Page 10 of Chaos
In my tiny bathroom, I strip out of my clothes, letting them fall in a disgusting heap on the floor. They're going straight in the trash—I'll never get the smell out.
The bathroom mirror reflects someone I barely recognize. My hair is matted with unidentifiable gunk, my face streaked with dirt and tear tracks, and there's a small cut on my cheek that I don't remember getting.
But it's my eyes that really disturb me. They look...different. I am different. The events of the past few hours changed me. I’m no longer the girl who left for work twelve hours ago.
"Don't give up, Rowan," I whisper to my reflection before I sink onto the toilet to pee, my shoulders slumped. "Keep fighting, girl.”
It's what Grams used to tell me when things got tough. When Mom disappeared for days at a time, or when the power got shut off, or when kids at school made fun of my secondhand clothes. Grams always said that the only real failure was giving up, that as long as I kept fighting, hope remained.
I wish she could remember telling me that now. Wish she could remember me at all.
A sound from the main room makes me freeze—a soft scraping. Maybe I imagined it. My heart hammers against my ribs as I strain to listen.
There it is again.
I hold my breath, every muscle in my body coiled tightly. Maybe it's just the neighbor's cat that sometimes gets free and paws at my door for treats, or?—
My eyes fly to the doorknob as it very slowly turns.
Chapter 6
Chaos
“Where the fuck is she?”
The leather couch where I left Rowan is empty. A cold wave of dread crashes over me, followed by white-hot fury.
Why the fuck did she leave? Where did she go? But I already know. She went home—Elmwood Street. Above the laundromat.
"Get a crew to her apartment," I bark at Fury. "Now."
I tear through the emptying warehouse. Everyone knows better than to get in my way when I'm like this.
She's gone. Alone. Unprotected.
And those cartel fucks might already be lying in wait for her.
I swing my leg over my Harley and fire up the engine.
She fucking left. Just walked out.
I gun it through the near-empty streets, running every red light. My heart hammers against my ribs with each block I cover. It's a feeling I'm not familiar with—this bone-deep, primal panic. I've faced down rival clubs, cops, even did a stint in prison when I was younger, but nothing has ever terrified me like the thought of something happening to this woman—a woman I barely know.
The moment I pulled her from that dumpster, some fundamental piece of who I am rearranged itself around her. I didn't understand it then. I'm not sure I understand it now. All I know is I need to get to her before they do.
Elmwood appears ahead, and I throttle down, scanning the run-down buildings until I spot the decaying brick laundromat.
When I pull up outside, I kill the engine and scan the street. Nothing stands out. No suspicious vehicles. No lurking shadows.
The building itself is a shithole—crumbling brick, broken security door, graffiti climbing up the walls like urban ivy. The kind of place where no one asks questions. Where screams go ignored.
I take the stairs two at a time, my hand resting on the knife at my hip. The stairwell reeks of piss and weed. This is where my little dumpster girl lives? Rage rises up again—not at her, but at the circumstances that forced her here.
Her door is locked. I press my ear against it, straining to hear any movement inside. Nothing. I could knock.Shouldknock, probably. But if someone's in there with her, that would just alert them.
It takes me less than thirty seconds to pick the lock. The door swings open silently, and I slip inside, closing and re-locking it behind me without a sound.
The studio apartment is tiny, barely bigger than a walk-in closet. But besides the peeling paint and water stains on the ceiling, it's spotlessly clean. Everything is neatly arranged—books on a makeshift shelf, a small table with a single chair, a Murphy bed that's currently folded into the wall.
