Broken Hands

53. Sharing secrets

Grayson slid into the passenger seat, his movements sluggish, as if the weight of the day had settled on his shoulders. "Hey," he mumbled, barely audible, greeting Damien without meeting his gaze.

Damien started the car, his expression unreadable as he pulled into traffic. "How was school today?" he asked, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of curiosity.

Grayson stared straight ahead, his voice flat. "I can't wait for it to be over." The words came out devoid of any energy, like he'd been running on empty for too long.

Damien's hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel. "And what happens next?" he prodded out of the blue, like a silent bullet.

Grayson glanced sideways, surprised by the question. Damien wasn't usually this talkative, not since things had started unraveling between them. Grayson shrugged. "I don't know."

The car ride was quiet for a moment, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Then, a thought surfaced—bitter and sharp. He remembered Damien's cutting words from weeks ago, a threat to send him to boot camp. This was his chance to twist the knife.

"Boot camping," Grayson said suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a brief smirk.

Damien's gaze flicked to him, "Yeah," he muttered, his voice low, almost resigned.

Grayson leaned back, satisfaction blooming in his chest. He could feel the tension simmering beneath Damien's calm exterior. Good. If guilt was a possibility, he wanted Damien to stew in it.

The driveway came into view, and Damien parked with practiced ease. Grayson reached for his bag, eager to escape, but Damien's voice stopped him mid-motion.

"What happened to your knuckles?" Damien's eyes were sharp, locked on Grayson's hands.

Grayson froze, then slowly met his uncle's gaze, carefully blanking his expression. He knew Damien could read him like an open book, but he wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. "P.E.," he said evenly. "We did some punching on the bag."

"Without gloves?" Damien pressed, one eyebrow arching in disbelief.

Grayson nodded, playing it cool. "I chose not to wear gloves," he said, then sighed dramatically, letting a hint of irritation seep into his tone. "Of course, you'd question everything I do. I get it. I deserve it."

For a fleeting moment, something flickered in Damien's eyes—something Grayson couldn't quite place. But before he could dwell on it, he stepped out of the car, bag slung over his shoulder.

Inside, Stray greeted him with uncontainable excitement, her tail wagging furiously as she danced around his legs. Grayson crouched to give her a quick pat, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

He made his way upstairs, tossing his bag on the bed before heading to Julian's room. He didn't bother knocking—an old habit he'd picked up from Damien.

Julian was sprawled across his bed, headphones on, belting out the lyrics to Oscar Winning Tears. His eyes were shut, completely immersed in the music. The boy was good, he had clear vocals and he hit those notes quit alright in a smooth falsetto.

Grayson cleared his throat, but Julian continued, oblivious. Grayson rolled his eyes, then reached out and knocked a book off the desk with a sharp thud.

Julian jolted, his eyes snapping open as he sat upright. When he spotted Grayson, his expression turned to one of mild annoyance. He pulled his headphones off and shot him a glare.

"What do you want?" Julian grumbled, his tone flat as he moved to put the headphones back on.

Grayson walked in small stride then grabbed the headphones before Julian could put it back up. "I need you to hear me out, bleached face," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady.