Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

The last five days have been the most easy and laid-back time I’ve ever spent with a girl. I didn’t want it to end. But I didn’t move fast enough—or pay enough attention to my six.

Before I could dispose of the evidence, Red walked in on me and caught me . . . well, red-handed. Shit! Shit! Shit!

I try to put together a plausible explanation for why I didn’t tell her who I really was.

But then she says, “Your father has a huge CD collection?”

She appears on my left side, her wide eyes taking in Dad’s wall-to-wall compact disc library like she’s just discovered a lost treasure trove. “I’ve never seen one this big!”

It takes me a few seconds, but I manage to choke out, “Yeah, the old man refuses to get rid of it. He keeps insisting CDs will come back one day, just like vinyl did.”

“They totally could,” she insists. “That’s why I still love them. And hey, look, his collection isn’t just country . . . Oh wow, Permission to Land by The Darkness. I love that band!”

When she reaches forward to pull out The Darkness’s first album, I take the opportunity to hide all the G-Latham CDs behind the long row of Garth Brooks jewel boxes.

“I never understood why they didn’t become as big as Death Buddha,” she says, giving the CD a fond glance. She scans the D section again and confirms. “He has all of their albums here too. That lead singer’s growl, right?”

“Right?” I agree. “West Nygard was a huge influence on my—”

I stop myself right before saying “flow.” Yeah, a few critics have commented that I sound like a young West Nygard decided to quit metal and make a country trap album. But now’s definitely not the time to tell her that.

I clear my throat and substitute, “My listening habits. Metallica, Death Buddha, Andrew W.K., Nine Inch Nails, The Darkness—I stanned all those bands growing up.”

“Me too!” She beams up at me like she’s found a kindred spirit. “I had to sneak their CDs home from the library, though. According to my grandma, I was only supposed to be letting gospel past my innocent ears.”

I open my mouth to tell her about how my older brother used to make fun of me for listening to so much metal and rap, even though our father owned Big Hill, one of the most prominent country labels in Nashville. But I close it just as fast with a bad feeling in my gut. Suddenly, I understand the definition of wanting to have your cake and eat it too.

I’ve liked not having to play the part of the famous music star with Red over the past few days—of getting to hang out with her like I’m a regular guy. But I’m also growing sick of not being able to tell her stuff.

Standing there with The Darkness CD between us, I suddenly want her to know me—the real me.

For the first time since I made that bet, I consider telling her the truth.

But then I decide against it. And not just because that would mean losing the bet.

The other Reapers assumed she’d melt into my arms if she discovered who I really was. But now that I’ve been talking to her over the last few days, I can’t say I agree with them.

She’s cooked all of my meals and fetched everything from snacks to drinks for four days straight. She’s fallen asleep on the couch the last three nights in a row, then mumbled about her duty to keep me company when I sent her off to bed.

And yeah, I’m paying her, but I think Red might have something most girls I vibe with don’t. I wouldn’t go as far as using the T word. I still don’t trust anybody except myself and my brother Reapers. But I’m pretty sure there’s a bone-deep integrity underneath all those sexy curves and teasing smiles.

And if that’s true, I don’t know how she’ll react when she finds out I’ve been lying to her about who I really am from the start.

Her entire face lights up, distracting me from my worried thoughts. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s lay down on the floor and listen to this entire CD?”

She goes over to the TASCAM combination CD/Blu-ray player to push in Permission to Land. The old-school machine’s embedded in a media center that controls the custom-built surround-sound system on the office’s window-facing wall.

“I mean, sure. Why not?” I answer. “But why do we have to lie down on the floor?”

“Dunno,” she answers with a shrug. “That’s how my best cousin likes to listen to records. She swears it’s the only way to truly take in an entire album. C’mon.”

The sound of the album’s first track, “Black Shuck,” fills up the room as she dims the lights and lies down on the Southwestern-patterned area rug in front of the couch.