Grayson (The Kings of Brighton Book 3)

by Megyn Ward

  NYC HOT SPOT TURNED DEADLY INFURNO

  HOTEL HEIRESS STARTS BLAZE—FLEES

  EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS OF HURRICANE DELILAH MOMENTS BEFORE NIGHTCLUB FIRE

  She takes one of each and sets them on the belt with the rest of our groceries. When I give her a questioning look because why would she want to read that trash when the majority of it seems to be nothing but a bunch of lies—I mean, the fire was last night for fuck’s sake, it’s not like any of them have had any time to do any real investigative reporting—she just shrugs and looks away.

  We’re halfway to the hotel before I finally say something.

  “You can’t believe everything you read—” I remind her quietly. “You of all people should know that.”

  “I know.”

  Her tone completely contradicts her words.

  “No one died last night,” I take a quick look at her. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, staring out the window, still wearing those stupid sunglasses even though the windows on this car are tinted so black, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal. “I talked to Jase at the hospital. There were about a dozen people with minor injuries that were treated and released at the scene and less than that with minor smoke inhalation—no one went to the hospital. Nobody died.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  Doesn’t even look at me.

  “You didn’t start the fire, Delilah,” I tell her, my tone flat and matter of fact. “You might not remember but I do—I was there and I know you didn’t do it.”

  “Maybe—but it was started because of me.”

  “You can’t take that on,” I say grimly, giving my head a short shake as I pull into the hotel’s wide circular drive. “That’s not something you should have to carry.” On the sidewalk, in front of the hotel is a large swarm of paparazzi with long lenses which can only mean one thing—they know she’s here.

  Ignoring them, Delilah shrugs. “I don’t know—I don’t really have a history of carrying much, do I?” I know what she’s thinking about. Last year, she and her friends did start a fire—her and the Cramer twins. They threw a bunch of money into a champagne bucket and doused it with vodka before setting it ablaze. It was over in seconds—I hit it with the fire extinguisher from behind the VIP bar and it was out before the sprinkler system even had a chance to kick on. They were drunk and stupid—when I asked what the hell she was thinking, she just shrugged and said I got cold while the rest of her entourage howled and laughed.

  I know she’s remembering that. Realizing how easily it all could’ve gone sideways. That people actually could’ve gotten hurt.

  Parking in front of the hotel’s main entrance, I pop the trunk. “I think you carry more than most people think,” I tell her quietly before getting out to help the valet load the groceries onto a luggage cart. When we’re finished, Delilah is waiting on the sidewalk. Behind her, on the other side of the parking lot, there is a tight knot of photogs standing on the sidewalk. None of them are even looking at her. I hand the valet the keys to Tob’s car and we go inside.

  It’s late afternoon and the lobby is quiet, aside from a few out-of-towners waiting for the airport shuttle, it’s pretty much empty. Delilah doesn’t greet everyone, the way she did this morning. She doesn’t say hello or call the doorman by name. She doesn’t wave to the fishpond on her way to the waterfall. She just walks with her head down, putting one foot in front of the other like she just wants to be invisible. Like she doesn’t want anyone to notice her.

  Once we get to the private elevator behind the waterfall, she presses her thumb to the keypad and the doors open automatically. I wait for her to get on before I push the luggage cart full of groceries into the waiting car.

  “Ohmygawd, Delilah—what are you wearing?”

  As soon as she hears it, Delilah’s shoulders shoot up to attach themselves to her ears and she freezes in place. I turn toward the voice to find Liz Cramer standing outside the elevator, her brother waiting a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets like here is the last place he wants to be.

  When she sees me, Liz starts to laugh. “Holy shit—Nik was right, you are screwing the security guard.”

  “What?” I don’t mean to say it out loud but I do and Liz rolls her eyes at me in response.

