Grey: New Beginnings (Spectrum Series Book 5)

by Allison White

  While she sleeps, I do the one thing she does not need to do right now—clean. I throw all of our clothes—okay, just mine—into the hamper. I stack all the plates and shit in the dishwasher. After sweeping the living room, I am exhausted and end up falling on the couch. I throw an arm over my eyes, ready to crash here and let her have the entire bed to herself. I am dozing off when I hear the elevator gears grind its way up to the apartment.

  “Gotta be fucking kidding me!” I snap and stand up. I swear, if it is one of our insane mothers or annoying friends, I will not hesitate to murder someone. I storm over to the elevator, ready to turn whoever the fuck it is.

  When it stops and opens up, rage and confusion fills my soul.

  Sam.

  Does this fucker want to be killed?

  “Before you do anything, listen.” He holds up his hands as if to ward me away from him. He looks like total shit. Busted lip, puffy cheeks, swollen right eye. I wish I’d done worse…looks like my wish is coming true, because I’m going to fuck him up even worse.

  I drag his ass out of the elevator and slam him against a wall, making a photo of Liv and me drop to the ground with a crash. Fuck. Glass. Maybe I could jam a shard into his fucking neck, hit an artery, and say it was self-defense?

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl through clenched teeth. He’s not suffering. I clamp my fingers around his throat and press hard. His eyes bulge, and he claws at my throat. He kicks his legs wildly, and I smile, satisfied. There we go.

  “I—I can’t. I know—I…” He coughs and sputters, trying to speak.

  I bang his pea-sized head against the brick wall. “Speak!”

  He stammers and wheezes before I finally release some pressure. Just some. “I know where Dean is…”

  I let his ass drop to the floor out of pure shock. “What?” The fucker went AWOL ever since the night of the massacre. Everyone knows he and his gang are the ones who opened fire. To avoid being locked up in prison for the rest of his life, he fled his precious Miami, never to be seen again. I thought he would have reappeared and finished the job, get his revenge for me leaving the gang. But he didn’t show up, just been a ghost. But now this fucker’s saying where he is?

  He nods and leans against the wall, rubbing his throat and looking at me all pathetic like. “He’s in North Carolina. Gathering new recruits.” His voice is raspy and cracked from how hard I choked him. “That’s why I came to you tonight.”

  I rub my lower lip and blink rapidly. “The fuck? Why didn’t you fucking say that?” I roar, kicking his foot. He groans and rolls his eyes at me, pushing on his knee to stand up. He wobbles and eyes me with a death glare but eases up when I flex my fists.

  “Because you lunged at me like an animal!” he shouts.

  “Keep your fucking voice down,” I hiss and consciously look over my shoulder, expecting Liv to come out because of the noise. But she doesn’t, thank God. “And what the fuck are you doing telling me? Why don’t you call the cops on his ass so he can get fucked in it by a bunch of prisoners?”

  “You know why.” He gives me a look.

  He’d have someone on the outside murder him.

  I roll my eyes and groan. “Well, what the fuck do you want me to do?”

  “The only thing that you can do if you want to keep your life intact,” he says quietly, looking like a creep with his one eye.

  I bite my lip and look over my shoulder again, but because I know and agree with what he’s not saying, I have to kill the fucker. But I sure as hell am not doing it by myself. This fucker single-handedly gave Dean the resources to hurt my girl, my precious princess. I promised to protect her but failed. Now I will fix what I broke. I have to make sure she never gets hurt, ever again.

  “You’re coming with me, fucker.” I stop myself from looking over my shoulder. “And we’re doing this tonight. Hope you’re ready for a road trip. I can’t promise that you’ll get there alive, though.”

  “What about Liv?” he asks with a knowing sigh.

  I get in the open elevator, dragging him in with me. “She doesn’t need to know about this.” I whip out my phone to make some calls. “She stays in the dark, got it?”

  He nods, making a zipping motion over his pressed lips.

