Page 45 of Disorder (Elite of Elmwood 2)

Her lips formed into a scowl. “Stop blaming yourself. I won’t have it. You’re my best friend. What happens to one of us happens to both of us.”

Her support was unyielding even after what she’d been through, but I still couldn’t help feel somewhat responsible. No, I couldn’t control Carter or what the asshole did. But it was because of my relation to him that the bastard sought out to hurt my best friend. “Maybe Rory knows where your phone is. Or can help fill in some of the blanks,” I offered.

“I’ll give her a call after I talk to my mom.”

I hugged her again. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so scared. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” It was true. Ainsley was family to me—the only real thing I had from my past.

Chapter Ten

Brock and I dropped Ainsley off at her house after seven o’clock. She wanted to sober up some before she went home and faced her parents. Although her coloring was better, less pale green and more rosy pink, she still didn’t feel well. Nothing a bowl of her mom’s homemade chicken noodle soup and some hot tea couldn’t cure. The stuff was magic. Mrs. Fischer had made me a batch more than a time or two when I’d fallen ill. She knew Angie wasn’t the cooking type; nor was she the mothering type.

She wasn’t my mother at all.

A fact that still shook me and felt unreal.

How long did something like finding out your mother is not your biological mother really take to sink in? I didn’t think there were any textbook answers for situations like that.

Brock took a left turn at the stoplight instead of a right, taking us deeper into the old section of Elmwood, not far from where I grew up.

“Where are we going?” I asked, pulling my gaze from the passenger window to look at him.

“Grayson is racing tonight. I thought you’d might like to watch, take a moment to get your mind off all the crap.”

“Oh.” Grayson was racing.

His older brother Sawyer had also raced cars, and it had killed him.

“Unless you want to go back to my place, and I could entertain you in other ways,” he offered seductively. His tone might not have changed, but all my ears heard was the smooth and silky timbre of his voice.

Brock’s suggestion was appealing, especially since his and my idea of entertainment went along the same lines. Sex.

My body tingled at the prospect of having him inside me.

This unhealthy obsession with his dick had to stop. I was getting too attached.

I had to stop thinking about his dick.

Like now.

“No, street racing is great. Can’t wait,” I replied. This was something Grayson was into—something that I imagined made him feel closer to his brother, our brother. Holy shit. I just realized that Sawyer had been my brother too. I never got to meet him. Just another thing Angie took from me.

Sadness filled me for the brother I would never know—never see.

“Hey, Firefly, you okay?”

Brock’s unusually soft voice pulled me out of space where I’d gotten lost in my thoughts about Sawyer. Forcing a smile on my lips, I replied, “Yeah, I’m good. I think everything is just catching up with me.”

Headlights from the upcoming traffic illuminated the shadows on his face. Despite how incredibly beautiful Brock’s features were, he had an edge about him that roughed up some of that beauty. “I’m surprised it hasn’t sooner.”

“I’ve had years of practice suppressing shit,” I admitted, returning my gaze to stare at the blur of dark trees streaking by. As usual, Brock drove fast, but tonight seemed like a night that called for speed.

He eased the car to a speed lower than fast as fuck. “You don’t have to with me.”

When he said shit like that, my heart fluttered in my chest. I wanted to reach across the seat and run my fingers through his hair. I bit my lip instead. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I told Grayson we’d swing by and pick up Mads from her mother’s shop,” he explained as we headed into the shopping district of old downtown Elmwood.

Mrs. Clarke owned a clothing boutique. Actually, she owned several in the surrounding area, all named after her daughter. Mads was sitting on the curb when we pulled up, a cigarette in between her fingers. Her leather-clad legs stretched out in the street, ankles crossed, and the forest-green sweater she wore hung off one shoulder. She was by far the coolest person I knew.

---