Page 14 of Chaos

His son.

I knew it already—for fuck’s sake, I can only see half the kid’s face where it lolls on his father’s shoulder, but I can already tell they’re damn near identical. But hearing it slices through my already fragile state. Makes me realize I’ve missed something else, something big. Makes me say more shit I know I shouldn't, shit I don’t mean. “Just an accident then. Like father, like son, I guess.”

I wince as the words leave me, as they taint the air around us, but Jackson doesn't. He doesn’t react at all. He remains carefully stoic—he even smiles, just a little, acerbic and unsurprised. “You really haven’t changed a bit, huh?”

“Guess not.”

Get out of here, the lonely shred of common sense I still possess screeches.Go before you make things worse.

My brother’s voice follows me outside. “You’re going the wrong way.”

Halting my hurried strides towards the only house I’ve ever really considered home, I glance back at Jackson and arch a questioning brow.

“Ranch hands stay in the bunkhouse.”

“The bunkhouse,” I repeat, frowning. Since when do we have one of those?

With the hand not cradling his son—my nephew, I think with a jerk,my nephew who’s name I don’t even know—Jackson jerks a thumb in what I guess must be the direction of my mysterious new home. “Finn’ll take you over there.”

So I can stew in some more judgemental silence? “No, thanks.”

Thinking quickly, thinkingrecklessly, I haul ass towards the truck still parked outside the barn, slipping behind the wheel and cranking the engine before anyone can stop me.

“I’ll find it myself.”

It takes longer than I care to admit to find the so-called bunkhouse.

In my defense, though, Serenity is a whole lot of land.

When I finally pull up outside, I laugh—of course, I shouldn’t have expected a simple, wooden structure, just big enough to house a few bunk beds. That would be ridiculous. That would be sonotLux. She might like to pretend she’s a simple country girl, but my sister’s got a penchant for extravagance, and the A-frame cabin that looks bigger than the main house proves it.

Painted red like the barns, the building stands out against the expanse of green around it. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the setting sun. Wooden steps lead up to a huge porch, a firepit crackling in the center of it, a handful of people huddled around it.

With it getting darker by the minute, I can’t quite make out their faces, but I can tell they’re looking my way. I picture their surprised expressions when I exit the truck, its owner nowhere to be seen—I wonder if theyknow enoughabout me like Finn apparently does.

I figure they don’t because as I hobble up the porch steps, dragging my bag behind me, that surprise I rightly predicted doesn’t go anywhere.

Three wary strangers lounge on Adirondacks. Two guys and a pretty girl with a tentative smile and long, thick black hair that she tucks behind her ears as she pushes to stand. “Can we help you?”

I don’t answer. I don’t stop either. I just keep ambling towards the open front door. “Nope.”

One of the guys stands too, raking a hand through shaggy blond hair as he frowns. “Where’d you get Finn’s truck?”

Already inside, I’m not sure if they hear me mutter, “Borrowed it.”

Kicking the door shut, I pause. Wait for it to fly open again, for bodies to storm inside, demanding answers. But they never come and, after a single, short breath of relief, I take advantage of my solitude and survey my surroundings.

My long, impressed whistle echoes off the rafters dissecting a high ceiling. Bag hitting the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, I bypass the cozy living room in favor of hitting the farmhouse-style kitchen. I haven’t eaten a thing all day—relentless dread really does kill a girl’s appetite—and now that I’m finally here, I’m starving. Of course, though, the second I wrench open the fridge, my shiny new roommates suddenly kick into gear and join me.

“Seriously,” the blond guy hollers as he shoulders his way inside. “Who are you?”

A girl who can’t stop staring at a six-pack of ice-cold beer, apparently.

I only hesitate for a second before grabbing one, using the lip of the counter to crack it open before answering, “Lottie.”

None of them show a single hint of recognition.

Which is relieving, I guess. That they don’t know who I am. They don’t know where I’ve just come from, clearly, because I don’t think there’d be alcohol lying around if they did—unless they’re assholes.

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