Page 1 of Chaos

PROLOGUE

Fuck me,he’s mad.

Oscar Jackson is so fucking mad.

If the deafening volume of him bellowing that I’ve gone too far this time doesn’t give it away, the red hue to his tan complexion does. The fact that every single muscle and vein in his body is flexed and popping, close to bursting with the magnitude of his rage, does too. The way he’s frantically tearing apart my bedroom, searching for contraband and secrets,definitelydoes.

“You can’t do this,” I protest frantically as he chucks the pillows stacked on my bed onto the floor, my duvet soon to follow—despite the fact that I know damn well that I have no ground to stand on.

I fucked up.

I fucked up so bad, and getting my privacy invaded, being the object of my brother’s ire, is the least I deserve. But fuck if I’m admitting that.

The Jackson pride is a powerful genetic trait and it most certainly did not skip a generation.

So when he starts pulling open my drawers, rifling through the contents and sending clothes flying everywhere, I stop cowering in my bedroom doorway and close the distance between us, daring to screech the first name no one ever uses. “Oscar, stop!”

“No.” Knocking away my hand where it wraps around his biceps, my brother spins to face me, and I realize I’m wrong. He’s not mad.Madis way too tame a word to describe him right now. God, I can’t think of a single one that accurately describes the look on his face, in his eyes. It’s the most crushing mixture of disbelief and fury and disappointment, and if I were a better person, it would probably send me to my knees, have me begging for forgiveness.

But it’s been well established over the years by many, many people that I am an outstandingly shitty person. So, I hold my ground, squaring my shoulders and hardening my expression, even as something in me breaks when my brother screams, “I’ve had enough.”

And there it is. At last, I’ve reached the bottom of the endless well that is Oscar Jackson’s capacity for forgiveness. He’s finally had enough of me.

Squashing a wince, I scowl, and I lie. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t do anything?” His laugh is anything but amused. “Charlotte, you werearrested.”

“No way,” I quip because I can’t resist, because I know, because I was the one stewing in the lone holding cell our shitty little town possesses. “Was I?”

“Forpossession,” Jackson continues, spitting the allegation like it tastes bad. “How could you be so stupid?”

“It wasn’t mine.” Well, not all of it was mine. The weed, yeah. But the other stuff… “I swear, it wasn’t mine.”

He doesn’t believe me. I knew he wouldn’t—what the hell have I ever done to earn his trust?—but it still hurts. When hescoffs and crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me like I’m a stranger, not his sister, itkills. “And how can I trust you, huh?” he voices exactly what I was thinking. “How the fuck can I trust you when all you do is lie to me? Jesus, Lottie, I’ve never been so disappointed in you.”

This time, I don’t manage to keep my reaction internal. I outwardly wince, curling in on myself just a little with the force of the guilt that punches me in the stomach.

Jackson doesn’t notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Head still shaking, he starts to pace the length of my room, dragging both hands down his face in frustration. “Do you even understand how bad this is? It’s on your record, Lottie. You would’ve been charged if I hadn’t…”

He trails off, but I know what he was going to say—if he hadn’t paid off theupstandingofficers protecting the oh-so-crime-ravaged streets of Haven Ridge so they magically forgot about my little indiscretion. If he hadn’t used the pull that our family has by being successful business owners in a place that needs the revenue, by being the big fish in a little pond.

I should’ve been destined for a court date like the other three people who were in my car when I got pulled over. But I’m not. Because that’s how Jackson’s fix things; we throw money at our problems until they disappear. It’s what our dad did to our mom. It’s what our grandparents have always done to us.

It’s an art, really.

My mouth opens for an argument, for a rebuttal, but Jackson cuts me off. “I’m done. I’m done coddling you. I’m done acting like this is normal, like the way you act is just a phase.”

Something ominous settles in the pit of my stomach, something that screams ‘you’ve really done it now.’

Jackson stares me down, his expression hard and unforgiving. He holds out a hand, palm flipped towards the ceiling. “Your cards. Credit card, debit card, I want them all.”

“What?” The word is an incredulous scoff. “No!”

“Give them to me or I swear to God, Lottie.”

The stubborn streak in me—another family trait—begs me to argue. But my logical side, a side that doesn’t get to stretch its legs very often, clocks the look on my brother’s face and recognizes that he is not fucking around.

Huffing and puffing and spluttering a steady stream of curses, I snatch my bag from where it’s strewn haphazardly on the floor, a victim of Jackson’s rampage, and fish out my wallet. I throw it at him, feeling a sick satisfaction when it smacks him square in the chest.

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