  “People saw you coming out of the VIP stairwell together last night—the two of you. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you were doing to each other in there,” she says, talking at me instead of to me, right before she lifts her phone and snaps a picture. When all Delilah does is stare at her, Liz drops her phone and rolls her eyes. “Gawd, Delilah—don’t be such a baby, it’s not like—”

  “I know you’re sleeping with Nik,” she says, cutting off Liz’s tirade. “Have been for a year now.”

  Liz’s face goes blank while she tries to figure out which angle to play. Whether she should feign ignorance or launch her next gaslight campaign. Whichever she decides, we’ll never know because Delilah cuts her off before she can even open her mouth. “Let me be clear—I don’t care. I’ve never cared and the reason I’ve never cared is because I don’t care about either of you.”

  “Stop being so dramatic, Delilah,” Liz says with another eyeroll, voice raised like she’s trying to draw attention to what she probably hopes is going to be a very loud, very public fight. It wouldn’t surprise me if she or her brother we’re recording the whole thing on their phones.

  “No drama.” Delilah gives her a passive shrug. “I already told you I don’t care—just like I don’t care that you’re the close insider that feeds my personal life to the tabloids—so, for the record, I’m not just screwing the security guard—” She reaches out to press her thumb against the keypad to close the elevator doors in Liz’s face. “I happen to be in love with him.”

  THIRTY

  Delilah

  WELL, SHIT.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Not yet anyway and definitely not like that but as usual, I let Liz get under my skin and—

  “What was that?” His tone is hard, each word smashing against it like glass, the shards of them sharp and brittle. “What the fuck—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t look at him when I say it. Probably because I don’t want to see the look of absolute horror on his face that I’m sure took root the second the words came out of my mouth because not only did I confirm that we’ve slept together, I made it even worse by admitting that I have actual feelings for him.

  And when I say worse, I mean worse for him.

  Because by tomorrow morning, the entire world will know his name. There will be a picture of us splashed across every tabloid in publication. People he barely knows will come out of the woodwork, willing to sell any tidbit of personal information about him that they can—some will even make shit up. I’ve just ruined his life, all because Liz Cramer ambushed me with her fucking camera phone and made fun of my hat.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Gray says quietly, his tone telling me that I’m right. He’s absolutely horrified by what I just said. “Goddamnit, Delilah—do you know even know what you just did?”

  The elevator gives a soft bounce as it lands and the doors slide open. As soon as the space between them is wide enough, I rush through it like I’m being chased, yanking off my hat and sunglasses as I go to toss them on the foyer table in the center of the room. “Yes, I do—I probably know better than most people and I’m sorry, okay?” Jesus, why can’t I stop screwing things up? “I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to say but I’ll fix it. I’ll—”

  “Fix it?” Leaving the groceries behind, Gray finally steps off the elevator, heading straight for me, the color in his face slipped a few shades past normal. “You just told Liz Cramer you’re in love with me—how the hell are you going to fix that?”

  “Easy.” Turning away from him, I shrug, trying for nonchalant but I’m pretty sure I end up looking like a panicky mess. “I’ll just contact my publicist—tell her I was high on pain meds or
that Liz is a fucking liar who’s been screwing my boyfriend behind my back. I don’t know exactly but I’ll think of something and I’ll fix it.” I kick off the sneakers before stripping out of my borrowed mom jeans. “I’m sorry, okay?” Forcing myself to turn around, I face him with a sigh. “I didn’t mean to ruin your life, I just—”

  “Ruin my life?” He’s standing over me and he’s pissed, the heat of his anger rolling off of him in waves.

  “You think that’s what I’m upset about? You think I give a real, live shit about my life right now?” He swipes a rough hand over his face and shakes his head at me like I might be too stupid to live. “The man who tried to take you—he didn’t do it for money. It wasn’t a ransom grab. It was personal. He’s obsessed with you and as soon as word gets out that we’re together—whether it’s true or not—he’s gonna go completely batshit. Things are about to get a hell of a lot worse.”

