Grayson Snaps

Chapter 11: Promises Kept

Chapter 11: Promises Kept 

I repeat my question as Grayson drags a struggling, kicking, and not to mention suffocating Tristan up the two short steps to our already open backdoor. From the threshold there's the distinct orange glow of the overhead kitchen light and the warmth emanating from the heater.

"What are you doing?!" I exclaim, rushing after them.

"I don't know, E! What am I doing?! Call Sam," he says, turning towards me, "ask the pro!"

"What?!" I exclaim.

"You play with your new friends and I'll play with mine." He says, giving me a smile. Like a smile you'd give the cashier at McDonalds after she takes your order.

"Grayson, what the hell are you doing?!" I shout when he turns back around, pushing Tristan through the threshold of our door and into the kitchen.

He wipes the belt from across Tristan's throat and shoves him to the ground. With his arms outstretched, Tristan manages to avoid mashing his face against the tile. Grayson laughs, carelessly tossing my belt to the side. It hits one of the glasses on the drying rack, creating a distinct ting!

Tristan scrambles on his hands and knees, trying to get up, his head snapping back to look at Grayson; his eyes are wide with panic.

"D-Don't fucking touch me!" He manages to get out before Grayson roughly yanks him up by the shoulders, wrapping one hand around the lower part of his neck, the other on his forehead; he yanks his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. He makes an aching, strangled sound like an animal caught in a trap. I wince at how far Grayson is pulling; it's like he wants to take it off. Tristan's back arches against his chest. Grayson's nose is on his throat in a second, inhaling deeply, sniffing frenziedly.

"You smell fuckin' tasty. What is that? Chamomile? Antiseptic? I'm not sure!" He says, right by his ear, wrapping his hand around his mouth when he attempts to scream.

"Grayson, are you crazy?!"

When I try to grab for Grayson, he twists around, sending he and Tristan slamming against the edge of the rectangular shaped kitchen island. Either Grayson's or Tristan's arm hits the glass cup sat on the edge and I watch as it descends to the ground.

It shatters on impact. The milk carton-Grayson must've been getting himself something to eat when he'd seen me outside with Tristan-falls too, tilting, and splashing the kitchen tile with a sea of spreading white. Grayson now has the kitchen island between us. He's a couple feet in front of the sink.

"Okay, that's enough! Let him go!"

Grayson isn't paying attention to me. Tristan is struggling so urgently against him that Grayson is quickly growing annoyed. He yells against his hand, the sound muffled.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Grayson says, slapping him with his other hand. Tristan's completely panicking, I can tell that much. Smack! Smack! Smack!

Tristan's suddenly looking at me with desperate, pleading eyes, his cheeks flushing from the assault, humiliated.

"Okay, let's just chill, right Tristan? Let's just chill out." I say to directly to him because Grayson clearly isn't going to. He's nodding his head desperately. I can tell Tristan is finally grasping the full situation here. Grayson isn't playing around.

Grayson smiles to me, then looks at the side of Tristan's face, purses his lips in a mocking manner and says: "You know what, Tristan? I wouldn't be too quick to trust my brother here. I mean, he's getting your lady's pussy on the daily. I wouldn't be so quick to get so friendly!"