Chapter 7: Griff

Chapter Seven

GRIFF

T hey should have had Lauren at the torture sites. A man would give up his mother in under ten minutes of a shampoo from her. It takes all of my training, my decade of experience, and every ounce of my willpower not to pop a woody while lying in that stupid chair.

I still have to adjust myself when she tells me to get up and follow her to her station. Initially I think it's a good thing I'm behind her as we exit the quiet room and make our way down another carpeted hallway, but my eyes zero in on her ass perfectly swaying from one side to another. Her apple cheeks are well defined by her tight black jeans.

I force my gaze to the ceiling and pray for my balls. Being around Lauren is hazardous to my health. The room where the actual hair cutting takes place is bright and open. There aren't many safety risks. I've got the nylon cape thing around my neck that goes over my lap so my physical reaction to Lauren isn't so noticeable. I allow myself to relax. It's been a long time since I've allowed myself a little pleasure in life. Before I know it, she's tapping my shoulder. My eyes pop open and meet hers in the mirror. She smiles wryly.

"You're done. You nodded off there, but don't worry. Everything is straight."

The hell? I've never fallen asleep on the job, not even after marching through the desert for a week straight. This woman is dangerous. I jump to my feet as soon as she's done dusting off the cape with some small brush.

"Wait. I have to take the cape off."

I grab the neck and start to pull.

"I'll do it for you."

Her voice sounds odd. I catch a glimpse of her face in the mirror. I hurt her feelings. Shit. I drag a hand down my face and dip lower so she can reach the snaps at the back.

"Do you not like the haircut?" she asks quietly. "I can redo it."

I glance toward the mirror. A vague memory of her stating she was going to trim it close to the sides and leave it a little longer in the back and on the top. It's… not bad. I look better than I usually do.

"Yeah, it's nice. Where do I pay?"

"This way." She walks me through a couple doors and back to the lobby. "Mr. Harris is done," she announces. Her voice has a tone of finality to it, as if she's telling everyone I'm next for the slaughter.

I try to check out her expression, but it's closed down. Maybe she didn't believe that I liked the haircut.

"I really like my hair," I repeat.

"Good," she says but there's no light in her eyes. "Thank you for coming today."

She's so formal. Is this for the benefit of her coworkers? Or is she mad at me for falling asleep?

"Would you like to make an appointment in three to four weeks?" chirps the front desk Wednesday Addams look-alike.

Can I take another torture session with Lauren? How can I not?

"Yeah. Three weeks is good." The Academy closes for a month after this round of testing, so I don't have to check my calendar for a free date. "Any time is good."

"Lauren's available at three."

"That works."

Lauren makes a choking sound. The clerk and I ignore her. The clerk writes down something on the back of an appointment card and hands it over to me. I slip it into my pocket.

My watch says it's close to eleven. "Want to grab some lunch?"

"Me?" Lauren points to herself in surprise.

"You."

"I can't. I have an appointment. I'm actually booked up all day."

"Actually, your next appointment cancelled so you have thirty minutes free," Wednesday chirps. I like Wednesday. My favorite day of the week.

I flash her a brief smile and then direct my attention to Lauren. "Let's go."

She's quiet as we walk to the elevator. It's possible she doesn't want to have lunch with me. I read people pretty well. It's part of my job. Sometimes Lauren's feelings are crystal clear. Fear when I interrupted her sloppy B&E. Lust after we exchanged a few words. Nervousness today.

I don't mind the nervousness if it's her want setting her on edge. I kind of like that. It will make our first time together explosive.

But it's possible that my own desire is clouding the signals. That her nervousness stems more from fear than need.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Is something wrong with you?"

I lapse into silence.

She's an adult. She can leave if she wants to. She doesn't have to eat with me.

I have to figure out a place we can eat at in under thirty minutes.

I wonder how busy she is. "How many haircuts do you give in a day?"

"Between fifteen and twenty. More if I have a lot of men. They spend more time with the shampoo girls than in my chair."

"That's a lot of work." Her hands must be sore.

She shrugs dismissively. "Not really. Waiting tables is a lot harder. You have to carry trays of food or drinks around, but you do get to move. I think the worst part of being a stylist is standing in one place for a long period of time. That gets surprisingly tiring, but the worst job I had was cleaning. It wasn't physically awful, but human beings are disgusting. I wore a mask and gloves, and I still felt unclean after every shift." She shudders at the memory. "What's the worst job you ever did?"

I don't even have to think about it. "Working in an office." It was hot and stifling. The constant ringing of phones drove me up the wall.

"Yeah. I can't see you at a desk. You're built for motion. When did you work in an office?"

"After I left the Army. I went to work...for someone I knew. It didn't last long." Six months. I was told I was a quitter as I walked away, but if I hadn't left, I'd probably have strangled my boss and then my whole family would've been pissed at me. I decide to change the subject. That six months was a bad time, and I don't want to get into it with Lauren. "What do you want for lunch?"