  Worse?

  I shake my head, my palms suddenly slick with sweat, my stomach roiling with nausea as a kaleidoscope of memories, tilt and spill in my field of vision. Brightly colored puzzle pieces, clicking into place.

  Walking into my bedroom yesterday afternoon in New York.

  A trail of white rose petals, leading from the door to the bed.

  More of them strewed across the mattress.

  A row of photographs neatly lined up at the foot of the bed.

  All of me, taken yesterday morning.

  Covered in semen.

  Still wet, like—

  I turn away from it, because seeing it makes me sick and I rush forward toward the bathroom because I am. I’m going be sick, but I’m not in the bathroom. I’m not in New York anymore. I’m in Boston now because someone tried to kidnap me. I’m in Boston, standing in my grandparents dining room and there are roses on the table.

  White roses.

  Two dozen of them in a cut-crystal vase.

  Next to them is a white gift box tied with a blue ribbon.

  Someone is screaming.

  This time I think the someone screaming is me.

  I know it’s me because Gray is suddenly here, his huge, warm hands wrapped around my shoulders, spinning me around to look at him, his face ashen, mouth moving but I can’t hear what he’s saying because I’m screaming and now that I’ve started, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.

  I wake up in the dark, fully clothed, in what I immediately recognize as my own bed.

  I’m not alone.

  Instead of scaring me, knowing that instantly calms me. Rolling over, I find the large shape of him standing at the bedroom window like I did this morning.

  “Gray.” It comes out rough, scraping up the length of my throat like I swallowed a bag full of razorblades. Rough or not, he hears me.

  The figure turns.

  “Nope.”

  It’s Went.

  Hearing his voice pushes me up into a sitting position. Has me reaching out to fumble with the lamp on my nightstand, anxiety closing around my throat like a fist because if Went is here, that means Gray isn’t. That he left and even though I told him I wanted him to, more than once, I’m a big, fat liar because—

  “It’s okay—despite my best effort, he’s still here.” Went moves away from the window, dropping his folded arms away from his body as he lowers himself into the chair next to my bed. “He’s in the dining room, talking to Con.”

  Con.

  Conner—Henley’s fiancé.

  My manicurist.

  He’s with Gray and they’re in the dining room.

  There are flowers in the dining room too.

  “I almost fucking killed him, Lilah.” He growls it at me like killing Gray might actually still be on his to-do list. “When I heard you screaming, I thought he—” His tone softens. “Why didn’t you come to me. Why didn’t you—”

  He knows.

  If Conner is here, talking with Gray in the dining room then that means Went knows.

  He knows everything.

  “How did they get in here?” When he doesn’t answer my question, I remember he doesn’t have any idea what I’m talking about. No one does. “The flowers. The gift box. How’d they get in here. Who—”

  “The flowers.” He says it like I knew he would. Like I’m crazy. Not making any sense. “I did—They were at the front desk. I swung by to get my messages and Nat said you were looking for me, so—” He stalls out when he realizes what he just said. That I’d been looking for him. That I’d tried to tell him what was happening but as usual, he was gone. “I’m sorry—jesus, I’m sorry, Liliah. I didn’t—”

  “S’okay.” I mumble it, shrugging my shoulders. “To be honest, I didn’t want to tell you—the only reason I was even looking for you is because Gray was insisting.”

  Went makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “Is that what did it?” he asks. “Are the flowers what triggered your… episode?”

  Episode.

  I guess that’s what we’re calling psychotic breaks these days.

  We’re calling them episodes.

  “No… maybe.” I give him a head shake. “I don’t know. I—I can’t remember what happened last night but something Gray said in the elevator made me remember something that happened earlier in the day.”

  Before I lose my nerve, I tell him about the texts I got earlier that day and what happened afterward. What I found in my bedroom. Written on my bathroom mirror. That I’ve been getting flowers for months now. That gift boxes started arriving with them about a month ago.

