Page 4 of Chaos

I cluck my tongue at the vague response. “Ominous.”

“I’m a man of mystery,” Ricky croons. “That’s why you love me, remember?”

No.

I most definitely do not remember that.

A bad feeling settles in my gut the moment my car’s GPS lets me know I’ve arrived at my destination. Peering out the windshield with a grimace, I’m one-hundred-percent positive that the only thing my friends could be getting up to in a place like this istrouble.

With the engine still running, I think for a second. I consider reversing back down the long, empty driveway leading to the mansion I know damn well doesn’t belong to anyone I or my friends know. A voice in the back of my head urges me to call it a night, to just go home, to make the right choice.

I’ve never been very good at listening to that voice. It sounds like my older brother, a lot of my older sister in it too, and I guess that’s why I’ve always gone against it. I guess that’s why, even though I really don’t want to, I get out of my car.

I don’t bother knocking—no one would hear me over the obnoxious music floating through the air. Bypassing the front of the house entirely, I circle around to the backyard, fighting my way through some extensive,expensivegreenery until I find a patio covered in shattered glass.

“Really?” I remark, unimpressed as I step over the remains of a sliding door and into a living room that’s easily twice the size of my entire apartment. “I thought you guys were done with this shit.”

Ricky scoffs as he stumbles towards me, bringing the stench of vodka with him. “No,” he corrects, snaking his hands around my waist. “Youwere done with it.”

Technically, I was never reallywith itin the first place. Breaking into rich people’s houses was something the drunken trio around me did long before I came onto the scene—it was their thing, and I just tagged along. Sure, it was fun at first. Exhilarating or whatever. But that initial rush wore off pretty quickly, and then it was just… not.

Contrary to popular belief, I’m not some monster hellbent on causing destruction at every turn. I don’t enjoy wrecking people’s shit the way the others do. The extent of my criminality was helping myself to stolen booze—is, I guess, considering that’s what I make a beeline for now, searching for the strength to get through the night.

I ignore the open bottles of liquor strewn across the kitchen counters, hunting for something better and finding it tucked inside the wine fridge installed in the island. Pulling out a perfectly-temped bottle of Pinot Noir, I snag a glass from the temperature-controlled cabinet—God, and I thoughtmyfamily was stupidly rich. Popping the cork with a flourish, I pour until the deep red liquid teases the brim before swigging a greedy mouthful straight from the bottle.

“God, you’re such a snob.”

I flick my middle finger up at Vic, though it’s pretty hard to care about anything coming out of her mouth when there’s an award-winning red in mine.

Not particularly in the mood for company, I wander back outside, meandering through the garden that’s just asimpressive as the interior. Leaning against the railing that guards against a steep drop-off, I survey the view. We’re all but in the middle of nowhere, up here in the hills, the city so far away it’s nothing but twinkling dots in the distance. If not for the music, it would be quiet like the countryside. Itsmellslike the countryside, fresher, cleaner, like—

I cut myself off with a tut and another drink. Damn cowboys stirring shit up. That’s twice in one day my mind has wandered places it shouldn’t—itcan’t, for the good of my state of mind. I spent a long time in that wistful mindset, pining for things, for people, that likely weren’t pining back, and it wasn’t good for me. It only made me sad, and I don’t like being sad. I like being angry a lot more. It’s easier being angry. It’sfunbeing angry.

Well, most of the time it is. Not so much when it gets me kicked out of my house, and consequently out of my family.

“Enough,” I chastise myself beneath my breath. Shaking my head, I turn around in search of a distraction, and a distraction, I do find.

Ricky wobbles towards me, slugging my wine straight from the bottle, and I sigh at the borderline sacrilegious sight of it spilling down his chest. What a waste. Almost makes me want to reject his advances when he backs me up against the railing and leans in.

Almost.

Luckily for him, he tastes like Pinot Noir and bad decisions—my favorite combination.

Unluckily for me, kissing Ricky is an entirely mindless, deeply unsatisfying task. It doesn’t consume me the way I need to be consumed, doesn’t obliterate my ability to think of anything else. Frustrated, I pull away and snatch the bottle from his clumsy grip, draining it dry until the idea of suggesting we take this somewhere more private actually sounds fun.

I don’t get the chance—the moment I open my mouth, a blaring alarm cuts me off. Cringing at the offensive shriek, I’m confused for all of five seconds until Vic and Ethan come tearing out of the house.

“What the hell did you do?” Ricky asks, but I don’t need any clarification. They did what they always do; they took things a step too far. They couldn’t leave well enough alone, breaking in wasn’t enough. They got greedy, and this time, their greed manifested in the fistfuls of jewelry they both clutch.

Typical.

“There was a fucking alarm in the bedroom,” Ethan huffs, stuffing his full hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Who does that?”

Stowing her own loot in her purse, Vic tugs on her boyfriend’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Relax. What, you think the cops are gonna show up in five seconds?” Ethan gestures at our surroundings. “Look where we are.”

As if on cue, sirens wail not-so-distantly.

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