Page 163 of Finding Hope

“Mm–”

“Listen.” Sitting up, I place my empty glass on the small table beside the chair, and when Alex’s cruiser pulls into the driveway, I fix my hair across my face. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bambie–”

“Alex just got home, and I’ve got dinner in the oven. I’ll talk to you later.”

He bites out a frustrated sigh. “Fine, I’ll call you tonight. Dinner tomorrow, right?”

“…Right.”

“Yeah.” Snapping at my hesitance, he bites off a curse. “Alright. Talk to you later.”

“Goodby–”

“Tell Alex I said to go fuck himself.”

Even his hang up doesn’t stop the watery laugh bubbling through my chest. Bending over, I scratch Bowser’s ear when she sprints up the porch stairs.

Bowser is ashe, and though her name doesn’t suit her at all, Alex feltthe need to make her sound scarier, seeing as she’s a police dog and needs to be badass… according to X. In reality, she’s mostly a sweetheart. She’s bitten me a few times, but each time was a ‘hit Alex again, and I’ll rip your face off’ warning.

She’s protective of him, and when Annie stayed here and he patted her a few too many times, we had to separate them before there was a beatdown.

Annie’s bigger than Bowser, but Bowser has that killer instinct.

Touch her human, and she’ll rip your throat out.

“Hey, Brat.” Stopping on the porch in front of me, Alex kicks his boots against the concrete beams that hold the roof up and dislodges clumps of dried mud. “What are you doing home?”

I roll my eyes. “I live here, X. Why are your shoes all muddy?”

Scoffing, he works on the laces. “Just work, nothing new. Wanna order a pizza tonight?”

“Yeah, I haven’t prepared anything else.”

“That’s cool. My treat. I had a shitty day; pizza and a beer sounds perfect.”

I never made the conscious decision to stop drinking, it just worked out that way. Just like the rest of the Kincaids, I haven’t had a beer in months. Not at home alone, and especially not in front of Jack.

But today, just like Alex, my day sucks, and a pizza and beer sound exactly perfect.

Forty-five minutes after getting dirt all over the porch, I sit on the couch with my big brother, a steaming hot, freshly delivered pizza, and a six pack of beer.

Kicking his socked feet up onto the coffee table, Alex takes the remote and flicks on the TV, but instantly, we’re assaulted with images of Jack.

Steph.

Me.

Changing the channel with a huff, Alex slams the remote down onto the arm of the couch. “I fucking hate that the media knows who you are, Brat.”

Sipping my beer lazily, I shake my head. “Me too, X. It got old real quick.”

“Need me to shoot him yet?”

I smile around the lip of my bottle. “Nah, but maybe let me hide out. I don’t want to be seen anymore.”

His eyes narrow with his I’m-the-chief-round-these-wild-parts suspicion. “Hide from the media, or fromhim?”

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