Free The ETA From You to Me by L Zimmerman

you SEE that shit? Wha--he fucking HIT Elliot! I’m… I’m so mad . I’m so mad I--I can’t stop shaking .”
     
    Grant brought his hands up, shoving them in Clayton’s face to show him the way they couldn’t stop trembling.
     
    Clayton released a soft sigh, reaching out and taking Grant's hands for a second. “You’re fine, Grant,” he set Grant's hands back into his lap, palm coming up and squeezing his arm before running down it in a soothing pet. “Just sit tight, I need to check on Elliot, okay?”
     
    “Yeah…” Grant replied faintly, slumping just the tiniest bit. He’d had his fair share of assholes, of people getting their kicks out of knocking him around, but he’d never seen so much hatred in a man’s eyes before. It was more terrifying than being on the internet at stupid in the morning and coming across that traumatizing flashing gif of the crazy inverted ghost chick with the screaming background noise.
     
    Grant pressed his hands together, rubbing them to try and coax the trembling to a minimum. He could hear Clayton talking to Elliot in that same calming voice. The phone was ringing, but Grant legitimately did not feel like answering it to talk to any one about any thing.
     
    “I’m fine,” Elliot said shakily, “I’m fine. I’m… I’m sorry about my dad--I’m really sorry.”
     
    Glancing up, Grant watched Clayton sigh and stand, carding a hand through his hair. “Neither of you two are fine. I’m calling the manager, and then I’m calling the police. Your dad’s stupidity just got himself arrested.” Clayton’s voice was a low, frustrated growl, which only turned into a snarl and curse when he glanced out the window to see Mike peeling out of the garage in his car, tow truck left abandoned on the lot.
     
    Absently, Grant watched the car disappear down the road. Seriously? Grant's dad was a cop, did the guy honestly think he was going to get away with this?
     
    “Clayton, you can’t--” Elliot cried softly.
     
    Grant watched Clayton turn to Elliot, face clouding over in anger. “It isn’t up to you, Elliot. Did you miss the part where your dad was trying to strangle Grant? I don’t give a rat’s ass about that son of a bitch; he’d have attacked me if he had the chance,” Clayton looked over at Grant, which really made Grant wish that he wasn’t still sitting on the floor like some sort of helpless damsel, because he suddenly had a pair of strong, warm hands cupping his elbows and helping him to his feet.
     
    Lightheaded, Grant took a second to gather himself, and pushed past Clayton to circle the office. He was still way too freaked out to deal with customers, or insurance companies, or truck drivers. Actually, he didn‘t feel like dealing with anything.
     
    He flapped his arms up and down for a second, trying to work out the excess adrenaline built up inside of him--it was something he did sometimes after panic attacks, too--and then brushed by Clayton to go to his desk. Elliot was hovering in the corner of the room, face swollen and looking miserable.
     
    Grant righted his chair, sat down, exhaled slowly, and then grabbed the mouse to dispatch the call that had come in. He could feel the other two watching him, and yeah--he should say something….
     
    Right now, though, he didn’t feel like initiating some deep, emotional conversation about what had just occurred. Clayton approached the desk, eyes on Grant for a second before he grabbed the phone and turned it to face himself.
     
    He called the owner, first, who was a man Grant had only met a small handful of times. The guy was a hermit who lived in his giant mobile home behind the office and only came out randomly to scare the shit out of Grant by suddenly appearing from the back office to grab the newspaper. Grant tuned out of the conversation, dispatching the call and then paging Billy on the radio to send him on the run.
     
    Clayton called the manager next, a grouchy man named Robert Tucker,