by Nicky James
“When’s his appointment,” she asked, lowering her voice and checking over her shoulder like he might be coming down the stairs.
“Friday morning.”
“Are you going with him?”
“If he invites me to.”
“You should insist. Sometimes an outside perspective is needed. He’ll glitter coat his problems otherwise. Play them down. Then he won’t get the right help.”
I doubted at this point he would, but she had a point.
“I can’t make him, but I’ll suggest it.”
Together we cleaned up shop and closed the doors for the night. After Maria left, I spent time checking the shop’s emails and responding to a few important messages that couldn’t wait until I returned. Then I paid bills and wasted time on mundane tasks that didn’t need doing. Time wasting, because I knew what I was in for upstairs, and lately, it took a lot of patience and restraint to deal with Gray.
If we didn’t have twenty-two years of history behind us, our new, fragile relationship would never have survived.
Eventually, an hour and a half later, I climbed the back stairs to the apartment.
Gray was sitting at the kitchen table when I came through the door, a bottle of scotch open beside him and a tumbler half filled with the amber liquid. Ringo had his ass planted on the table in front of him, and they were having some kind of stare down.
“You’re liable to get your face ripped off.”
“Nah, he likes me. We have an understanding.”
His words were slurred, so I scooped up the bottle, capped it, and stuck it back in the cupboard.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ve had enough. It’s not an answer. You’ll just make it worse.”
“What would you know,” he mumbled.
Gray had reached desperate measures. He used anything and everything as a Band-Aid to cover the growing wound. Primarily, sex and alcohol.
Three times over the past three weeks it’d gotten bad enough I’d nearly taken him to the hospital to be admitted. The only thing stopping me was the fear that he’d never forgive me if I had him locked up on the mental health ward.
Everything was on hold. Doug wouldn’t take him back at work until the doctor cleared him. Alterations on his truck were going to cost a pretty penny which wasn’t in his budget since he was living on a reduced disability pay. And gym time had dwindled off since those strange episodes were happening with more and more frequency, and he feared going in public.
Eric Davidson didn’t press charges—thank God—but Gray didn’t want to push his luck. He was becoming a shut-in. A recluse. And that in itself aggravated his symptoms. I’d found more evidence of his “timekeeping,” caught him lost in a stare down with his watch, and discovered more bruises from falls he didn’t tell me about.
After returning the liquor to the cupboard, I leaned on the counter and watched Gray and Ringo. Gray’s eyes were glassy and tinted red. His skin was pale, and he hadn’t shaved in a week or more. Dark bruises surrounded his eyes.
“You okay with a six a.m. depart time?”
“Sure.”
He squinted at Ringo and made a claw hand. As he brought it closer to Ringo’s face, I cringed, waiting for the impending attack, but it never came. Gray roughed him up, and Ringo batted at his hand playfully. No claws extended. They had a strange sort of relationship that I couldn’t understand. Ringo had never been so… friendly or docile.
“Have you been drugging my cat?”
“No,” Gray said, turning to me when Ringo jumped down from the table and skittered away. “He just gets me, and I get him. We’re buddies.”
“Ringo isn’t buddies with anyone. Ask George. Ask the series of fish I’ve flushed down the toilet.”
Gray shrugged and tipped his tumbler to his mouth, swallowing deeply as he drank more than half what was in his glass.
“You could at least mix it with Coke like a normal person.”
He grunted something inaudible.
“I take it you had a rough day.”
He dropped the glass and shoved it away before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “My mother called.”
“And?”
“Does that not speak for itself?”
“Did you tell her anything?”
“No.”
That didn’t surprise me. Vivian would likely jump on the next plane if she had any idea Gray was struggling.
“Are you packed for tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you had dinner?”
He pushed from the table and wandered into the living room. “I’m not hungry.”
Searching for strength, I pinched the bridge of my nose, inhaling and exhaling. When I glanced into the other room, he’d fit his big body onto the uncomfortable settee with an arm draped over his face. Ringo was on his chest in a ball, and Gray didn’t look like he planned to go far.
I checked the time and predicted we were about ten minutes from a full-blown episode. Maybe less. I’d learned enough to decipher triggers. The apartment was quiet. His eyes were closed. His body was relaxing. Those things would combine and concoct a vicious poison that would soon soak into the processing center of his brain, and he’d lose it.
Then the following would happen. I’d spend an hour talking him down, then he’d beg me to fuck him. He couldn’t handle the breakdown of emotions any other way.
I took the bottle of scotch back out from the cupboard and poured myself a stiff drink—no Coke. I was so out of my league. How did that saying go? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
* * *
Summer was digging her claws in slowly but surely. The morning was cool, but the promise of a blistering hot day was in the process of cresting the horizon as we drove out of Dewhurst Point the following morning.
Gray stared out the window as he sipped his coffee, his fingers absently massaging his upper thigh. A tiny pinch appeared between his brows that I recognized as pain.
“The house is apparently livable,” he said into the quiet. “Got a call yesterday. The structure is sound, and the rest of the work is superficial.”
“Oh yeah?” It was the first he’d spoken in twenty minutes. “That was fast.”
