Wicked Grind (Stark World 1)

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?

It's been twelve years, and the guilt still plagues me. And even though I'm used to the scars now, I don't think there's ever been a time when he's taken off his shirt or pulled his hair back when I don't silently beg the universe to make it all have been a very bad dream.

"I thought you were coming tomorrow after your Zumba class."

I shake myself, literally shaking off this damn melancholy mood as he studies my face.

"Yo. Sis. You going to tell me why you're here? Or do I have to start guessing?"

I hold up the evidence. "Cupcakes and wine. Why else?"

"You didn't get the job?"

I frown. I'd forgotten that I'd told him I was at an audition.

Our conversation before I danced at X-tasy seems a million years ago.

"Oh, hell," he says. He comes to me, and though I expect a hug, instead he reaches for the cupcake box. "Grab your wine," he orders. "I think we're going to need more than just cupcakes."

I laugh and do as he orders. Then we sit at the wobbly Formica table we found one Saturday at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. I get paper towels to use instead of plates, but I pull out a real wine glass for me and a highball glass for him. Nothing fancy--we both liv

e in homes furnished and stocked by Ikea--but I draw the line at drinking wine from a paper cup.

"I'm really sorry," he says, once we're settled and he's scooped up a chunk of frosting with his finger. "I know you were the best dancer in that room."