So, eventually, life would get better. It had to.
CHAPTER TWO
“YOU HAVE TOtake them.”
“I take them. I told you that.”
“Gray, you have to take themevery day.”
Grayson Blakewood glared at his brother. His kitchen island separated them, and Baxter glared back, holding the bottle of those goddamned pills.
“I can’t.” His simple shrug drew Bax’s scowl.
“You mean you won’t.”
Gray blinked in concession. “You’re right. I won’t.”
A frustrated breath left Bax’s lungs. “Do I have to move in and become your nursemaid? You may be my big brother, but I’ve got twenty pounds on you. I bet I could pin you and shove one of these down your throat every morning.”
Gray let himself grin. He ran his thumb over the faint scar Bax had given him just below his lip when Bax was seven and Gray was nine. He’d give almost anything to have his brother tackle him to the ground like he’d done when they were boys. Pound him with his fists. Go for a choke hold.
Anything was better than being treated like an invalid.
Because he wasn’t an invalid. Not technically. Not yet.
If Gray thought his brother would fight back, he’d actually throw the first punch just so he could feel normal again — even for a little while. But Baxter wouldn’t hit back. He’d just let Gray whale on him, afraid one touch would break him.
Like a fucking egg.
“You know, finishing your latest novel won’t matter very much if you’re dead,” Bax said, trying to sound scary but instead sounding scared.
Gray bit his tongue. Nothing mattered more than finishing his fourth novel. The latest installment in hisAlex Boothdetective series had sold more than 4,000 copies in the first week, landing him a spot on theNew York Timesbestseller list for the third time. The fourth book would be his best yet. Gray could feel it. And if he were lucky, he might have time to knock out a fifth. After that, there were few guarantees.
But his little brother didn’t like to be reminded of that.
“If I can take them every third or fourth day, I can keep things under control.”
Bax rolled his eyes. “That bruise on your forehead? Is that a sign of you keeping things ‘under control?’” He mocked him with air quotes, and Gray turned toward the fridge and lingered over the business of pouring a glass of orange juice so Bax couldn’t study the mark. It had faded since his last seizure and subsequent fall, but it clearly hadn’t faded enough.
“Please tell me you’re not driving.” Baxter’s voice had gone soft with real worry, the sound making Gray turn.
His brother gripped the edge of the counter, the pills still in his hold. Tension sharpened the lines of his shoulders, the veins in his hands. His posture spoke of anger, but his brown eyes held only sadness.
Gray found himself telling the truth. “Just on days when I take my meds.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bax swore, going pale. “Do you realize what could happen—”
“On the days I take my meds, I’m g—”
“You could kill yourself. My God, you could kill someone else.”
Gray cringed. “It’s not like that. The medicine works when—”
“Do you have any idea what that would do to Mom and Dad? To me?”
Gray’s head snapped back. He’d expected a lecture. Bax was always good for a lecture, but he wasn’t ready for a guilt trip.
“Low blow, Bax,” he muttered. The Blakewood family had already suffered enough.
