Jameson jogged out to the hallway. There was another crash. “Music room,” he told us.
Xander jumped off the stage. “My duet will have to wait!”
“Who were you going to duet with?” Libby asked.
“Myself!” Xander yelled as he ran for the door, but Nash caught him.
“Hold on there, Xan. Let Jamie go.” Nash looked toward me. “You go,
too, kid.”
I wasn’t sure what Nash thought was going on here—or why he seemed so sure that Jameson and I were the ones Grayson needed.
“In the meantime,” Nash told Xander, “give me the mic.”
As Jameson and I made our way down the corridor, the sound of achingly beautiful violin music began drifting into the hall. The music room door was open, and when I stepped through it, I saw Grayson poised in front of open bay windows, wearing a suit without the jacket, his shirt unbuttoned, a violin pressed to his chin. His posture was perfect, each movement smooth.
The floor in front of him was covered with shards of wood.
I couldn’t remember how many ultra-expensive violins Tobias Hawthorne had purchased in pursuit of cultivating his grandson’s musical ability, but it looked like Grayson had destroyed at least one.
The song reached a final note, so high and sweet it was almost unbearable. Then there was silence as Grayson lowered the violin, took a step away from the windows, and then raised the instrument again—over his head.
Jameson caught his brother’s forearm. “Don’t.” For a moment, the two of them grappled, sorrow and fury. “Gray. You’re not hurting anyone but yourself.” That had no effect, so Jameson went for the jugular. “You’re scaring Avery. And you missed Xander’s nine-one-one.”
I wasn’t scared. I could never be scared of Grayson—but I could ache for him.
Grayson slowly lowered the violin. “I apologize,” he told me, his voice almost too calm. “It’s your property I’ve been destroying.”
I didn’t care about my property. “You play beautifully,” I told Grayson, pushing back the urge to cry.
“Beauty was expected,” Grayson replied. “Technique without artistry is worthless.” He looked down at the remains of the violin he’d destroyed.
“Beauty is a lie.”
“Remind me to mock you for saying that later,” Jameson told him.
“Leave me,” Grayson ordered, turning his back on us.
“If I’d known we were having a party,” Jameson half sang, “I would have ordered food.”
“A party?” I asked.
“A pity party.” Jameson smirked. “I see you dressed for the occasion, Gray.”
“You’re right.” Grayson walked toward the door. “This is self-indulgent.
Thoroughly beneath me.”
Jameson reached out to trip him, and then it was on. I understood now why Nash had sent Jameson. Sometimes Grayson Davenport Hawthorne needed a fight—and Jameson was only too happy to oblige.
“Let it all out,” Jameson said, ramming his head into Grayson’s stomach. “Poor baby.”
Tobias Hawthorne hadn’t just expected beauty. The four Hawthorne grandsons were also damn near lethal.
Grayson flipped Jameson onto his back, then went in for the kill. I knew Jameson well enough to realize that he’d just let himself be pinned.
Every muscle in Grayson’s body was tight. “I thought that we failed him,” he said, his voice low. “I thought we weren’t enough. I wasn’t enough, wasn’t worthy. But you tell me, Jamie: What the hell is there for us to be worthy of?”