Page 9 of You First
Which meant for the last seventy-two hours, Gray’s novel had grown by only a couple of pages. He was supposed to be writing the scene when Detective Alex Booth discovered the hellhole where a human-trafficking ring kept their latest prey.
But with the meds, Gray couldn’t see it.
Without the Topiramate, he could picture everything. The sweat beaded on his hero’s forehead. The red welts where tie wraps dug into his victim’s wrists. The mottled grays of corrugated tin in the abandoned warehouse.
And he needed to see it to be able to write it. He needed Bax to leave so he could get through the rescue scene — the one where Booth would take a bullet in his shoulder. After that, Gray could tie up the rest of the book, go through it a few more times, and send it to his publisher.
He loved his brother, but he didn’t have time for his worry. Or his fear. He’d learned that lesson two months ago with the diagnosis that narrowed the prospect of his life down to one focus.
Write.
His tumor, benign by pathology but malignant by location, would require surgery if it didn’t kill him first. But situated in his temporal lobe where its removal threatened memory, cognition, nerve function, and even blood flow to the rest of his brain, meant that if he survived the surgery — and he had about a sixty-percent chance of doing that — he might not be Gray Blakewood when he woke up.
He didn’t know who he’d be. Or what.
He might not be able to speak. Or solve complex problems. Or concentrate for more than a few seconds. Or breathe on his own — if he wasn’t lucky enough to die on the operating table.
All of this meant that while Baxter had time to be afraid and worry, Gray did not. If he was going to die — or worse — he needed to finish his fourth book. And if his tumor wasn’t growing, he might get the chance to finish a fifth before he lost the ability to do the only thing that mattered to him.
Alone upstairs in his study with Vulcan and Juno at his feet. A blazing fireplace and a fully charged laptop. That was all he wanted. Was that so much to ask?
“Do you have any questions for her?” Bax asked, ignoring his protest.
“Hell, no. I don’t even want her here,” Gray snapped. “When she shows up, send her away. And then. Go. Back. To. New Orleans.”
Bax’s smile dimmed just a little. “Don’t you think you should at least talk to her? She sounded pretty cool on the phone. Funny,” he said, shrugging. “She might be able to help you.”
“I don’t need help. Everything’s fine.”
Baxter cocked his head at him. “Gray… c’mon.”
Gray drew a breath to lay down his objections, but a knock at the door cut him off. Juno and Vulcan jumped up from their spots in front of the fireplace and raced down the hall, whining steadily.
He followed the dogs into the hall. “Silence.”
The command, spoken lightly, hushed his Czechoslovakian Vlcaks, but both stared at the front door, their necks drawn taut, the fur on their backs rising.
His brother got to his feet. “That’ll be her,” Bax said, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
Gray shook his head in disgust. “Well, get rid of her.”
“No. We’ll talk to her,” Bax insisted. “Maybe this can work.”
That was Bax. He never met a stranger. No problem existed that couldn’t be solved with goodwill and teamwork. Everything happened for a reason. And he’d never lived through an awkward moment in his life.
Gray scowled again. “No,wewon’t. You found her… you talk to her.” Gray backed down the hall. “And finish that talk by sending her away. I don’t need some nurse-in-training hovering over me and slowing me down.”
He stalked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Gray wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Bax sigh before his footsteps clicked against the red oak floors. He half expected his brother to knock on the door and apologize for interfering. Instead, the sound of his footfalls stretched down the hall toward the front of the house.
He heard the front door open. “Hi, Meredith? Baxter Blakewood. Come on in.”
“Hi… Oh, wow.” Nervous laughter, lilting and carrying, drifted down the hall and into Gray’s room. “You have direwolves!”
Baxter’s deeper laugh followed. In spite of himself, Gray smiled. His dogs did look like direwolves. And they were just as loyal. Fearless, too. “They’re Vlcaks, Czech wolf dogs. This is Vulcan. Vulcan, back off!” Bax scolded. “And this is Juno.”
“They’re brother and sister?” the girl asked. “Like the gods?”
Listening, Gray’s chin pulled back in surprise. Most people didn’t get the reference.