  I roll my eyes and sigh, “This is going to be a long night…”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Liv

  I’m crying in the corner of a small, dark room. I don’t know how I got here—wherever here is—nor do I know why I am so sad. My chest is tight, and sobs fall out of my mouth at rapid speed. I can barely breathe, and I am freezing. Huddled in the dark, it feels like I’m stuck in a black hole with no possible way out. Like I am going to be here for the rest of my life. The thought causes even more sobs to break free from my chapped lips, and I rest my head in my lap.

  “Liv,” a small voice whispers my name.

  My heart stops in fear. I slowly lift my head and look around for the source. All I come up with is the dark, but I can feel I am not alone. My heart pumps faster, and I scramble back against the wall, bracing myself for what is to come.

  “W-who’s there?” I ask in a shaky voice.

  A beam of bright light bursts in the middle of the room. A little scream escapes me as a little boy appears, his back turned to me.

  “Run from the bad man,” the little boy says, his voice small.

  “Jonah?” I question. He turns around in a split second, blood smeared on his cheek and lip. “Oh, Jonah,” I gasp, holding my head.

  “He isn’t good. Run, Liv,” he pleads.

  “Who are you talking about?” I don’t understand. I sit up at the same time he begins to flicker like a TV with bad reception. “Wait. W-who are you talking about?”

  “Run.” His voice is a mere whisper.

  “Wait!” I push to my feet and run toward him, but he evaporates before I can get to him.

  I gasp as I shoot up in bed, rocketing from my odd dream. I keep my eyes shut and groan as I rub my sweaty forehead. My hands shake as I hold my head, but I take solid, deep breaths to calm myself. The dream was so weird and very scary. The deep shade of black hung around his pale blue eyes were vivid. As was the chest-constricting feeling of dread and loneliness. I could feel it swirl around my heart and latch on, claiming it with unadulterated darkness. An infinite amount of questions bursts behind my eyes, as does a fresh headache.

  Why was Jonah saying to run from a “bad” man? Did he mean Dean? Is he coming after me, to finish me off? Get the revenge he sought after Grey? Or did he mean someone close to me? I can try to decipher his ominous words all day, but all that would result is a massive headache. My head already feels like it’s been thrown in a meat grinder, twice. I don’t need to ponder on the dream that felt weirdly…real.

  Thinking about Dean coming after us to complete his nefarious mission scares me. I clutch my throbbing chest and rest my face in my knees. I have to stop thinking about that man even though his freedom sets me on edge. If I fixate on him and the past, I will not move on.

  That’s what my therapist, Mr. Howard, said. I saw him a few times and will continue to do so every now and then. Seeing him was recommended by Dr. Fitzgerald. I told him I didn’t need a therapist, but with my hallucinations and vivid dreams like I’ve just had, and the flashbacks, he said I needed it to help me cope. I guess he’s right about that, but I am still hesitant on therapists ever since my last one. The woman practically was a random person plucked off the streets of Miami who was paid to feed me lies.

  My mother.

  Ugh.

  Speaking of which, I have not gotten back to her ever since she popped up a few weeks ago. It’s not that I don’t want to. I’ve just been focusing more on myself, which is not a bad thing. I should be more attentive to myself all I’ve been through, instead of hearing out the woman who had me hospitalized against my will. Not that I am saying I won’t give her a chance; I might…I honestly don’t know. Grey thinks I should, which shocked me. I ne
ver expected him, the brunt of her burning hatred, to suggest I mend things with her.

  I’m calling her before I know it.

  “Hello?” She answers the phone with a tired sigh.

  I halt, wondering why she sounds exhausted. She’s been energized for the past ten years. Always in the air, on her way to another country for her work. The last time I heard her sound so stressed was when she and Father were planning Jonah’s funeral…I swallow roughly as bits of my dream fly across my mind. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “Hello? Who is this?” Mother brings me out of my sullen thoughts.

  “I-it’s Liv, Mother,” I say in an unintentional jittery voice.

  “Oh?” She sounds surprised, and it oddly makes me smile. I feel like I haven’t experienced her having true emotions. Like she’s been all criticized frowns and scolding for almost eleven years.

  “Yeah,” I breathe, not knowing what to say. I just picked up my phone and dialed her number I had memorized. I should have called Louise or literally anyone else instead, because now I am blindsided and don’t know what to say.