  “Jesus, Lilah—” Went reaches up to scrub a rough hand over his mouth. “Why didn’t you say something?” He’s not angry anymore. He’s sick to his stomach, same as me. “Weeks ago—when you opened the first box. Why didn’t you call me? Tell me?”

  “Because…” I shake my head again and look away from him. “because I asked for it. Deserved it.”

  “What?” He barks it at me. Explodes out of his chair like I just pulled a gun on him. “Deserve—Why would you say that? Why the hell would you even think it?”

  “Because I did. I do.” I look down at my hands, heaped into my lap in a useless pile, fingers twisted nervously in my crisp, clean sheets. “I’m a pretty horrible person, Went—you know that.” I look at him and laugh, the sound of it so sad and broken, my throat goes tight against the push of it. “I’ve never done one good thing in my life—not one thing that matters. I just… breeze through life, leaving this path of destruction behind me. Sooner or later I was going to have to pay for that, wasn’t I? Sooner or later, someone was going to—”

  “Is this about him?” Went lifts a hand and jabs it at the closed door between us and the rest of the suite. “Did he tell you that? Is that what he said to you in the elevator? That you deserve this?”

  Gray.

  He’s talking about Gray.

  “No.” I look down at my hands again and shake my head. “No… Gray’s been—” Patient. Kind. Steady. “here.” I look at my brother and try to smile. “He’s been here—even though he doesn’t want to be. Even though I’ve pretty much made his life a living hell for the past six years and I don’t deserve it, he’s been here.”

  Went stares at me, a convoluted mixture of sadness and comprehension folding his expression into a frown. “You’re in love with him.”

  “Yeah…” I nod, suddenly miserable. “But I’m not very good at it.”

  “Are you sure?” Went sinks back down, into his seat while he stares at me like I have a terminal illness. “I mean—maybe it’s just this. Maybe it’s because he saved you. Maybe—”

  “I’ve been in love with him for a while now.” I give a sad, lopsided smile. “He doesn’t know—” or at least he didn’t until I opened big mouth earlier. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t even know until…” I let myself trail off, lifting a hand in a gesture that encompasses everything that’s happened over the past twenty-four hours.

  “Okay.” The frown on my brother’s face holds. “Does he love you back
?”

  Does Gray love me back?

  No.

  No, he doesn’t.

  How could he?

  There’s nothing in me that a man like him would find worthy of loving.

  “I don’t think so.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Grayson

  I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.

  One minute, it seemed like Delilah and I were on the edge of another argument—this one about the fact that she just told Liz Cramer that she’s in love with me—and the next she was screaming.

  I’m trying really hard not to draw a correlation between the two.

  Because I don’t think Delilah is in love with me. Not really. I think she feels alone and scared in all of this and I’m the one who’s been here. I’m the one who saved her. She’s confused. That’s all this is—a fuck-ton of confusion laced with a healthy dose of my own wishful thinking.

  Right—like there’s an actual world that exists in which Delilah friggin’ Fiorella would fall in love with a guy like you for real. Are you crazy, pendejo, or just fucking stupid?

  Both.

  I’m both.

  I’m both because even though her brother is here and the smart, non-crazy thing to do would be to walk away, the thought doesn’t even enter my mind.

  Leaving isn’t an option.

  Never was, no matter how much I like to pretend otherwise.

  “You’re right—” Conner nods, his mouth stretched into a tight, grim line. “Mike, your drug-dealing bartender, pulls a cash for goods exchange about eight minutes before the fire breaks out.”

  “Is it a needle?” I’m sitting at the dining room table in Delilah’s suite watching Conner review the security footage from the main floor at Level last night.

  “Could be a peds syringe.” Conner shrugs. “Could be a lot of things.” He keeps staring at the screen, dark green gaze slightly narrowed and moving rapidly like he’s seeing everything and committing it to memory. “Let me ask you something?” He says without looking at me.