Page 33 of Don't Fall For Your Brother's Best Friend

“Griffin?” a voice I recognize says.

My eyes slide to Anya as I say, “Tripp?”

“What’s wrong?” she whispers.

I shrug, focusing back on the call. “Something wrong?”

“Listen, I need help and I can’t call my parents or any of my brothers. I’m at the police station and I need someone to pick me up,” he says.

My eyes widen as I snap my head to Anya. “The police station. What the fuck did you do, Tripp?”

Anya rushes over grabbing her clothes, so I begin pulling mine on too. We’re both wet, but we have no choice.

“Please, Griff. My family can’t find out. I’m begging for your help here.”

“It’s gonna be a little bit, but I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

I hang up and pocket my phone, walking over to Anya.

She pulls her shirt on as I step next to her. “What did he do?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say. He doesn’t want any of you to know,” I say.

She gives a humorless laugh and climbs back up onto Silver. “Too bad. Let’s go get him.”

I climb back onto Honey and we begin the trek back to the ranch. “Anya, are we going to talk about what happened?”

Her eyes slide to mine and she raises an eyebrow. “I think getting my little brother out of the slammer is more important.”

Anger I have no right to feel, burns through me. I just risked everything putting myself out there to her and she acts like it was nothing.

“I’ll meet you at the car,” she says, her horse taking off in a quick gallop.

I trot Honey and he takes off, kicking up dust behind him.

Fucking Tripp ruining the moment.

Fucking Callum and his promise.

Fucking Atwoods are killing me.

Chapter 11

Anya

Once I settle into the front seat of Griffin’s truck, I lean back in the seat, looking out the window. I wonder what Tripp is doing getting in trouble with the police.

Sure, he’s been hanging out with the wrong crowd, and coming home late at night, but I figured it was like every eighteen-year-old who isn’t serious about anything in life.

“I’ll bring you back for your car later,” Griffin says as he pulls onto the road to lead us back to town.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I know Griffin wants to talk about what happened in the lake, but I can’t bring myself to even think about it. “You’re a fixer,” I say, barely audible.

“What?” he asks.

I turn to face him. “You’re a fixer. You always have been.” I don’t know much about Griffin’s life, but I do know how he’s always been the one to fix things when we were younger.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”