  “How have you been doing?” she asks, making awkward conversation. I have to appreciate her trying.

  “I’ve been doing good,” I begin to say, then it dawns on me that she doesn’t know I had surgery two weeks ago. “Actually, I had to get surgery a few weeks ago.”

  She gasps a little. “Oh my, what for?”

  “The lung that was hit by the bullet was doing poorly, so I had to have it removed.”

  “A pneumonectomy,” she says.

  “Yes.” I nod and nervously play with Grey’s charm. “But I’m doing fine, recovery-wise.”

  “That’s good to hear.” I practically hear the small, weird smile on her lips. My heart warms a little at the thought of her caring about me. “May I ask why you called?”

  “Oh.” I draw my knees up to my chest, whirl my bottom lip around. “I—I just felt like checking in.” Such a lie. I don’t even know myself, Mother. “How is Father? And the—um—divorce?”

  She sighs again like I’ve brought up what she’s momentarily escaped from. “He’s fine, I guess. Just as stressed as me when it comes to the divorce.” A question pops into my head, and I try to hold it in, but it makes the desire to have the answer that much more intense.

  “Mother.” I tug at my lip and look beside me for Grey, for comfort, even if it means playing with his hair while he’s sleeping. But I feel dumb and disoriented when I find nothing but crumpled up sheets and blankets. Where is he?

  “Yes, darling?” Her voice pulls me back into reality with my question.

  I shift my eyes to my toes and take a deep breath. “Why are you and Father splitting up?” My voice comes out in a small, childish voice. Like a little girl wondering why her mommy and daddy are arguing. She hasn’t told me why they’re getting divorced, only that they were.

  She takes a brief moment to respond. “We just feel it’s the best thing to do.”

  “But why?” I don’t understand and feel a bit hurt she isn’t explaining it to me. They are my parents, after all. So what if one rarely speaks while the other scolds everything I do? They are my flesh and blood—family. No matter how many times I’m sent to psych wards because of one of the members.

  “I would like to tell you more and catch up with you, but not over the phone,” she says. “How about you come over to the house for some tea Saturday?”

  “I guess that’d be…” I stop talking when it hits me. Grey and I are going to NYC for the weekend. “Actually, I can’t do Saturday. How about next week?”

  “Why can’t you come Saturday?” She sounds a little pissed, but more reined in than usual. She’s trying, I guess.

  A part of me is terrified to say why. But I know for us to move on, she has to get used to the idea of Grey. So I take a courageous breath and tell her, “Grey and I have plans this weekend.”

  “Oh?” she says.

  “Yeah.” I swallow briskly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Well, that’s all right then. I’ll have Trevor pick you up next Saturday. Is that good for you?” she says, and I am stunned by her understanding.

  “Um—uh—y-yes. Next Saturday’s good for me,” I say, not even bothering to hide my shock. I’ve never experienced my mother like this before. I wish she could have been patient before her sudden eureka moment that she wants a relationship with me. I would have been relieved of a great amount of stress. But that is in the past, where I will leave it.

  We chat for a bit, and I feel my stomach bubble and my lips quirk into really big smiles. All because of one thing. We are talking like mother and daughter. No screaming, no slapping, no lectures, no tears—just normal talking, and it’s making me break out into hives. Oh, just wait until we are across from each other at over a fancy lunch. Chatting about her and my father’s divorce, but we can easily branch out into gossip about one of the snobby neighbors. I sound like a ditzy little girl finally getting a Barbie doll for Christmas, but I can’t help it. This feels like a snow day, white Christmas day. Words spoken easily between a mother and daughter. A simple and much desired thing I hope to become sacred to us.

  In the middle of our conversation, I hear footsteps. Boots, to be exact.

  Grey.

  “Hey, Mother, I’m going to have to call you back,” I say with a polite smile even though she can’t see me. It’s a habit. She drilled it into my brain to always have a polite smile on my face and to, in Grey’s words, “act as if I have an stick up my ass.” What a sweet boyfriend I have.

  “That’s all right. It is pretty late, or early, I should say,” she says, and my eyes snap over to the clock on the table beside me.

