Broken Hands

71. Danger

Grayson held the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing that felt like it stretched on forever. Amber wasn't picking up. His breaths quickened, the air around him feeling like heavy fogs.

She wouldn't hurt herself because of me, he thought desperately. What happened wasn't her fault. She'd been high, out of her mind, and he'd understood that, she wasn't Charlie or his friends. She should understand it too, right? But doubt crept in, unbidden, refusing to let go.

His fingers curled into a tight fist. What if she hadn't taken it well? What if guilt had consumed her, pushed her into something irreversible? The thought made his stomach twist: What if she'd hurt herself? What if she bled out somewhere? Or worse, what if she found a gun and pulled the trigger?

His mind raced. Maybe it wasn't her; maybe it was those dangerous people she hung around with. The ones who always seemed to carry trouble like a seal.

Amber never ignored his calls. Ever.

Grayson glanced at his watch—7 p.m. He was supposed to be in front of the door. Damien would be mad if he broke the rule again and Damien's anger was a storm Grayson wasn't sure he could weather tonight. But what if it was too late? What if Amber needed him now?

A sharp pulse of anxiety coursed through him, and this time, he didn't fight it. His better judgment lost to the urgency clawing at his insides, and he let his heart decide.

Without another thought, Grayson took off, his steps quickening into a run as he flagged down a cab. He rattled off Amber's address to the driver, his voice sharper than intended. Sliding into the back seat, he pulled out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly across the screen.

"Hi, so I'm caught up with something. I won't be home immediately," he typed into the chat room Julian had created just for the three of them, he had named it Brother's only, with a series of padlocks.

Julian's reply was instant: "You're just signing a death wish."

Then Russell: "Caught up with what?"

Grayson hesitated, his fingers hovering over the screen before responding: "I really wanted to go downtown. Just to take a breather. I'll be back in an hour."

Julian sent a dramatic sticker of someone being shot. Russell followed with a warning: "You'd be lucky to get back before dad."

Grayson let the conversation drop as the cab pulled to a stop. He slipped out, handing the driver cash before stepping into the dimly lit street. This neighborhood always made his skin prickle—quiet, empty, the kind of place where silence wasn't peaceful but dangerous.

He walked briskly, his eyes darting around. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting pale circles of light on the pavement. A man sat on a porch nearby, his potbelly stretching against a stained shirt, a short tobacco pipe dangling from his lips. "Dance Monkey" blared faintly from a crackling radio beside him.

Grayson stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling the man's eyes on him as he passed. He resisted the urge to glance back, keeping his focus ahead.

He turned a corner, the street narrowing as Amber's house came into view—a small, isolated structure set back from the road, its dark windows staring blankly into the night. It was the kind of house that felt like it didn't belong, too far from neighbors to offer comfort.

Grayson approached cautiously, his heart thudding harder with every step making the chirping of the crickets eerie. He peered through one of the windows, his breath fogging the glass. Nothing. The house was completely dark.

He hesitated. Ringing the bell or knocking might draw the wrong kind of attention. Amber's house wasn't exactly in the safest area, and the people she associated with weren't ones to take kindly to uninvited guests.