Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(47)

And as I gazed at the monitor and the stunning, vibrant image of a confident, sexual woman who had my face and body, all I could do was stand there as my father's voice rang through my head. Everything I've done for you, and you still turn out to be a whore. Just like your mother. And you'll get the same as she did, too. You keep acting like this, and you just see what you get.

I couldn't do it.

I hate myself for letting him down-for letting myself and Griffin down, too-but I just couldn't do it.

And I know-I know-that my father is wrong. That it doesn't really work that way. That the bad things that I do don't punish other people. That my mother's affair wasn't the reason that she and her boyfriend died in a car wreck.

I know that.

I even know that posing for Wyatt's pictures doesn't make me bad or wicked or any of the things my father would shout at me.

It doesn't, and I get that.

But knowing and believing aren't always the same thing. And maybe it's better sometimes to just avoid walking that line.

Besides, I've never had the best judgment where Wyatt is concerned. He's like a hurricane dropped in the middle of my neat, orderly life.

Too much stress. Too much mess.

I'm better off without him. And I can still figure out some way to get the money.

The money.

I wince as I think of Griffin. I need to see him. At the very least, I should tell him that I'm going to have to sell the Mustang. Except he'll try to talk me out of it, so maybe it's better to just stay quiet. If I tell him after the fact, at least it will be a done deal.

I wipe my tears, then start the car back up. Now that Griff's in my head, I want him near, and so instead of going home, I head for his apartment in Silver Lake. I know I'm being silly, but the truth is, I don't want to be alone.

Since he's surely asleep by now, I let myself in, then drop my purse on the coffee table. Like my place, it's small. Just your basic layout, with a living area that flows into the dining area that flows into a hall with a closet-sized bathroom at the end. Griffin's bedroom's on one side of the hall, an almost perfectly square room with minimal closet space, and there's an identical, mirror-image bedroom across from it that Griffin uses as a sound studio.



       
         
       
        

The kitchen is across from the little dining area, and I go there next, then grab one of the cans of cold brew coffee that my brother is addicted to. I'm about to pop the top when I realize how stupid that will be. With Wyatt on my mind, I'm going to have a hard enough time sleeping. Add caffeine to the mix, and I'll be staring at the walls all night.

Fine.

Alcohol it is.

I'm not a big drinker. The one time in my life I drank bourbon was the one time in my life I messed up royally. Which is why I swore off hard liquor when I was fifteen, even before I was legally allowed to drink the stuff.

Now my drink of choice is white wine, and I'm certain there's a bottle in the fridge, because Griff always keeps a bottle chilled for me.

I open the fridge, then blink at the bright light in contrast to the darkened room. I squint as I peer in, then find not only a lovely Chardonnay, but also a box of cupcakes from Love Bites, which is my absolute favorite bakery. It's also inconvenient, since it's all the way in Beverly Hills. Griff must have had a meeting. Usually, he avoids Beverly Hills like the plague, and when he does go, he treats himself. And me, by default.

I debate, decide Griffin won't care, and grab one with yellow frosting and decorative fondant flowers.

"Cupcake thief."

I yelp as the kitchen light snaps on, then turn to face my brother. He's wearing grey sweatpants that hang loose around his hips and a jersey Tee with a mock turtleneck. He's worn his midnight black hair long for years, and now it's hanging loose around his face in what I like to call his sexy, rocker style, with most of it combed to one side so that it forms a curtain over most of the right half of his face, accenting the vivid green of his uncovered, right eye.

Looking at him, I can almost imagine that I never ruined anything for him.

"Up, Kels?"

I shake my head, realizing I've been standing in front of the open fridge, just staring at him like an idiot.

"Sorry. It's late. I was spacing out." I grimace. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he assures me, even though he's yawning. "I've been editing. Lost track of time."

He yawns again, as if to accentuate the point, then rubs his palms over his face before raking his fingers through his hair. For just a moment, the thick strands are pulled back, revealing what had been partially hidden before. But of course it's never truly hidden, not even when his hair hangs down. Because how could something as simple as a fall of hair hide the massive scarring that mars the right side of his face and his decimated outer ear?