Page 37 of Wicked Minds
“Avoidance seems to be your specialty.”
“Why you?—”
Grayson takes a menacing step forward at the same time Logan shifts, putting himself between us so I have to peer around his broad shoulder to see Grayson’s thunderous expression.
“Watch it!” Logan snaps. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what happened on Christmas Eve. You’re not to go anywhere near her!”
Scoffing, Grayson shakes his head. “Of course, you’re defending her. Should have known the other night was just a fluke. Guess we’re back to being on opposite sides of the battle lines.”
“There doesn’t need to be a battle at all,” Logan counters.
“Tough shit. This war was started four years ago—long before you decided to grab a weapon and enter the fight.”
Throwing up his hands, Logan sighs in exasperation. “I have no weapon. There is no war. There’s only you and Riley and a fuckton of history that youbothneed to talk through.”
Scoffing in derision, Grayson gestures toward Logan. “There you go again, taking her side.”
“I’m not taking any fucking side,” Logan snaps before straightening. “Actually, you know what? Yeah, I am taking her side, since you’re being completely unreasonable.” He sighs, shaking his head as though he’s bone tired. “I love you like a brother, Grayson, but this has gotten out of control. Until you’re ready to talk and listen, I don’t know how to help you.”
Grayson stares at Logan as though he’s never seen him before, his teeth grinding and pain flashing behind his irises.“Good thing I don’t need your help then,” is all he says before storming away.
“Okay,” I say after the silence has dragged out too long. Logan jerks his head from where Grayson disappeared to glance at me. “I won’t shut my heart off from you.”
Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply before opening them again, a weak smile coming to his lips. “Thank fuck for that, at least.”
12
GRAYSON
The handle squeaks as I open the door to Gran’s room. I’m exhausted after my first week back at Halston. Balancing my senior class schedule with running Van Doren Holdings is always challenging, although the true cause of my weariness is the tension simmering between me and the guys. The heaviness in the air every time I step into the house. The awkwardness that underpins every conversation.
That and my conversation with Gran last week have been weighing on my mind. I’ve tried to dismiss it as the ramblings of a sick woman, but how can I? How can I simply ignore the fear that was in her eyes? What she said about my dad possibly hurting—killing—my mom?
Perhaps it is just the Alzheimer’s playing with her mind, but what if it isn’t?
It’s that, right there, that keeps me awake at night. That distracts me during meetings and interrupts whatever my lecturers are saying. Now, for the first time, I’m anxious as I step into Gran’s room, unsure whether I want her to say more so I can determine the truth from imagination, and terrified of what else she might have to say.
“Who’s there?” her frail voice calls, and I spy a crop of gray hair peeking above the top of her armchair.
“It’s just me, Gran,” I answer, closing the door behind me. “How are you today?”
“Who…” She twists in her chair, and I move so she can see me better, coming to crouch in front of her. “You. W-what are you doing here?”
Frowning, I set my hand over hers. “I wanted?—”
“No.” The trembling in her voice startles me. “Get out!”
“Gran, it’s me. Gray?—”
“Get out. Get out! GET OUT!” She’s screaming by the end, her eyes glassy and demeanor frantic as she grabs the closest thing to her—a ball of yarn—and chucks it at me.
I stagger away, hands going up in a placating gesture. “Okay. Everything’s okay.”
“You can’t be here!” she continues in a panicked state. “I don’t want you here. Help! HELP!”
“What’s going on in here?” a nurse asks as she hurries into the room.
“I—” I’m at a loss for words. Sometimes, Gran has been confused or easily agitated, but nothing like this. She’s never… “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.
