30. Ethan
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ethan
I was just about to unlock my front door and finally close the world out for a while when my phone buzzed in my back pocket.
I almost ignored it.
It had been a long-ass day, one of those where nothing seemed to go right.
Mason had been swamped with repairs, Owen had disappeared halfway through the afternoon, and I’d spent most of my time handling customers who thought they knew more about cars than we did.
But something about the way the phone buzzed, a sharp, insistent vibration, made me pull it out. A text from an unknown number.
You should check on your shop. Now.
I frowned. What the hell was this about?
My gaze flicked to the street outside.
It was quiet, the last of the evening traffic winding down as Medford settled in for the night.
The only sounds were the distant hum of a truck passing by and the faint buzz of the old streetlamp near the curb.
Another buzz. Another message.
Before it’s too late.
A slow, cold unease crept up my spine. I turned on my heel and headed straight for the shop.
Medford wasn’t the kind of place where things just happened. If someone was warning me, they either knew something, or they were involved.
Either way, I wasn’t about to ignore it.
By the time I reached the shop, my gut was a tight knot.
The street was dark, save for the glow from the old lamp post.
And then I saw it.
My stomach dropped. The side entrance was wide open.
I moved fast, stepping inside, then stopped cold.
The place was trashed.
Tools were scattered across the floor, workbenches overturned. Oil had been dumped over the concrete in wide, slick pools, like someone had done it on purpose.
And the cars. Shit.
One of our clients’ vintage Mustangs had its tires slashed, deep, jagged cuts straight through the rubber. Another classic—a ’68 Camaro—had a long, deep scratch down the length of its pristine body.
I swore under my breath, fury burning through me.
And then my gaze landed on the back wall.
My pulse kicked up.
Someone had scrawled a message in thick, black paint.
CAN’T TRUST A GRADY.
I took a step back, my fists clenching.
This wasn’t just vandalism. This was a setup.
Slashed tires. Busted equipment. Expensive, high-end cars left in worse shape than when they arrived.
In a town like Medford, trust was everything. People brought us their cars because they trusted us. Because we ran a tight business.
If word got out that we’d left the shop unlocked, that expensive cars had been damaged on our watch. It could ruin us.
The Grady name was all we had. And someone was trying to destroy it.
I took a steadying breath, forcing the rage back down. This wasn’t just about the shop.
This was personal. And I had a damn good idea who was behind it.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I was out of the shop, in my truck, and halfway to Hank Lawson’s office before the anger fully set in.
The bastard wanted a fight?
Fine.
He was getting one.
By the time I shoved through the front doors of his real estate firm, my blood was boiling.
The receptionist barely had time to look up before I stormed past her desk.
“Sir,” she started, but I ignored her, pushing straight through the heavy wooden doors into Hank’s office.
He was waiting.
The smug bastard was leaning back in his chair, a glass of whiskey in hand, as if he knew I’d come.
“Ethan,” he drawled, taking a slow sip. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
I slammed my palms onto his desk. “You think this is a game?”
Hank didn’t even flinch. He just smiled, lazy and self-assured, like he already knew how this was going to play out.
“I think it’s business,” he said smoothly. “Something you and your brothers clearly don’t understand.”
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
“Medford is changing, Ethan. You either change with it, or you get left behind.”
I clenched my jaw. “You set us up.”
Hank let out a low chuckle, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Set you up? That's a bold accusation.”
He tilted his head.
“But let’s say, hypothetically, someone did vandalize your shop. Left it open. Slashed a few tires. Do you really think the town will care how it happened? Or will they just see a failing business, run by three reckless brothers who don’t take care of their clients’ cars?”
My hands curled into fists.
“If you don’t sell,” Hank continued, “the bad press will put you out of business anyway.” He smirked. “And let’s face it, the Gradys have been on thin ice for years.
“The only reason you’ve lasted this long is because people are sentimental. But once they lose faith? Once they start going to other mechanics?” He shrugged. “It’s over.”
I wanted to hit him.
Wanted to drive my fist straight through that smug expression and make him feel even a fraction of what he’d put Aurora through. What he was trying to do to my family.
But I didn’t. Because that was exactly what he wanted.
Hank wasn’t just a bully, he was a snake.
He knew how to push people just far enough, how to make them snap so he could turn around and play the victim.
That was what he’d done to George Bennett.
That was what he was still doing to Aurora.
And if I lost control now, he’d twist it.
Turn it into another story to fuel his smear campaign against us.
I forced myself to breathe. To think.
Then I saw it—the flicker of something behind his eyes.
Amusement.
Satisfaction.
Because he wasn’t just playing the long game. He’d done this before.
“Why do you think Page Turners hasn't been burned to the ground already?” he said, voice soft and venomous.
I went still.
Hank smiled, slow and deliberate, before finishing the rest of his whiskey.