“Two months. I guess they poured a whole new foundation wall on the north side, hoisted up the floor where it buckled, and inserted extra supports. Never been stronger. The upstairs roof is repaired, so now they have internal stuff left to fix. Maybe another month of that bullshit then it will be done.”
I chanced a glance in his direction. He squinted into the distance, lost in thought. “Are you anxious to get home?”
All I got was a shrug. Part of me wanted to ask where I fit into his life. Nothing would rock our friendship. With or without getting tangled in intimacy, I knew Gray and I were solid. But wasn’t this what he wanted? What was it we’d been doing for weeks? And how could I ask when he was dealing with so much?
The void expanded once again. We drove in silence for another hour when Gray began fidgeting. First, he knocked his knuckles against his teeth repeatedly as his gaze darted the road ahead.
As cars shot past in the other lane, his head twitched as he followed their motion. His knee bounced. Then he smacked his fist against the radio dial, switching the display to the digital clock readout. Within a second, he punched it again, bringing up the radio station display instead.
He wiped a hand over his face. Smacked the button again. Threaded fingers through his hair. Hit the button. Hit the button. Tugged his watch from his pocket. Licked his lips. Hit the button. Clenched his fists. Hit the button. Squirmed. Closed his eyes. Blew out a shaky breath. Folded himself in half then growled for me to pull over.
The minute the car came to a stop on the graveled curb, he crashed through the door and took off down the side of the highway. Sadly, it was all too familiar. Without missing a beat, I darted after him, keeping a few feet behind as he sucked great gulps of air and tore at his hair.
; He spun, his trembling visible from ten feet away. I caught up with him and pulled him to my chest, pinning his head against my shoulder.
“Deep breaths.” Together we inhaled and exhaled. His heart knocked with such force, I felt it deep in my own chest.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“Yes, you can. You’ll get through this.”
He’d shared how confining it could feel when his perception of time slipped. The walls shrank, and he’d explained about an ever-present sensation of doom looming all around him. It made it hard to breathe, and more times than not lately, he’d been tossed into panic attacks.
Distractions worked, but I’d failed him yet again because we’d been traveling in silence. Clearing my own mind was tricky. Once he’d calmed enough, I pulled him from my shoulder and kissed his forehead.
“Come on. We’re a little ways away yet. We should probably talk strategy. Will you be my wingman?”
“You know that normally means something else altogether.”
I chuckled. “I know, but these auctions can be cutthroat. Always better to go in with a partner and a plan.”
He rattled his head and looked around. Traffic moved along, oblivious to our struggles. The sun sat low in the sky, steadily rising, shining off windshields and drying the morning dew.
“Better?” I asked.
“I think so.”
We returned to the car, and I kept him talking the rest of the way.
Eight years ago, when my grandmother had passed away, she’d left me a small inheritance. It wasn’t anything that would make me rich, but it had provided a good cushion for my hobby. It paid a lot of my bills, and when auctions or rare items appeared in my searches, I didn’t feel guilty using that money to indulge.
It made Gray crazy. He thought I was frivolous and should buy a house or something instead.
“So how much are you pissing away this time?”
I grinned. Storage auctions were hit or miss, and the dent in my pocketbook always depended on the competition.
“Couple thousand. Or maybe nothing.”
“Have you ever walked away from one of these with nothing?”
“Nope.”
* * *
The storage yard was one of the bigger ones I’d visited. All the units that were to be auctioned had signs on their roll doors, and Gray and I wandered the long rows waiting for the first bidding to begin. We’d arrived early and checked into our hotel before grabbing a coffee and finding the location.
Several dozen people swarmed about. A few faces were familiar. Other auction-hoppers like me. There was always some friendly—and not so friendly—competition that happened at these things. Taunting. Bid swiping. And creepers. I knew them all. I’d been label each at some point over the years. I knew how these things worked.
Gray was quiet. Calmer since his small anxiety attack on the highway. I wished he could remain in this more peaceful mindset.
“Will you come with me Friday?” he asked out of the blue.
I stopped walking and turned to him, squinting into the late morning sun. “Of course. I was going to ask if you wanted me there.”
“I just… I’m afraid I won’t be able to make her understand. What if she doesn’t believe me?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“Because it sounds ridiculous.”
“I’m sure she’s seen it all, Gray. I’m hoping she has answers for you.”
He toed a rock, trying to kick it with the blunt toe on his prosthetic shoe. He screwed up his face when it didn’t go far and tried again.
“What if she can’t help me? What if this is my life now? I can’t fucking live like this. Do you know how close I am to offing myself? Do you know how many times a day that thought runs through my mind now?”
The bottom fell out of my stomach, and I reached for him. We’d made no open displays of intimacy in public—and I knew that was on me. Hearing Gray talk like that pushed the concern of other people’s eyes to the back of my mind. I clasped his hand, threading our fingers together before cupping his cheek and making him look me in the eyes.
“Don’t talk like that. You aren't allowed to give up on me.”
He searched my face, lips pinched, eyes vacant. Whatever was going on in his head was unreadable. He didn’t respond. After another beat, he squeezed my hand, pulled away, and kept walking.
