Page 172 of Breaking Point
Grayson, please talk to me and let me know what’s wrong
At least tell me if Bambi is okay
please, Grayson
My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my hands are shaking as I clutch the steering wheel of my car.
I haven’t heard from Grayson in over two days.
I’ve run the last interaction in his kitchen through my mind a thousand times. I’ve gone so far as to text his agent to ask if I’ve been fired, which she responded with,You better not be.
The punch I felt in my gut as I tried to put the key code into his front gate, only to be denied, was hard. The last time I felt like my stomach heaved and a lump was in my throat was when we got the diagnosis for my mom’s ovarian cancer.
I prayed I’d never feel that way again and yet here I am, with a pit in my stomach for two agonizing days.
I know something is wrong, and I know for a fact it has nothing to do with me.
Call me delusional, optimistic, psychotic—I don’t care. All I care about is that no one has heard from him. Kieran soundedbelligerent when I called him—far too drunk to help me—and it’s nearing two in the morning.
I cannot shake this feeling that something horrendous has happened. My intuition is screaming at me, and if that means I have to throw myself over the gate, I’ll do it. Grayson once did the same for me and it’s about time I returned his kind gestures.
My car skids to a stop outside the front of his large iron gate. I lock it behind me before muttering under my breath, “Here goes nothing.”
Shoving my left foot in between the iron slats, my foot is well above my hip by the time my toe finds purchase on the iron bar. Wrapping my hands around the gate, high above my head, I grit my teeth and pull myself up.
All the while, I curse myself for ever stopping my Pilates classes. I’m huffing and puffing by the time I drag myself over the top of the gate. Straddling the top beam, my legs begin to shake in earnest, and I snap my head upwards.
“Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t. Look. Down,” I chant.
Like the glutton for punishment that I am, I look down.
A squeal escapes me before I slam my eyes shut.
“I said don’t look down!” I berate myself.
Clenching my teeth, my brain apparently decides it’s best to proceed with my eyes shut. The grip I have on the top of the iron grate is deadly, but as I swing my leg over the side and try to find the horizontal beam for support, my hands turn clammy. My foot dangles in the cold night, feeling nothing but air.
The sound of a dog barking snaps my eyes open.
Everything grows quiet. The wind slows, the trees stop rustling, and the crickets grow silent.
Until it’s not soundless any longer.
Multiple barks ring out, the sound frantic and making my heart jump into my throat.
“I’m coming, Bambi!” I call out, but what little good that does. She can’t hear me.
Forcing myself to look down, I slide my hands down the iron bars as the feel of my toes landing on the horizontal beam has myheart sinking with relief. I jump the last bit of space, pain slicing up my shins but I catch myself quickly with my hands and run. The pounding of my feet is accompanied by Bambi’s hysterical barking.
If he left her here for days by herself, I am going to shove my foot so far up his ass that he’ll?—
As the trees part, I see a figure illuminated by the security light, wobbling from side to side. I come to a halt right as they finally tip over, their large hulking frame hitting the front walkway sounding like a boulder crashing into the side of a mountain.
Bambi is in the glass side panel beside the front door, her big fearful eyes cutting me to my core as she barks relentlessly at the figure.
“Excuseeee me, door, this ismyyyhome,” the figure slurs.
It takes a moment for the voice to hit. For the recognition to settle in.
