“You’re sorry?” Grayson’s voice dropped dangerously low. I’d never seen him so angry, so ruled by emotion. What the hell could this guy have done to bring down Grayson’s prized control? “You’re fucking sorry? Let me know when sorry wakes her up and gives her back the five years you’ve taken from her! From all of us!”
It clicked. Owen. He was the one driving that night. He was responsible for what had happened to Grace. Grayson leaned further, and Owen’s color changed from a mottled red to a sickening purple.
“Grayson!” I shouted as I ran to him.
His gaze pivoted, full of so much loathing and hatred that I barely recognized him. I gasped, my hands inches from his skin.
The second he recognized me, his eyes widened and his face softened. His grip on Owen didn’t. I stepped forward slowly and laid my hand on his arm. “You have to let him go. You’re going to kill him.”
His breath released in a rush. Without taking his eyes off mine, he released his hold on Owen, who slid to the floor among the glass shards.
“What are you doing here?”
Trespassing. Again. I flinched. “Mia brought me. She told me to wait here while she found Parker.”
“They’re with Miranda.” His voice was flat, and I retreated, putting the physical distance between us that the mental seemed to call for.
“Owen?” I called out softly, leaving my eyes locked on Grayson. “You should probably go. Now.”
He scurried to his feet, coughing, then passed me as he moved to the doorway. “Gray, I’m sorry. I know I was wrong, but I thought you were dead, and I lied. You and Grace were my best friends—”
“Were,” Grayson snapped. “Never forget that.”
Owen swallowed and looked at me. “I hope Parker’s right, that he’s different around you. Because that”—he pointed to Grayson—“unforgiving prick…is not the Gray I grew up with.”
“Maybe you killed him that night, too.” Grayson moved, blocking Owen from my view with his massive back. “Never speak to her again. Ever.”
“Which one?” Owen’s tone was challenging for a guy who’d nearly been choked to death.
Don’t make him choose. I’m not ready for the answer.
Grayson stepped forward. “You’ve already ruined Grace’s life, and if you come near Sam again, I’ll finish what I started five years ago.”
Both of us. How diplomatic.
“You going to try to hit me with your car again?”
“I won’t miss, and even Parker won’t be able to save you this time. Do you understand?”
“Loud and clear.”
Owen’s footsteps faded, and I stood entranced by Grayson’s back as it rose rhythmically with his breaths. He finally turned around, pinning me with his eyes.
Everything we were and could be simmered there, just out of reach—too far away to keep me warm, but dangerous enough to incinerate what was left of my heart.
“Grayson, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. Mia just kind of dumped me here.”
His eyes flickered from mine to Grace and back again. “You…you can’t be here. It’s too much.” He shook his head like he’d answered a question that hadn’t been asked, and walked away, leaving me alone with Grace.
I blinked furiously as my eyes prickled with tears. Suck it up. You barged in where you don’t belong. This was what I wanted, right? To know who Grayson was behind the defenses he so painstakingly maintained. I just hadn’t expected the revelation to hurt so fucking much.
“See what I mean?” I asked Grace as I picked up the largest pieces of broken glass. “The man has walls you’d need a miracle to break through.”
Because I wasn’t her. I never would be.
Chapter Eighteen
Sam
Grayson: I’ll be there in 15 to pick you up for dinner.
The text message flashed across my phone as I applied the last of my makeup. “Shitty apology,” I mumbled.
“He’s…a little difficult to read,” Paisley answered, sprawled out on my bed, flipping through a magazine.
“If there was a manual on Grayson, it would be written in a dead dialect of Aramaic and then published in Braille. He’s impossible.”
She smiled up at me. “You look stunning.”
I rubbed my lips together to evenly distribute the gloss. I’d dressed carefully, stopping at the outlet mall and picking up a new dress with thicker straps, a fitted bodice, and a flirty yet classy skirt. “Thank you. I’m still half tempted to tell him to shove this dinner up his ass.”
Paisley sat up, the scar from open-heart surgery peeking out the top of her shirt. It was a jarring reminder of how close Jagger had come to losing her. He loved her so completely that I could feel it when they were in the same room. Hell, in the same state.
“I’d use this time to snoop. If he won’t let you in, then ask his family the questions you want answers to.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Miss Southern Politeness 2015, really? You never snooped into Jagger. You wouldn’t.”
She chewed her bottom lip for a second. “You’re right. But Jagger and I kept too many secrets. We should have come clean early, and it would have been so much easier. Do you love him?”
What? “Love him? I wouldn’t go that far. I care about him. Deeply. I love things about him, but I wouldn’t rush into using that word.” No. That word got me screwed, in more than the literal sense, in the past.