivation, well, think of Carrington's ass."

"You noticed it, too?" I smiled.

"Dude," Jackson shook his head, "you want to hit that, I suggest you be on your best behavior."

He made it sound so easy.

Any hope of hitting anything vanished with Carrington ignoring my calls and texts all weekend. Either humiliation or embarrassment prevented her from answering or maybe my charm eluded her.

#

In class on Tuesday, I walked in as the professor started his lecture. I spotted Carrington in her usual seat, but as soon as I walked in, she averted her eyes. I figured I had my answer. I made a beeline for a seat on the other side of the room.

Chapter Eight

Carrington Olivia Butler

He walked into class and I turned my head away as soon as he looked at me. It was all rather dramatic, and I didn’t even mean it. It was a reflex. I was embarrassed.

Snippets of the other night and my behavior kept popping in my head at the most inopportune times—I thought back to the way he looked when I showed up at his door.

It was the same look he held now, walking into class. He took care of me, when I half expected him to shut the door in my face. He invited me in, he cleaned me up and put me to bed, and how did I repay him—by ignoring him.

Real mature, Carrington.

I watched him from this angle. I imagined how messy his hair would look if he wore it longer. He carried the ‘rolled out of bed’ sexy look well. It might be why I kept having naughty dreams about him, none as real and explicit as the one I had when I woke up next to him.

My face went flush as he turned to stare at me again. I looked away.

I needed to suck it up and talk to him. I figured I had until the end of class to figure out something to say. I would start by apologizing for not returning his calls. Thank him for taking care of me the other night and try and persuade him to give me another chance. He would give me another chance because he liked me. He had asked me out in the first place, right?

My anxious heartbeat slowed to a relaxed rhythm, and I stopped sweating.

I tried paying attention to the professor, but Calculus held no interest up against the saga I created in my own head.

Lost in one of my fantasies, I caught Josh in the corner of my eye, gathering his stuff and walking out the door.

Where is he going?

I panicked.

The entire class turned to watch Josh exit.

I gathered my stuff and bolted down the steps. As I exited the room, the professor held his hands out and asked, "Anyone else need to leave?"

I ran down the hall and out the door. I assumed he exited this way. A desperate squeal escaped my lips, but it morphed into a squeal of excitement. I spotted him as he walked down the path to the student union.

I took off running but began slowing down halfway.

What am
I going to say?  

I caught up and fell in step two feet behind him. I reached out and grabbed his shirtsleeve and the book in his arm fell with a thud.

"What the fuck?" he said as he turned around. His expression softened, but then it got all hard and stern.

His eyes darted around, and he cleared his throat.

I fought the urge to bolt.

"What?" he yelled. Students stopped and stared.

He bent down to grab his book. I needed to figure out something; in a few seconds, he would stand up and walk away. I needed to speak up, or he would walk away forever.

My mind went blank.

He stood back up.

Standing in front of me, he tilted his head to the side and crinkled his nose. As I still didn’t say anything, he shook his head and turned to walk away.

"For someone who wants to be my boyfriend, you're not acting like it,” I said.

He turned back to face me. Confusion and frustration spread across his face. I said the wrong thing. I dropped my head and turned. When he dropped his books. The sound made me jump, but not as much as when he reached out and wrapped his hands around my biceps. My instincts were to pull away from the sudden contact, but it only made him increase his grip. My stomach fluttered as I searched my brain trying to find something to say that didn't sound stupid or pathetic or desperate.

He remained silent and pulled me close. I leaned toward him while my mind screamed,
No, don’t do it, run away
. I shouldn’t be doing this, not out of fear of him, but out of fear of losing control.

My breath increased and my heart was pounding out of my chest. A small part of my brain registered the pain from how tight he held my arms, but another part of my brain overrode the pain and my heart rate spiked with the realization.

Oh, shit. He's going to kiss me.

And, he did. His lips landed on mine, and it made my head spin. I was thankful for the grip on my arms, because I would have otherwise melted into the ground. His hard grip was a direct contradiction to his soft lips. I felt him pulling away and I followed, seeking more contact, but his grip flexed as if warning me to stop. I didn’t have a second to think because his lips were back on mine, harder this time. He angled his head to the left, and he slid his tongue between my open lips. As soon as our tongues touched, he withdrew, and I sought it out. His grip on my arms tightened, but as my triceps began to shake, he loosened his grip. He let go and wrapped one arm around my waist. His other hand touched my chin to tilt it to the ideal angle in order for him to kiss me deeper. He directed this epic moment and I followed his cues. He paused and allowed air to pass between our moist lips, but my lips weren’t done.

He opened his mouth and my tongue found his as I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his neck. I pulled him closer, and he wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.

He no longer seemed in control of the situation. He reacted to my every move. I was in control.

God, it felt good.

***

Joshua Elijah Griffin, IV

The kiss on the quad started as an experiment, a gauge or baseline to see how far I could push her. It was a game I played with girls my whole life. I not only needed to be in control, I needed the girl to let me be in control. But with Carrington it ended different. I relinquished control—weird for me, but I could tell it excited her.