Broken Hands

51. Taking the hits

The pharmacy was quiet, illuminated by a mix of flickering fluorescent lights and the soft glow of a digital sign advertising discounted vitamins. Grayson stepped in, the door jingling softly behind him. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and a floral air freshener that didn't quite mask the sterility. A blonde woman stood behind the counter, her hair neatly tied into a ponytail, typing something into the computer. She looked up as Grayson approached, her eyes flicking briefly to the empty bottle he set down in front of her.

"Hello," he began, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. "Can I have these, please?" He dropped the bottle on the counter.

"Hi, of course." She reached for the bottle examined it, and then nodded again.

Grayson reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "And also... can I get Fetzima." He read out the words.

The woman's fingers paused over the keyboard, her polite demeanor faltering as a subtle frown pulled at her lips. She quickly masked it, but Grayson caught the shift.

"Can I see an ID?" she asked, her voice professional.

Grayson slipped a hand into his pocket, retrieving the fake ID he had spent too much money on. He handed it over, the card slightly warm from his palm. "Here," he said casually, though his pulse quickened as the woman studied it, her eyes narrowing slightly before she gave a short nod. She definitely believed was nineteen.

She signaled to a colleague in the back. A moment later, the colleague appeared with two bottles, one Fetzima and the other Lexapro. Grayson watched them closely as they scanned the items and placed them in a small bag.

"That'll be $407," the woman said.

Grayson didn't flinch, though the amount stung. He paid through his phone, careful not to show hesitation. As soon as the transaction was done, he grabbed the bag, slid the bottles into separate pockets of his hoodie, and disposed of the receipt in the nearest trash bin. He couldn't risk Damien finding it.

Outside, the cool night air greeted him, Stray trotting obediently at his side. Grayson ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the pill bottles in his pocket, relief washing over him. He had what he needed. He'd try the lower dosage first the one his therapist prescribed; the Fetzima was new, something he'd read about online. It was risky but worth a shot.

As he walked down the dimly lit street, his gaze wandered to the familiar duplex on the right with a red door. He sucked in a breath. Savanna's house. He should just keep walking, keep his head down, and move past it.

But Stray had other ideas.

The dog froze, ears perking up at the sound of a door creaking open. Grayson's stomach dropped as Savanna stepped onto the porch, her silhouette framed by the warm glow of the light above the door. Her shadow stretched across the pavement like a beacon. She held a bag of trash and did seem to spot them in the distance.

Stray let out a bark, breaking the silence, and then bolted.

"Stray!" Grayson hissed, his grip slipping off the leash.

The dog raced toward Savanna, tail wagging.

Savanna let out a startled yelp, crouching defensively until she recognized the black Merimma sheepdog. A laugh bubbled out of her, shaky at first, then genuine as she knelt to greet Stray. "Almost put me out, girl!" she said, ruffling the dog's ears. "What are you—"

Grayson slowed to a halt, his heart sinking as her gaze lifted to meet his. Their eyes locked, and he felt his stomach churn. He wanted to disappear.

"Hi," he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets, his nerves prickling under her steady gaze as he pulled up one of his masks.

Savanna rose, crossing her arms a smirk on her lips. "Stalking me now?"