Just One Regret(4)

Next to me, Grayson makes a sound that I swear is close to a laugh. I look at him to see him shaking his head back and forth.

“I need to go back to my hotel.”

“It’s your birthday,” he says, turning his head to me. “And your friend is already at my penthouse.”

Sarah. God, of course. I’ve completely forgotten about her. Although if she’s partying with a bunch of fighters, I have a feeling I’ve been forgotten as well. The girl knows how to live it up.

“I don’t understand what’s happened tonight,” I admit.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he says, the finality clear in his tone.

Nothing he’s done has made sense. The fact that I was even at the fight tonight still has me flustered. I certainly never expected to see him up close, or talk to him…or have him touch me.

My lower back still burns where he had his hand on me.

I don’t want to think about why that is.

Grayson watches me, practically daring me to ask the questions I want to. Why did he come up to me? Why did he take out Mancuso so quickly? What did he mean when we were in that room?

I don’t ask them.

I’m too afraid of the answers.

We look at each other, silence filling the back of the SUV. I’m far away from him, and yet too close.

Everything from this night begins to crash down on me while I watch Grayson watching me.

I can’t believe he’s here. On my birthday. Six years to the day he walked away from me.

Six years to the day my biggest regret began.

Before he can see my eyes fill with tears, I turn my head and look out the window.

I watch the city fly by, the SUV zipping in and out of the late night traffic, and I don’t say another word to the only man I’ve ever trusted enough to give my heart to…and the only man who stomped all over it.





Three





Kennedy





We stay silent on the quick drive to the hotel. An odd vibe I can’t name permeates the cab of the SUV until I feel it close around me, making it difficult to breathe. Every time I glance at Grayson, which I try to avoid, he’s staring at his hands in his lap. His shoulders are pulled tight and back, but he has his head dropped forward, defeated.

There’s a strange, familiar sensation inside of me, wanting to reach out and comfort him just like I used to. Like we used to do for each other.

Somehow Grayson and I always understood each other, and despite the time it’s been since we’ve seen each other, I don’t like that I can’t tell what he’s thinking. We used to be able to read each other’s minds, finish each other’s sentences. Now we’re just familiar strangers sharing a ride.

When I was fourteen, after a particularly rough but not entirely uncommon morning at home, I took off to the local park. My hand covered my bloodied lip, courtesy of my dad, and while I tried to stop the bleeding and the tears, a boy had walked right up to me, ripped off the pocket of his T-shirt, and without looking at me, handed it to me.

He walked away from me, blond hair curling at the edges of his shoulders, desperately needing a haircut. Other than his hair, I saw his torn and dirty shirt that was two sizes too big and the slump of his shoulders.

Two days later, I went back to the park. I had come home from school, saw the wine glass in my mom’s hand, and turned right back around and out the front in an effort to avoid her.

Grayson was already there.

“Hey,” he said, his tanned and dirty legs pumping on a swing. He looked too big for it, but comfortable all the same.

I slid into the swing next to him and mirrored his movements. “I’m Kennedy.”

“Grayson.”

We sat like that, our legs pushing and pumping back and forth for what seemed like forever. I didn’t know it then, but that day, as we swung on the swings in silence, an understanding was born.

He would never ask me about the problems I had at home.

And I would never ask him about his.

That silent promise worked for years. Eventually, we began sharing. I shared more often.

I figured Grayson stayed quiet because even though my stay-at-home mom was a drunk who could smile for her friends but didn’t care if I was home or not, and my dad was some hotshot lawyer who liked to smack both his wife and daughter around whenever it suited him, my problems were nothing compared to Grayson's.

Not even close.

The SUV pulls to a slow stop in front of the Mirage and I turn to Grayson expectantly.

He doesn’t move until the men in the front climb out of the SUV. Then his door opens and Grayson slides out.

I follow and shoot both men a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

The man who winked at me earlier smiles freely. “No thanks needed. You can call me Lynx.” He points to the guy next to him with his thumb. “This is my twin, Landon.”

“Nice to meet you,” I start to say, but I’m cut off when Grayson's hand tugs on mine and he pulls me forward.

