Page 19 of Chaos

“Get to work, then. And stay out of trouble, please.”

Rolling my eyes, I wave off the warning. And because I am who I am—stubborn to a damn fault—I jog away from my brother, waiting until I’m in the barn and out of view before letting another pained grimace loose.

Working on autopilot, I limp into the back room Lux uses as an office, rooting around in her desk drawer until I find the painkillers I’m looking for. But when my fist closes around the bottle, I hesitate. I’m not sure why. It’s not like Tylenol is going to break my sobriety. It’s just a painkiller. One measly pill to take the edge off, to get me through the day. It’s fine.

Except, for some reason, I don’t pop the lid.

For some reason, I feel guilty as hell even considering it.

For some reason, when I hear footsteps approaching, I react like I’ve been caught doing something wrong, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as I hurriedly hide the bottle behind my back.

Strolling through the doorway, Finn comes up short at the sight of me. Deep, curious groves mar his forehead. “What’re you doing?”

I scowl. “Nothing.”

His gaze drops, eyes narrowing as they focus on my hidden hand. “What’s that?”

Fuck, I hate how he asks that. So suspicious. Soexpectant, like he thinks he already knows the answer, like he thinks I’ve got a damn bottle of vodka shoved in the waistband of my jeans.

Huffing, I brandish the oh-so-illicit bottle, giving it a shake for good measure. “Relax. It’s just Tylenol.”

He doesn't say anything. His expression doesn’t change either.

“I’m allowed to take Tylenol, okay?”

“Okay,” he might say, but I swear I hear‘then why are you hiding it?’

“My ankle hurts.”

He repeats, “Okay.”

“It’s not like I’m sneaking vodka shots.”

That frown intensifies. “Didn’t think you were.”

Yeah, right. He looks five seconds away from whipping out a breathalyzer.

As it is, when he starts towards me, I’m half-convinced he’s going to grab me and drag me out of here, march me over to my siblings so they can subject me to the consequences of an action I haven’t even actually done yet, lecture me until my ears fall off, ransack the entire ranch until it's free of anything remotely addictive.

Instead, Finn brushes past me. His arm grazes mine. Smooth, warm skin makes me shiver for reasons I can’tcomprehend, nor do I want to. Warily, I watch as he opens the cabinet tucked in the corner and fishes something out.

“Here.” He tosses something awfully familiar at me and I catch it mid-air. “Lux makes this. It works pretty good.”

“I know,” I snap, unreasonably irritated at the assumption that I don’t know what he’s brandishing. As if I didn’t spend most of my childhood being lathered in the stuff in the murky contents of an unlabelled glass bottle—as if I can’t already smell the potent concoction of ginger, turmeric, clove, and lemongrass.

Whether the homemade analgesic ever actually worked on the various aches and pains a high school track career combined with ranch life earned me or if it just was a placebo effect, who knows. Guess I’ll find out now—it’s not like I have much of a choice.

With a huff, I drop the Tylenol back into the drawer. Hip-checking it shut with a little more vigor than necessary, I hop onto the desk, toeing off my boot before propping my foot up on the wood. A hiss whistles through Finn’s teeth as I roll down my sock, a noise I echo becauseshit. I’m sure it didn’t look that bad yesterday—I’m sure it shouldn’t look that bad, full stop. I’m sure bruises aren’t supposed to last a month, nor should they be that dark, but then again, I’m also sure I’m not the best at the whole concept ofrecovery.

Gritting my teeth against the pain even the most ginger of touches causes, I carefully dab some of the thin ointment onto my swollen joint, holding my breath as the eye-wateringly strong scent burns my nostrils. I make quick work of it, exhaling a sigh when I finish. When I inhale, it’s not the medical ointment I smell.

It’s hay. Dirt. Sweat. And something else lurking beneath the combination, something sweet and smokey. Something Finn-specific, I realize, when I glance aside and find him lurking closer than he was a moment ago, still peering at my ankle.

“Lux said you were in a car accident.”

I snicker beneath my breath as I let my leg hang over the edge of the desk. That’s one way to describe it. An act of dipshit-ery is more accurate, in my opinion. “Guess I was.”

When a dark brow quirks inquisitively, I figure‘what the hell?’He already thinks I’m the devil. Does it really matter if he knows the illicit details of my latest arrest? “Someone drove my car into a house. The hood got crushed on the passenger side. So did my ankle.”

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