Shattered Asylum

Chapter 78

It's six in the morning by the time we finally make it back home. The sky is still pitch black, the only light coming from the garage, casting a dim glow over the driveway.

Amy and I have spent the last five minutes trying to wake Grayson up, but he's completely dead to the world. Waking up a drunk person is practically impossible.

Amy sighs, rubbing her hands together. "Alright, time for Plan B."

I watch as she disappears inside, only to return with a cup of ice cold water.

"We could just leave him in here," I suggest, but even as I say it, I know I won't. The thought of him sleeping out here in the freezing cold makes my stomach twist.

Amy shrugs. "Your call." Then, without hesitation, she dumps the water right on his face.

Grayson furrows his brows, shifting slightly before grumbling. "What the hell?" He sluggishly wipes his face, looking both exhausted and deeply confused.

"We're home," Amy says, grabbing his hands and tugging. "Let's get you inside."

It takes him a minute to process that information, but eventually, he starts to move. He stumbles out of the car, wobbling slightly before gripping his hair with both hands.

"Fuckin... ugh." He grunts, looking around like the night personally wronged him.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I have no clue what he was trying to say, but he's clearly mad about it.

Amy and I each grab his waist, hoisting him up and guiding him toward the house.

The stairs are a whole new battle. We move sideways, bumping into the railing and the wall as we go, trying not to drop him... or ourselves.

"We're gonna wake up his parents," I whisper.

Amy huffs. "Ethan sobered up enough to walk in on his own, so why is this one still-"

Before she can finish, Grayson trips over absolutely nothing, and we all go down like dominoes.

I crash into his bedroom door with a thud, Grayson and Amy piling on top of me. The weight of them knocks the air from my lungs, and a weird, involuntary noise escapes me.

Amy loses it, desperately trying to hold in her laughs but failing miserably.

"It's not funny," I wheeze, trying to regain my balance.

"It's so funny," she whispers, still giggling.

I push the door open and let Grayson flop onto his bed like a sack of bricks. My back aches from hauling him around, and I stretch it out while Amy tries (and fails) to suppress another laugh.

"The fuq," Grayson slurs, shifting on the bed. He tries to sit up, but his body refuses to cooperate.

Amy and I exchange a look before laughing again at how ridiculously drunk he still is.

Grayson groans in frustration as he reaches for the hem of his hoodie, attempting to yank it off. His movements are sluggish, uncoordinated, basically useless.

After three failed attempts, he growls in defeat and flops back down, throwing an arm over his face.

"Let me help you," I sigh, trying to smother my amusement.

He huffs dramatically but lifts his arm, offering his hand like he's some kind of prince bestowing me the honor of assisting him.

I roll my eyes at his laziness but take his hand anyway, pulling him upright.

I curl my fingers under his hoodie, brushing against his warm skin as I tug it upward. His muscles tense under my touch, and I swear he's doing it on purpose.