Page 89 of Chaos

Not literally—at least not today, he isn’t. Figuratively.Spiritually. He’s trying to wear me down, make me give up, piss me off enough that I do.

I’ve been driving him in circles for what feels like hours, trying to get him to join-up,begginghim to. He keeps dancing towards me, teasing me with success before darting away, and I’m almost more amused than I am exasperated because it’s almost like he’s playing. I swear he’s even smirking at me.

As frustration bubbles in my gut, I huff, and he huffs right back. Hands landing on my hips, I wonder if I have the authority to call time on this useless exercise. Gaze wandering to Carmen so I can ask, I find her otherwise occupied.

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek. Listen, I have no problem if Finn wants to lay the moves on the trainer. Really, Idon’t. But he can do it on his own fucking time. And not in front of me. Somewhere, anywhere, else.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, they lean against the paddock gate, arms stacked on the same rung, heads dipped in each other’s directions as they talk about… I don't know. Whatever nice, happy people talk about. Butterflies? Kittens? Christmas?

Arrest records or loner tendencies or familial strife do not come up, I bet.

They look good together, I have to admit, and I don’t like how admitting that makes me feel. I’m no stranger to jealousy—I’m kind of an inherently jealous person—so I know what it feels like, I know that’s what the knot in my gut is. The cause, though, is a little unclear.

Carmen, probably. Pretty, bubbly, unwaveringly patient Carmen who I keep waiting to slip up, to show some sliver of a less-than-perfect personality, but over the past week, I’ve learned she really is just that nice. All the time. Naturally.

Howannoying.

Yeah. I’m done.

Keeping one eye on the demon trotting nearby, I make my way to the fence and, with my exit blocked, find no choice but to scramble up and over it. As I hit the ground, I take a single moment to remark on my ankle feeling kind of, in some realm of the word, okay before marching towards the barn. I need to be in a presence that doesn’t irritate or infuriate me, and that’s exactly what I find as I lean against Daphne’s stall.

For all of five seconds, that is.

The dust has barely settled behind me before someone else is kicking it up, intruding, irritating, infuriating. “You wanna go for a ride?”

Excellentidea. Stepping around the man standing disconcertingly close, I head for the equipment wall. “If anyone asks, I’ll be back in an hour.”

“I meant with me.”

Ask Carmen,I almost sneer, mentally slapping myself in the face for it.

What the fuck? Get a grip, woman.

“Or not.” With a huff that’s equal parts confused, amused, and concerned, Finn smoothes one hand down the back of his head, the other looping around my bicep. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” his mouth says, but his face calls bullshit.

And what am I going to say? That I’m unreasonably, inexplicably irritated by him exchanging googly eyes with another woman for the past few hours? That I’m referring to another woman asanother woman? Fuck no. I’d rather chew my own foot off. I’d rather fall in a manure pile.

I’d rather admit, “I’m just frustrated. I thought…” Sighing, I rake my hands through my hair, linking my fingers at my crown as I tilt my head back to stare at the rafters. “I thought this would be easier. Since he already let me ride him once.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Yeah, I know.” I cluck my tongue, wishing I could spit out the sour taste of defeat. “Just hoped, I guess.”

Sympathy softens Finn’s features. His grip becoming featherlight, his thumb strokes the horseshoe inked on my inner arm, just above the crook of my elbow. “You’re still doing real good, Lot.”

“How would you know?” I blurt without meaning to, wincing internally and praying he takes it as a joke.

Eyes going wide, Finn grins, pure fucking goofy. “You think I got a twin that’s been watching you all morning?”

I snort. “You’ve beenflirtingall morning, cowboy.”

That grin drops. Blinking slowly, Finn pins me with incredulity. “Who, exactly, was I flirting with?”

“Uh.” I pretend to think about it, pursing my lips. “The hot blonde, maybe.”

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