Grayson Hawthorne Fanart Novels & Stories

Although Grayson, the leader of Ghost, was an extremely dutiful and responsible person, he appeared to be rather opportunistic and lazy in comparison to Whitney, who worked non-stop like a robot. Grayson teased Whitney from time to time, “Whitney, Savannah Jones is your greatest love rival. Why would you spend so much effort looking for her? If I were you, I’d wish that she vanished from the earth's surface instead.” Whitty rolled her eyes at Grayson and said, “Even if she’s my love rival, I’d like to compete with her openly instead of scheming against her behind her back.” Grayson teased her, “You’re really a perfect match for Jens.”

“Isn’t there like a safety switch or something? I’ll keep it on until it’s needed.” Grayson hesitates a moment before engaging the trigger safety. He steps closer to show it to me. “Just tab this switch here if you need to fire it. Think you can do that?” I meet his gaze and try to ignore how my heart leaps with him standing so close to me. The wing of a hawk tattoo peeks out from the bottom of his t-shirt sleeve, adorning those ripped biceps. I swallow in a dry throat. “Yeah...if I can fix a CB radio, I think I can manage to pull a trigger.”

We had made it to the door and were about to leave when Grayson said, “Wait. You’re going to need this.” He opened one of the desk drawers and grimaced as he awkwardly took out another piece of card. He had to swap hands to write, grabbing his side with his free hand and picking up the charcoal stick with the one now painted red. After writing something on the card, he walked towards us. We all flinched and took a step back. He stopped, placed the card on a bench and backed off. I took a few steps forward and picked it up. A white card with writing on it.

"You're a sick asshole, you know that?" "Yeah," he chuckled, the sound deep and throaty, a strange contradiction to the menace he carried in reality. "But do you know something, Flower? You look like a fucking goddess when you're painting. Those beautiful locks of hair... those soft, delicate hands... and those thighs." His voice dipped lower. "And those lips you bite so often. I just don't get what a woman like you sees in Ryatt." "It's none of your fucking business, Grayson," I snapped, my patience unraveling. "Stay the hell away from me and my life. I'm warning you."

Dr Greyson Hawthorn. Dr Hawthorn is Dr Brenden’s friend who helped me escape Damien’s clutches. He was a good friend of my grandfather’s. If anyone will know where Dr Brenden has gone, it will be him. Not wasting even a second, I grab my bag and phone before heading out the door. I need to go and see Greyson. He is retired and I know where he lives as I stayed with him for a few days when Dr Brenden was helping me with a job and the house.

He sighed, "I would have got here sooner but the earliest flight wasn't until this morning and I had to pay in person." I pulled back, feeling ridiculously pathetic as I wiped at my eyes, probably smearing whatever was left of yesterday's mascara. I glanced up at him, my breath catching as I took in the familiar face I'd missed so much. Grayson was towering at six foot six, dark-skinned, his short dreads framing his face. With those dark, expressive eyes and that easy smile, he looked the part of his profession. He had double piercings on both ears, adding a rebellious touch to his otherwise laid-back look. He studied my swollen face, his gaze softening as he let out a deep chuckle. "Damn, B

Patience replied with a tight smile. “Sure,” Aislen replied and took a sip of orange juice. “Why was I there? Heath and I bumped into Mr Graynor at the Farmer’s Market, and he reminded me that the school was in possession of an art book from when I was a student there. He told me that they were changing the display and that I should get my book back. It has a portrait of Rhett that I painted when we were teenagers, and I wanted that back, so I went to get it,” she saw Rhett blush, the colour flushing through the tattoos revealed by the v neck of his top before creeping up his neck and face.

Would the artist carve her to true life, with her left breasts a bit bigger than her right? She bitterly thought that Grayson Godwin would probably get a statue. Even if he didn’t die young, a touching tribute, his face would be memorialized for all the things his family had done for the United States. Not that it would be terrible to have to look at an image of such a handsome face, at least to most citizens. But they didn’t know the real billionaire. But maybe Amber didn’t really either. Every time she thought she had him pegged, he seemed to change shape again.

Grayson didn't let him keep it. He stepped forward once, twice, until Lennon had to tip his head back to hold eye contact. Up close he smelled like cedar and something musky. “You were late,” Grayson said, almost softly. “I… Sorry, traffic.” That was a lie. Grayson's gaze dipped to Lennon's mouth, then lower, lingering on the faint red mark peeking above his collar. When he spoke again, his voice was... deeper. “Traffic,” he repeated in an almost amused tone. “Interesting.”