  Two in the morning? Why did she answer the phone so early?

  “Mother, did I wake you?” I ask, feeling guilty already.

  “No, I was already up. I’ve been very sleepless of late…” I can hear the clear-cut sadness in her voice. It strikes an invisible butcher knife in my abdomen.

  “Oh…” I thumb my lower lip, noting to call my father. If my once-hardened mother is feeling this sullen, I can only imagine how he’s taking this. Oh, my sensitive father. I feel like the worst child ever who doesn’t regularly speak with her parents. “Well, get some sleep. Goodnight, Mother.”

  “Goodnight, Olivia,” she croons in a soothing voice that makes me well into tears. The last time I heard that voice was when she’d put me to sleep when I was eight. I used to love to hang onto her pearls because I didn’t want her to leave me, despite her warnings of breaking the precious thing. She still had that sweet, sweet smile splayed on her blushed cheeks.

  The call ends, and I swipe away a nostalgic, emotional tear before standing. I almost forgot Grey’s here, until I heard his heavy boots creak on a floorboard. I cross my arms over his big shirt that I’m wearing and lightly pad across the floor. I find him taking off his shoes on the couch.

  “Grey, why are you coming home so…?” I begin, and then I switch on the industrial living room light. And his face. My God, his face. Blood and cuts and his lips is busted. “What the hell?” I rush over to him and sit on his lap, straddling him and cupping his neck, tilting his head back so I can see more clearly. He does not look good. “What the hell happened to you?” I asked in a high, panicky voice.

  “I’m fine,” he denies. He winces as I press my thumb into his lip.

  “Did that feel fine?” I narrow my eyes at him. Who does he think he is lying to me? “Will you tell me what happened to you, or do I have to add to the injury count, which seems dangerously high already?”

  His jaw tightens as he looks out the window to my right, shutting me out.

  I take it in stride. I’ve been shut out enough times by him to be immune to it.

  “Fine, act like an ass. I’m going back to bed.” I let go of his face and walk away from him. I die a little inside with each step I take, but he deserves it if he wants to be bitchy for no reason. I’ve showed hi
m I cared about him too many times to count. He knows I’ll take care of him, if he talks to me. Without the words, he can sleep on the couch, bleeding.

  His arm latches around my wrist, stopping me from entering the bedroom. He tugs at my hand with a cute little grunt when I don’t turn around to face him. Hiding a smile, I turn on my heels and raise a brow at him. He just does his signature scowl thing from his towering height of undeserved attitude.

  “Fix me?” he asks softly. Clearing his voice and deepening, he “reclaims” his manhood by adding, “Please.”

  I lean on my tiptoes and kiss his uninjured chin. “Anytime. Follow me,” I sigh as I lead him to the bathroom. I sit him on the toilet, and his black eyes watch me intensely as I grab multiple things.

  “Now, what happened to you? And don’t lie or piss me off. I have a headache, and I will not hesitate to go straight back to bed,” I warn him as I gently clean his cuts with soap and water.

  He rolls his eyes but stops when I glare at him. He looks up to the ceiling. “I left you to go train for a bit, then hit up a bar with Steve. He got in some trouble with a few guys, and I helped take them on.”

  “And what? You lose all your bad-ass fighting skills?” I tease, noticing his barely there smile as I rub his cuts with alcohol. The man doesn’t even react to it. I swear, he is made of steel.

  “No, a guy hit me over the fucking head with a bar stool!” he growls like he’s still pissed about it.

  “Easy there, big guy.” I kiss his uninjured top lip. “You’re still my big, bad fighter.”

  “Better be,” he grumbles, and I chuckle.

  I shake my head and continue to clean and bandage up my man. He watches me the entire time, chin pressed against my chest, scanning my face like a new puppy memorizing its owner’s face. I don’t even hide my smile as I apply padded bandages to his cuts. I hum a soft, strangely content, song. This is weird, isn’t it? Nursing your boyfriend’s wounds at two in the morning, after he had a chair whacked over his head? If someone said that’d be the norm for me a year ago, I would have called them crazy.