Page 30 of Property of Chaos

“People call me Chaos.”

“Cool.” I roll my eyes. “People call me trouble.”

The fucker waggles my journal again. “I can see why.” His brow dives, and fuck it all if that doesn’t make him more intriguing. “Hey, who is this guy you keep talking about? An ex? You never use his name.”

I know I don’t.“He’s none of your business,” I whisper.

My midnight intruder glances up again, lips set in a firm line. “He scares you.”

“You’rescaring me.” The throbbing pulse point in my neck proves so.

His lips twitch, and he drops my journal to his side. “I didn’t mean to.Fuck.” He turns away, gently setting the bat against the corner of the wall. “Is it okay if I keep this for a day or two?” He lifts the journal high enough for me to see it over his shoulder.

“No,” I snap. “It’s not fucking okay.” Who the hell does he think he is? Breaking into my goddamn house and then taking my shit. Mypersonalshit.

“Shame.” Chaos lifts the back of his leather vest and T-shirt, shoving my goddamn textual nightmares into his waistband. “Because I wasn’t really asking.”

I lunge for the asshole, determined to get the fucking journal off him.

He spins, holding one hand out before him, index finger raised. “Nuh-uh.” Fucker wags it side-to-side. “It isn’t wise to fuck around with things you don’t understand.”

“You don’t say.” I grit my teeth, fists balled at my sides.

“And that, my little enigma,” he coos, sidestepping toward the door. “Is why I’ve got this.” He reaches behind to pat my journal, bending at the waist as he smiles.

“So you can understand me?” I frown.

He nods. “Because Ireallywant to fuck around with you.”

TWELVE

CHAOS

I’ve readthe fucking thing cover to cover. Well, scanned the pages front to back, and nowhere in this goddamn dear diary does it tell me her name. I don’twantto ask Theresa. That would mean admitting that I’m interested, but I’m not ready to share just yet.Fuck it.I rest the crook of my elbow on my raised knee, ass tucked on the bare wood of the window seat in what will soon be my bedroom.

Dawn rises over her house in the distance, the orange hues of the warming day reflecting off the rusted tin roof. I tap the journal against my shin, studying the outline of her cottage.

My gut tells me she won’t be a problem, but my brain says it’s too soon to be sure.

She’s one woman. Nothing a fucking one percent motorcycle club should be concerned with, and yet, fuck, it’s less about who she is and more about what she represents—trouble. Another headache. Somebody else to micromanage so we can keep our business working.

I’m tired of the eyes on us, of the whispers in the streets, of the cynicism and hatred toward my family. I’m fucking tiredof people sticking their noses where they don’t fucking belong. Sure. We don’t do good shit. We sure as fuck ain’t good people.

But we don’t shit where we sleep, and neither should the people of Temperance.

Better the devil you know.Maybe I should let the Devil’s Breed take over.Then the fuckers would have something to complain about. Three arsons and a handful of aggravated assault charges are all we’ve contested since I’ve sat at the head of the table. Let any of the less respectful clubs in here, and Temperance would be looking at a rap sheet as long as their arm within a week—murder first and foremost on that list.

Fuck this shit.I want to ride my fucking bike, smoke a little green, and make a fuckload of cash. Is that so goddamn difficult?

The book weighs heavy in my hand as the rage slowly grows teeth within my chest. I clamp my fingers tighter around the cover, then hastily flip to the page I dog-eared for quick reference.

…during the worst of them, I still feel his fingers clamped around my wrists. The hot wash of his breath as he told me to be a good girl and behave. The rotten smell of the fucking asshole he sold my time to and the burning ache of things shoved where they don’t belong. When I let the anger win, I ache to do those things to him. To have tears pool in HIS eyes when he begs for reprieve. In my weakest moments, I want MY boot on HIS neck, blood on HIS lips, and that’s what I hate the most. That deep down, I’m just as fucked up as he was for wanting to do such depraved things to another human being.

My chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, jaw achingly tight as I stare at her bullshit facade of happiness amongst the nothingness of the surrounding farmland. She tries so goddamnhard to make her life something pretty and full of joy, but one moment within her walls and you can goddamn feel it—fucking nearsmellit. The desperation and the despair.

The demons from whom she can’t hide.

Her soul rots because of these things she writes about, and despite the mountain of club business demanding my attention, it’sherproblems that I itch to solve.

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