“Some people don’t take well to being backed into a corner,” he mused. “They make bad decisions. Get desperate. It’s tragic, really.”
He set the glass down.
“But me?” He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto mine. “I prefer to let people destroy themselves.”
I saw red. The way he smirked, the way he clearly enjoyed this. It was like he wanted me to throw the first punch.
He wanted to bait me into doing something reckless, something he could twist in his favor.
But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Still, my voice came out sharp as a blade. “You're a real piece of work, you know that?”
Hank chuckled, leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “I’ve been called worse.”
“You're tormenting Aurora. You set up my shop to fail. And for what? Some power trip? This town isn’t yours, Hank.”
His smile didn’t waver.
“That's where you're wrong.” He gestured vaguely to the office around him. “Medford already belongs to me. I just haven’t collected all the pieces yet.”
I shook my head. “You think you can buy loyalty? That people are going to roll over just because you're waving a little money around?”
Hank exhaled, sounding bored.
“It’s not about money. It’s about control.” His gaze darkened. “Your family’s been in my way for decades. My father should’ve run you out of town when he had the chance.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
He stood, adjusting his jacket like he was already done with this conversation. “So here’s the deal, Ethan. You can take the easy way out—sell, cut your losses, move on—or you can be stubborn, keep fighting, and watch everything fall apart anyway.”
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. “You really think you're untouchable, don’t you?”
Hank’s smirk deepened. “I know I am.”
That was it. The final push.
I took a slow step back, nodding to myself.
He thought he’d won. He thought he had everything lined up perfectly, that he’d forced us into a corner with no way out.
And maybe, a day ago, I would’ve fallen for it.
Maybe I would’ve lost my temper, let him push me into doing something I couldn’t take back.
But not now.
It was time to stop reacting. Time to start playing smarter.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders back. “You know what, Hank? You're right.”
His smugness faltered, just a little. “Excuse me?”
“You are untouchable,” I said, keeping my voice level. “You’ve been doing this so long, people just expect you to win. It’s boring at this point.” I met his gaze, letting my own smirk form. “But you know what's not boring?”
Hank frowned.
“Watching someone like you lose.”
The amusement drained from his expression.
I turned on my heel, heading for the door before I let the anger take over again. I had to get out of there before I did something I’d regret.
But just before I stepped out, I paused in the doorway.
“And Hank?” I glanced over my shoulder. “Next time you try to destroy someone, you should probably make sure they don’t have more fight left in them.”
I didn’t wait for his response.
I walked out of that office, my heart hammering, my fists aching from how tightly I’d been clenching them.
Hank thought he was untouchable. He thought he had the upper hand.
But he had no idea what was coming next.
I was already dialing before I even hit the parking lot.
The night air was cold against my skin, but my blood was still running hot from that conversation. I could still see Hank’s smug expression, still hear the way he’d dismissed us like we were nothing more than an inconvenience.
That bastard thought he had us boxed in.
But we weren’t going down that easy.
Owen picked up. “What's up?”
“Get to the shop,” I said, heading toward my truck. “Now.”
A pause. “What happened?”
“We got set up. I'll explain when you're both here.”
Owen didn’t argue. “On my way.”
I ended the call and immediately hit Mason’s contact. He answered on the second ring.
“Ethan?”
“Need you at the shop,” I said, starting the truck. “It’s bad, Mase.”
He didn’t ask questions, just let out a sharp breath. “Be there in ten.”
I threw the truck into gear and peeled out of the parking lot, my thoughts racing just as fast as my tires.
This wasn’t just about the damage at the shop anymore.
Hank had made his move. He was putting pressure on every weak spot he could find, betting that we’d fold under the weight of it all.
But he was forgetting one thing.
We were Grady men.
And we didn’t break that easily.
By the time I pulled into the lot, Owen and Mason were already there, standing by the busted garage door.
Mason turned as I climbed out of my truck, his jaw tight. “Jesus, Ethan. What the hell happened?”
I exhaled sharply, my breath visible in the cool night air. “Somebody trashed the place.”
Owen ran a hand through his hair. “I figured that much. Who do we think did it?”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Who do you think?”
Understanding dawned on Mason’s face. “Hank.”
Owen swore under his breath. “That son of a bitch.”
I nodded. “Slashed tires, busted tools, spray-painted messages meant to make it look like we were reckless, like we left the place unsecured.”
Mason shook his head. “If people stop trusting us…”
“We lose everything,” I finished.
The three of us stood there for a moment, staring at the damage. The place looked like hell.
But we weren’t just gonna stand here and take it.
I straightened. “We clean this up tonight. No cops, no press. We fix what we can and figure out our next move.”
Owen cracked his knuckles. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
I met his gaze. “That it’s time to stop playing defense?”
Mason nodded, determination settling over his features. “Then let’s do this.”
Without another word, we got to work.
Hank wanted a war?
He was about to get one.