“Don’t flirt with my crew,” he whispers as he drags me through the fancy foyer. I’m barely able to notice the marble floors or the enormous length of a fish tank behind the check-in counter.

“Jesus, Grayson.” I tug my hand out of his fierce grip and rub my wrist with my other hand. “Calm the hell down.”

He looks apologetic, but he doesn’t say the words.

I stew in my anger and my confusion until the elevator stops on the top floor.

I take a step out, and then step to the side for someone to open the door. Behind it, I hear the rhythmic thumping of bass and the sounds of drunken laughter.

My shoulders slump a bit.

This isn’t how I wanted to spend my birthday. I wanted to watch a movie, grab dinner, maybe a glass or two of wine. There has never been a time when overindulgence in alcohol has seemed like a good, or fun, idea to me. I grew up with too much of it. I saw too many times the effects of overdrinking as my mom crossed yellow lines driving me home from school, or when she’d slip on our tiled floors and laugh herself into hysterics.

It wasn’t my fault she’d married a man with money who liked to show his power with his fists and the back of his hand across her cheek, but I had certainly paid the price.

I scowl, staring at the door.

The Grayson I knew would know how much this would bother me. The Grayson I was friends with protected me from moments like these, from parties like what I can hear happening behind his door.

As if he can feel the disappointment mixed with anger pulsing from my narrowed eyes, Grayson places a hand on my hip, opens the door with his other hand, and pushes me forward.

He doesn’t let me go as we walk through crowds. In here, everyone knows him. It’s obvious as I scan the enormous living space. Bodies are packed tight and he’s jostled with congratulatory slaps on the back and shoulders from men, but I barely hear him murmur his thanks.

My eyes scan the vast space, the sleek and modern white and green furniture. I cringe at the thought of alcohol being spilled on it.

As we push through the body-filled room, I catch Sarah bouncing wildly in the distance. I turn and grin, faking the stretch of my lips, when I see her raise a water bottle high in the air and jump up and down. It’s not that she’s overly excited; she’s just so short that she has to jump so I can see her.

I laugh and shake my head. I should grab Sarah and leave. Hell, she probably wants to stay, but this isn’t at all my kind of atmosphere. I’ve rarely been drunk. Never liked the taste of anything harsher than a sweet white wine, and even then I only have two glasses, max—with food, generally.

Tonight’s two glasses of long island iced tea were above my general protocol, but I’ve been sober ever since I saw Legend’s name flashing on the marquee outside the arena.

I’m about ready to tell Grayson I’m going to take off when his hand slaps down on an entertainment system. Immediately, the music dies and the chatter silences. All heads turn in our direction, and I fight the urge to hide behind him.

“Party’s over,” he declares, his gaze slicing to everyone seemingly at the same time. “If you’re not Sarah or part of my crew, get out.”

Groans leave a few men’s lips, but they’re cut off when Grayson's crewmen seem to get moving. It seems like it is only moments before the room is cleared.

I stand in the same spot, Grayson still standing next to me, when I meet Sarah’s gaze.

“You have a ton of explaining to do, woman,” she says with a wink, her finger pointed in my direction.

“Later,” Grayson says before I can argue with her. “Right now, I have a birthday girl to get caught up with. We’ll be on the deck.”

Once again, his hand is on my back and I’m moving. Behind me, I hear Sarah laughing maniacally as she shouts, “Me alone with all these men? Let’s party, boys!” Her whoop of glee disappears when the sliding door Grayson pushes me through closes.











“Want anything to drink?” he asks.

I do. My mouth feels dry. I’m not entirely sure water will help that, though.

Shaking my head, I turn toward the rooftop deck. The wind, which felt like a breeze earlier, now whips through the air. I brush a chunk of my chocolate brown hair out of my eyes and move to one of the plush outdoor couches.

“I’m still trying to figure out what’s happening,” I admit.

My fingers tangle themselves around each other in my lap. Looking out into the dark sky, punctuated only by the lights of the city, I can’t see any stars. I’m used to it, having spent the last three years living in a decent-sized city, but sometimes I miss the starry nights when I could sit in the park in Braxton and see every twinkling star fill the dark sky.