The first auction started twenty minutes later. We gathered with the crowd as the rolling door was drawn up and the contents were revealed on a superficial level. The auctioneer gave a quick rundown of the unit and then everyone had a chance to view it from a distance.
Sometimes, the locker screamed its value right up front. It would be brimming with obvious antique furnishings or devices, other times, there were a whole lot of boxes. Boxes were always a gamble. You couldn’t predict what someone had packed away and stuck in a corner. Was it grandma’s old knickknacks, clothes, records, newspapers, or something so valuable the person didn’t know what they had.
Gray and I took our turn shifting through the crowd to get a first good look at the contents.
“Looks stark and empty,” he said.
“What is that in the corner?”
“What?”
“Behind the bed frame.”
“A painting… maybe? Or an old sign of some kind. Can’t tell.”
Gray was right, it was pretty lackluster and not promising.
We shifted to the back of the crowd where he nudged my arm. “So?”
“Not this one.” I knew a bust when I saw it.
Once everyone had taken a turn viewing, the auctioneer called the auction to life. Hearing the cattle rattle sound of his voice traveling in the air made my skin tingle. I loved shit like this. The anticipation. The heady rush of blood flowing fast through my veins at the apex of the moment. Even if it wasn’t my bid holding promise.
The bidding cries were shouted above the hypnotic tone of the auctioneer, and he waved his hand and pointed to each increased bid as they came in. My gaze bounced from one call to the next as I followed the competition.
I was so thoroughly engrossed, I didn’t immediately notice Gray had retreated from the crowd. When I looked over my shoulder, he was gone. With a quick scan, I found him leaned against the opposite row of lockers, head in his hands, legs buckling.
I didn’t make it to his side before he collapsed.
I dropped to the ground as he frantically grasped the air, looking for leverage. I caught his arm and steadied him on his ass. His eyes were closed, and his nostrils flared with deep sucking breaths.
“Too fast?” I asked, anticipating what he was feeling.
He nodded, his head jerking up and down. When his hands went to his ears, and he covered them, I stalled, assessing the situation. The trill and ongoing buzz of the auctioneer's voice rang through the air so fast most people couldn’t make out the filler gibberish he used between rhyming off bids and pushing for higher ones. It was chaotic energy, and to Gray, it emulated that exact racing sensation he described when having an episode.
Crouched beside him, I pulled his head against my chest and crushed my own hands over his opposite ear while I held him close, muting the sound the best I could. When I spoke, I hoped the hollowed echo of my voice resonating in my chest cavity, would override the assault.
“Nothing’s racing, Gray. It’s in your head. Don’t listen to that guy, listen to my heart beating. Listen to my voice.” I injected as much calm as I could into my tone. “Open your eyes and focus on what you see. Nothing is racing. It’s steady. It’s all moving as it should.”
Fuck if I knew what I was doing. I was making it up as I went along. Bringing him here was a terrible idea. It wasn’t noon, and he’d come apart twice already. All I could think about was what he’d said to me earlier.
“What if this is my life now? I can’t fucking live like this.”
The auction on the first locker ended, and the crowd moved on toward the next. I stayed with Gray. A f
ew concerned onlookers stopped to make sure we were all right, but once I reassured them, they moved on.
The sun beat down, warming my skin and making me sweat where Gray remained crushed to my chest. After a while, his body relaxed.
“You’re missing your auction.”
“Fuck ‘em. They don’t matter. Let’s take you back to the hotel.”
He lifted his head, shaking it and frowning. “That’s not fair. Take me to the hotel and come back. You were excited about this, and I ruined it.”
“Gray—”
“Don’t fight me.”
Sighing, I helped him off the ground and relented. I’d take him back to the hotel, but with the clouded look growing in his eyes, there was no way in hell I was leaving him there alone. Friday couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-One
Grayson
“Am I going in with you?” Beck asked.
“You came, didn’t you?”
I tempered the grit in my tone and fixed a neutral look on my face since I’d spent all morning challenging Beck at every turn. Based on the pinched line of his lips, I didn’t succeeded. A constant fire burned under my ass lately, and I couldn’t do anything right.
I hated everything.
Sitting in the waiting room at Dr. Kelby’s office was making me antsy. We’d arrived early which meant suffering with the ticking clock mounted on the wall across from me. It stole all my focus as I fought an unrelenting battle for control. Beck hated when I counted minutes, but it was the only thing that kept the episodes from forming. Sometimes. Other times, it was the opposite.
I clutched the watch in my pocket and listened to the intervals between ticks, encouraging them to stay spaced apart. The threat of them jumbling together and racing was always real.
“Grayson Brooks?”
I startled and snapped my head up, finding the young doctor smiling from the doorway to her office. Her strawberry blonde hair hung over her shoulder in a side braid, and her green blouse brought out the matching rich tones in her eyes.
She was young. Mid-thirties if I had to guess. The few times I’d talked to her when I was in the hospital, I remembered thinking how Beck would have considered her beautiful. The faint freckles dusting her pale cheeks reminded me of a girl he’d dated a few years ago and how many times he’d commented on them.
