Page 1 of Exception

CHAPTERONE

Chase

“Right up here is where we live,” Devon, my new boss, says as we bump along a dirt path in a golf cart. My teeth rattle a little, and I clasp my bag against my lap just in case it makes a jump for it. God, that would be depressing. Please don’t leave me, Duffle Bag, you’re my only friend on this tiny island.

We turn a corner, and the cart tilts a little to the left because my boss is part monster. He barely fits in this damn thing.

I thought I was big, but nothing compares to this guy. I’m surprised this little golf cart can haul the two of us around. As it is, the motor is whining dramatically. It might just give up. This is not the little engine that could.

My teeth rattle in my skull, and I try to brace myself. I thought that little plane they flew me to the island in was bad. The way it dipped and rattled, I spent most of my flight time searching for a parachute just in case we ended up going down into the ocean.

But this golf cart is ten times worse, and the way Devon is driving is a little scary. It’s like he’s competing in some kind of invisible motorsport rally race.

Best not to think about it or I’ll get nervous.

I force my gaze toward the scenery all around me—palm trees, white-sand beaches, blue skies.

I don’t know what I was thinking taking a job on a fucking island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

I’ve never been out of South Dakota before, but here I am in the tropics.

Looks like a magazine.

I don’t fit in at all.

“Bunch of rich fuckers up in here,” Devon tells me, his meaty hands gripping the steering wheel. He looks like Fred fromThe Flintstones. He probably doesn’t even need the motor in this golf cart to keep us going. He can just use those enormous feet to propel us forward.

“Yeah,” I say like I know. I don’t know. I have no fucking clue. I just saw a handyman job ad online, applied, and yeah, here I fucking am. A low point, I’m sure, but I just had to get away.

I had to run before I lost myself even more than I would have if I stayed. It was stifling at home, suffocating. I got to the point where I realized that South Dakota was all I knew and that there had to be more to it than that. There had to be more to life than the small-minded ways of a conservative town. So I fled.

So fucking far away.

“The rich kids and drug dealers stay back there on the big island. Us peasants stay over here in the employee housing,” he says, gesturing toward an apartment building in the distance. It’s a large, three-story wooden structure with brightly colored storm shutters. “Not bad for what it is though. Could be worse.”

I nod as he takes another corner a little too fast, and I nearly roll out. To my right is the ocean, blue as azure, and to the left are lush green mountains.

I wonder if there are parrots here? Lions?

Jesus, I’m inThe Jungle Book.

“Ah, lookie-lookie. You’re in luck. You get to meet some of the crew,” Devon says as he comes to an abrupt stop. My ass nearly slides to the floor, and I only narrowly manage to keep myself on the seat.

Devon lumbers out, the entire golf cart creaking on its springs, and I scramble after him, tripping on a root protruding from the ground before righting myself.

“Hey, assholes!” he shouts, and a group of three guys and two girls turn to us. They look like they just came from spending time in the water, each wearing a swimsuit with sand coating their tanned skin.

“Oh, a new one?” one of the guys says, and Devon nods.

“It sure is. You all be nice. I’m tired as fuck of trying to find good workers.” He glances around. “Where’s Holden?”

A few of them shrug, and Devon looks pleased. “Thank god for that. Now, let me introduce you. This here is Chase,” Devon begins, sweeping his hand toward me before moving it toward the group of people we’re standing in front of. “Chase, this is Polly, Grace, Carter, Atlas, and Cade.”

I wave back at them, forgetting all of their names immediately. I fiddle with the strap of the bag that’s flung over my shoulder as they say a polite hello. After a moment, Devon moves past the group who have begun chatting again. I can feel their curious eyes on me, and I don’t blame them. I’m not dressed for an island. It was cold in South Dakota when I left. But now, I’m sweating balls. The flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots aren’t doing me any favors. I look like the small-town farmer I am.

We enter the building through some double doors to a small but brightly lit lobby. “Your room is right up here,” Devon says, stomping up a flight of stairs and down a hallway until he comes to a door.

214.

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