"How about a bagel sandwich? There's a café across the street that serves them along with some breakfast quiche. It's a little early for lunch food and I don't have time to sit down."

A bagel sandwich sounds as appealing as a bowl of dog food, but it's with Lauren, and I'd eat bugs if it meant spending a little more time with her.

"Sure. Bagel sandwiches it is."

We get to the first floor. The traffic's heavier on the sidewalk than when I first arrived. We pause to allow a couple people to pass.

"The sandwiches are good. You'll like them. They have a huge assortment of bagels and flavored cream cheese and sometimes I just go with that for lunch with a cup of coffee. It's like having a second breakfast."

"I like plain bagels."

"Of course you do."

"With plain cream cheese. Everything else is an abomination."

She laughs. "You haven't had Steve's cream cheese. It's homemade. I think they use goat milk or something. It's so creamy. You're going to love it."

Her eyes are sparkling and cheeks are plumped up from her smile and slightly pink from the mid-morning air. I want to scoop her into my arms and kiss the breath out of her. Who the fuck cares we are standing on a busy intersection in the middle of Manhattan? I take a step toward her.

She stops breathing.

"Griffin?"

The interruption is jarring, but the voice is recognizable. I spin around and put Lauren behind my back. "Yeah?"

"I thought that was you. I'd know those broad shoulders anywhere. You must not be working today."

It's my ex. An uncomfortable sensation creeps up the middle of my back. I don't want Lauren to meet her. Since the breakup, my ex has turned out to be...difficult. She isn't one of the best decisions I've made in my life, and I don't like the idea of Lauren meeting such a big mistake so early on. Lauren's already wary of me. If she thinks I make shit decisions, it's only going to add mortar to her barricades.

"I'm on a break," I admit, wishing I didn't have to let her know even that much.

"That's good. You work so hard, and Weston never allows you a minute to breathe."

I don't want a minute to breathe. I like work.

"I'll stop by later. I found your favorite shirt in my closet the other day. Our things must've gotten mixed up, and I took it to the cleaner with the rest of my stuff," my ex continues.

The tendons in my spine tighten even more. I don't need eyes in the back of my head to know that this isn't playing well to Lauren.

"You can toss it." I don't even remember what shirt she's talking about since I've never stayed at her place or vice versa. Hell, I've never even disrobed in front of her. The most skin she's seen is that one time we played couples racquetball and I wore shorts.

"Oh, God no." She slaps a hand across her chest. "I would never do that. I'll let myself in if you're not home."

That wouldn't be possible since my front door only opens with my handprint and she knows this. Why is she even bringing it up?

"Like I said. Toss the shirt." I've spent too long talking to this woman. This is what happens when you let your family's demands overtake your life. You make bad decisions that haunt you. I give my ex a brief nod and turn around to signal to Lauren that I'm ready for lunch, only she's not standing behind me.

She's halfway through the door of her building. "Shit."

"Is something wrong?" my ex asks, pretending she doesn't know.

I don't bother to answer, which is what I should've done when she first started talking to me. I sprint after Lauren, catching her at the elevator bank.

"Thought we were having lunch," I say. The number on the elevator closest says it's on floor six.

"I really don't have a lot of time. Besides, I have a couple of phone calls I need to make, and this might be my only break today. I'll see you in three weeks."

She darts inside the elevator and jabs a button. Probably the one to close the door and shut me out.

I grab one of the doors and force it open. "You didn't eat lunch."

She glares at my hand. "I'm not hungry anymore."

Her stomach growls in protest, but she just juts her chin out and jabs the elevator button again. The door jerks in my hand. I don't want her to leave like this—hungry and pissed—but I don't think charging up to her workplace is going to make her feel soft and warm toward me either. Better to regroup and attack at a different time.

"When do you get off?"

"Why?"

"I'm going to bring you dinner to make up for missing lunch." I try for a cajoling tone even though that's not my thing.

"I've got plans."

I bristle as all attempts to sweeten her fly away. "With who?" I demand.

"None of your business." She folds her arms across her chest and looks at me as if I'm losing it.

Maybe I am. The thought of her eating dinner with another guy makes me want to tear the door off the track.

An alarm bell sounds in the back of my head, telling me I should cool it. She's already leery of me, and now I'm acting like a caveman. Modern men are cool with their women having men friends. Modern men whose knuckles don't drag on the ground don't mind other penises hanging around their women. Modern men don't use possessives like their or mine .

I take a deep breath. I'm not trying to control Lauren. I don't want to own her. I just want to...make her mine.

Shit.

"Um, sir, is there a problem with the door?"

I turn my head to see the security guard about five feet away. And the alarm bell wasn't sounding in the back of my head. Holding the elevator door open this long has set off an actual alarm.

Inside the car, Lauren looks like she wants the floor to open up and drop her to the basement. I'm embarrassing her.

Good job, Harris.

I let the door go. "No. Sorry about that."

The door slides shut, and the car takes off and with it all my progress with Lauren. No, that's unfair. I'd pissed away my progress before she got on the elevator.