23. TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-THREE
In times of crisis, I’ve been taught to remain calm.
Maybe to anyone else, this wouldn’t even qualify as such. But when I decided to return to Gray’s town unannounced, hoping like hell that he’d agree to leave with me, the last thing I expected to find was yellow tape blocking my access to the gas station.
Police littered the parking lot, so I couldn’t even get a good look at the undeniable body they were sliding into the ambulance.
The only reason I know what happened is because a bystander was on the phone—crying—that there was a shooting.
Gray stays at that gas station. He told me two weeks ago when he finally figured out how to text me back.
I know dramatics won’t help the situation, but my hands still shake as I grip my steering wheel tightly.
Gray isn’t answering his phone.
My stomach plummets when his automated voicemail sounds through my car.
I press the call button again, and my blood pressure skyrockets.
What if that body was him? What if I was too late?
I’ve ignored my gut instinct my whole life to save face.
I knew better than to throw him back to the wolves.
I should’ve done more. I should’ve held my ground and convinced him to stay.
All I want is to get him out of this never-ending cycle, and if I lose that chance, I’ll—
“Hello?” He sounds terrible, and there’s some static through the line, but the relief is instant.
Until I remember the gas station and all those police.
God, what if he did it? What if Gray shot someone out of fear or desperation?
I don’t want to get ahead of myself, so I swallow back my returning panic. “Gray,” I sigh. “Where are you?”
“Trying to find somewhere dry.” It's unlikely in this rainstorm.
“You’re not at the gas station, right?” I command more urgency in my tone because if he’s hiding by that dumpster, I might not be able to get him.
I need to get to him —see him with my own two eyes.
“I’m not there. Why?” More static rips through the speakers.
“There was a shooting; I don’t know how many were injured, but I was afraid you might’ve been involved.”
“What?” he yells, the rain kicking up around me.
“There was a shooting!”
“No shit?”
I swear to god. “Where are you, Gray?” I growl.
“The corner of Chrysaline and—”
The line goes dead, cutting off the word. I try to call him back, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Fuck.
Alright, I can…find where he is—granted if he stays there.
Increasing the speed of my windshield wipers so I can see, I pull over to punch in what I assume are the correct cross streets into my GPS. Two options come up. Chrysaline and 18th or Chrysaline and 20th.
I choose the first option since it’s closer and Gray is on foot.
He’s two and a half miles away from me, but I swear, no distance has ever felt farther.
My heart is thrashing like a rabid animal against my ribs, I’m sweating, and my throat refuses to function correctly. The last time I was this stressed was easily ten years ago when one of my trysts was hiding in my closet while my dad berated me about missing a fundraiser.
This irrational fear that Gray will vanish into thin air, untraceable and nowhere to be found, has me driving recklessly, needing to get there.
When the feminine voice announces I’m approaching my destination, I slow to a crawl, scanning the street on both sides. There is virtually no cover from the rain, so that figure a few houses down, shivering with a wad of…something over their head, strikes my heart like lightning.
“Gray,” I breathe, tapping the gas and pulling beside him. I’m out of the car in two seconds.
My relief is short-lived when I notice his posture, the missing duffle bag, and the swollen lids of his glacial eyes. Fat droplets roll down his disheveled hair, gliding over his lashes, nose, and lips. Some patchy scruff lines his trembling jaw, and when our gazes lock, he shrugs miserably.
“Come on,” I say, my calm tone masking how upset I am.
He doesn’t argue, allowing me to guide him to the car. I open his door, remove his wet ball of clothes from his freezing fingers, and help him get seated.
When the door is shut, I grind my teeth. Palming the roof, I take a breath, then another. My muscles stiffen into one mass as I ball my fist, ready to throw it.
Someone mugged him… again.
Someone hurt Gray… again.
With jerky movements, I walk over to the trunk, place the clothes off to the side, and close it. While I grab one of his dry hoodies from the back seat—one of several he left behind—I mentally sift through contacts.
“Put this on. You’re freezing,” I tell Gray.
Eyeing the dry fabric and sucking in a sharp breath, he takes it. While he swaps his wet jacket and shirt for the dry one, I watch from my peripheral, spotting fresh bruises on his sides. My nostrils flare instantly, a burning so rampant I’m sure I’ll catch flame.
“Why—you brought all this?” he asks once he’s clothed again.
I turn on the heater, reach over to aim the vents in his direction, and click on his seat warmer. “I did.”
“Hunter, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to lose your bag or break the phone charger. I—”
“Are you hungry?” I ask instead, needing to focus on his care and not the unrelenting rage simmering beneath my skin.
“Huh? Dude. What’s going on? You’re here with all my shit, and,” he swallows, “you look pissed. I’m sorry. ”
Flicking my eyes at him, I nearly explode, seeing his desperate expression.
Like, I blame him?
As if I could ever be mad due to something he has no control over?
The issue is that I demand justice and haven’t formulated a legal way to get it yet.
Whoever did this to him is going to pay for it severely.
Whoever twisted this man so inside out that he can’t see that I’m angry for him, not at him, will rue the day they crossed paths with Gray.
And even more than that—I’m angry at myself for not preventing this sooner.
“You’re coming with me now,” I say gently. “Please don’t argue about it.”
“I wasn’t—can you just tell me why you’re mad at me? I thought…” He scowls. “Man fuck this. I didn’t do anything wrong—”
I grab his hand. Wide icy blues stare down at where we are connected. “I’m not mad at you, Gray. I'm mad for you. But I do expect a name.”
“A name?”
I nod once, swiping my thumb over his pinky finger. “The person who did this to you. I want their name.”
When he looks back at me, the faintest tremor spreads through his full bottom lip before he bites it. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat, letting go of his hand and driving us away from the residential corner.