Broken Hands

77. Saving a friend

Grayson had barely drifted into the uneasy calm of sleep when his phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling him abruptly back to reality. He groaned, rubbing his eyes before blindly reaching for the device. The screen lit up, illuminating the name Aiden.

Grayson frowned. What now? He swiped to answer, holding the phone to his ear his free hand caressing Stray's fur. "What?"

Aiden's voice came through, frantic and labored, his breathing heavy like he'd just run a marathon in the background a loud blaring music and yellings. "Grayson... you have to come get me," he gasped. "It's crazy here, and I think... I think I got hurt."

Grayson's frown deepened, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by concern. "Call 911," he said flatly, already feeling the knot of tension building in his gut.

"No," Aiden shot back, panic sharpening his voice. "No cops. If they come, I'm done. I might get arrested, Grayz. It'll make everything worse—I'm already on the brink of prison. I just... I just need you to give me a ride. Please. This once."

Grayson exhaled heavily, the weight of Aiden's words pressing on him like a vice. He rubbed his temples, closing his eyes. "Where are you?"

"I sent the location," Aiden replied quickly. "Be careful when you come in. I'll try to hold on, but I'm under the kitchen sink, okay? Just... hurry, man."

Grayson sat up, his pulse quickening as the call ended. He tossed the phone on the bed and groaned into his hands. This was reckless, and he knew it. Damien was home, and if he got caught sneaking out, there'd be hell to pay. Damien would find out eventually—he always did—and then Alex would step in, disappointed as ever.

He could just wake Damien up now and come clean. But no. Damien would call the cops, and Aiden didn't need that kind of attention. Not right now, Grayson thought grimly. Aiden needed him, and this better be the last time.

Grayson stood, pulling on a pair of black pants and a black hoodie, the fabric familiar and comforting. He pressed his ear against the door, straining for any sound from the hall. Nothing. The house was silent. The coast was clear.

He grabbed his phone and the tracker bracelet, which felt like a curse on nights like this. Turning, he met Stray's wide, curious eyes as she watched him intently from her spot at the foot of the bed. She tilted her head, almost as if to say, Are you really doing this?

Grayson sighed, kneeling to lift her off the floor. She squirmed slightly in his arms, but he held her close, pressing his face into her fur. "It's a bad idea. I know," he muttered, his voice soft.

Stray licked his face, and Grayson couldn't help but crack a faint smile. He laid her gently on the bed, pulling the covers over her small body. "Stay," he said firmly. "Sleep," he added quietly, "I'll be right back, tomorrow you need to see the vet."

Stray let out a small huff, settling into the blankets but keeping her eyes on him. Grayson stood, steeling himself for what was to come.

He moved to the window, carefully unfastening the lock. Sliding it open as quietly as possible, he glanced down at the ground below. The drop wasn't bad—he'd done it before, though it had been a long time.

With one last glance around his room, Grayson swung his legs out of the window and climbed down. He landed softly, the cool night air biting at his skin as adrenaline coursed through him. His hoodie was already pulled over his head as he crouched low, scanning the yard for any sign of movement.

The house remained dark and still.

He slipped through the back door, his steps practiced and silent. Once outside, the weight of the night pressed down on him. The streetlights cast long, eerie shadows, and the occasional rustle of leaves or distant bark of a dog made his pulse spike.