The Closer

Selfish bastard, indeed, Griff thought, his anger spiking. He had enough experience with fathers who walked out to know what sort of hardship Monica and her children were going through. Jesus. Deciding not to be a husband was one thing—being a father wasn’t friggin’ optional.

Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

He cleared his throat, hoping to dislodge the choking irritation building there. “I’d like to help out on the repairs for her car,” he said.

She stilled and those pale gray eyes swung toward him. He’d clearly surprised her, a feat that he imagined was difficult to do. She looked away, back to her magazine. “That’s not necessary. It’s just the gasket. It’s not an expensive fix.”

Maybe not for the parts, but what about her time? Which begged another question—who taught her how to work on cars? He’d be willing to bet it hadn’t been her father. The older Rossi seemed more interested in his jewels and gems than spark plugs and cables. An old boyfriend, perhaps? he wondered, irrational annoyance making his fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

“Be that as it may, I’d still like to help. At the very least, pay for your time.”

She looked at him again, her focus more deliberate. “Why? You don’t know Monica.”

He smiled. “Do I have to know her to want to help her?”

She hesitated, studied him, evidently looking for some form of motive behind the offer. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose you don’t.” She paused. “Thank you. I’m sure Monica will appreciate it.”

“I imagine that’s why you offered to help her in the first place,” he said. She didn’t strike him as the type to waste her time on ungrateful people.

Him, neither, for that matter, which had made giving his half brother, Justin, the kidney a little easier. He wouldn’t have refused, of course—how could he when the boy had been handed a certain death sentence?—but knowing that Justin understood the sacrifice and appreciated the gift had made things much easier.

Or as easy as it was going to get, at any rate.

He could have happily gone the rest of his life without hearing from his father—he’d made it the past seventeen years, after all—and, though he’d known about Justin and had been periodically curious about the other boy his father had raised, Griff wouldn’t have ever sought him out. It was too painful, for him, admittedly, but more so for his mother and sister.

Glory had been too small when their father had walked out to truly remember him, and Griff had always made sure to fill that role to the best of his ability. But his mother, while strong, had never fully recovered. She’d never remarried and, despite encouragement, only occasionally dated. But her heart hadn’t been in it. Because, ultimately—even after all this time and all the pain—his father, the wretched bastard, still had it. Griff inwardly snorted.

If that was the so-called power of love, he didn’t want any damn part of it.

And, much as he genuinely liked Justin, he didn’t want any part of a relationship with him either. Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. He would like to get to know him better, would even reluctantly admit to a bizarre bond with the boy. But he couldn’t afford to get to know him, couldn’t put his mother and sister through that emotional turmoil, and protecting them was too ingrained in him at this point to change now. Someone had had to look after them when his father left and that someone had been Griff. They counted on him, depended on him. Going through the surgery had been difficult enough—separate waiting rooms for the families, set visiting hours to avoid running into each other. A nightmare.

It was over and done with, Griff thought. Six months post-op and all was well. Justin was healthy and out of danger, and his own recovery had progressed without complication. It was time to move on and the sooner Justin realized that, the better.

As if merely thinking of his brother had prompted it, his cell vibrated at his waist. Griff frowned, steeled himself before glancing at the display. Another text from the boy. Need some advice re: the bro code. Can I get a call back when you’ve got time?

He heaved an internal sigh. Not a demand, but a request. And a hopeful one at that. Damn...

Jess shifted a little in her seat and her soft scent drifted to him once more. It was something mellow and sweet, and strangely familiar. “Everybody needs a hand once in a while and, in my experience, it’s usually those who need it the most who won’t ask for it.”

“So you do this often?” he asked, thankful for the distraction. “Trade goods and services for repair work?”