Disorder by J.L. Weil

Chapter One

Triplets? Triplets? Triplets!

The phrase echoed in my head like a bad song.

Are they fucking kidding me? How is this possible?

It couldn’t be. This had to be a joke. Some kind of mindfuck. Another Elite game.

They had to be high.

“What the fuck did you say?” I asked, my voice trembling. When the hell had that started? The trembling? The cold suddenly bit into me.

“Grayson is your brother,” Brock repeated, more slowly this time as if the words would finally sink past the blockade that refused to believe him. His startling aqua eyes implored me to understand. “You’re triplets. Grayson, Kenna, and you.”

And in just seconds, my world, everything I thought I knew about myself, about my family, ripped to shreds. I shifted in his lap so we weren’t as close, because even faced with disorder, some part of me radiated constant awareness of Brock Taylor.

“No, I don’t have a brother or a sister. I think I would know if I had a brother and a sister.” Yet, even as the denial left my lips, doubt crept in.

Kenna looked so much like me. Identical almost.

“Would you?” he asked, his expression still hard and tense. It was only because of me that he sat in Grayson’s Jeep instead of beating the living shit out of my stepbrother, Carter. Again.

The other back door opened, Micah shoving Grayson inside beside Brock and me before I could demand Brock explain. Seeing Grayson distracted me.

My so-called brother’s fists clenched as he hit the back of the seat, releasing a groan of rage. “I want to kill that bastard,” he seethed.

Unconvinced any of this was true, I thought perhaps I was living in an alternate universe. No other explanation made sense to me.

Fynn slid into the driver seat as Micah climbed into the passenger front side. As soon as the doors closed, Fynn slammed the running vehicle into gear.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Brock growled at Grayson. “Fynn, get us out of here before the cops show up,” he ordered.

I had a feeling the reason Grayson hadn’t hopped into the driver seat of his Jeep was because he would have run Carter down with his car. Rage vibrated off him in waves.

Sneaking a glance out the window despite telling myself not to, I caught a glimpse of Carter as Fynn whipped the car around, tires peeling over the parking lot pavement.

Carter looked… furious.

His blond hair disheveled, blue eyes wild, Carter’s little kidnapping plan had been foiled. God knew what he was capable of next. But I got the horrible feeling his target had shifted from Brock to me. My stepbrother wouldn’t forget the Elite coming to my rescue.

He despised them.

What I had once thought smacked of envy and jealousy, I now realized burned of bitterness and contempt. It had become a race to see who could take down whom first.

The Elite.

Or Carter.

And somewhere along the way, I got caught in the crosshairs.

FML.

Micah turned in his seat, glancing back at Brock and me, a serious note in his light blue eyes. “She okay?” he asked as if I was incapable of speaking for myself.

I was shaken up, clearly, but not so much that I couldn’t talk.

Micah Bradford. The Elite playboy. Flirting came naturally to him, but tonight, he’d been stone-faced and serious, a side I hadn’t seen before. I had always considered Micah harmless.

I was wrong.

His firm body wasn’t just for show and football.

“He hit her,” Brock replied lowly.

“And he will pay for that,” Fynn said as he cranked the steering wheel to the right, maneuvering the car onto the main road. The silver piercing on his dark brow reflected off the headlights of cars passing by as he glanced at me from the rearview mirror. “No one hurts what’s ours.” Over six feet of swoon-worthy male, Fynn Dupree was the shyer member of the Elite. Cool and calm, until you pissed him off.

That seemed to be an Elite theme. They were all okay guys until someone made the mistake of flipping their asshole switch.

“I’m not yours,” I said hoarsely.

Brock’s hand splayed over the small of my back, keeping me on his lap. “You are, Firefly. The sooner you accept it, the safer you’ll be.”

The sharp stinging on my cheek said otherwise, but I figured now wasn’t the right time to point that out. To be fair, he had come to my rescue after I had gone behind his back with Grayson. I wanted to circle back to the whole triplet bomb. Later, I told myself.

I studied Grayson, seeing him for the first time in a different light. So what if we shared the same brown eyes or the same shade of hair? That didn’t automatically mean we shared DNA. A picture of Kenna came into my head. When he looked at me, did he see her?

Grayson exhaled, dropping his head back on the seat. “Fuck,” he breathed, rubbing his hands over his face.

A weird tingle wove through me as I stared at Grayson, dissecting every feature in his face. The resemblance shone to such an astonishing degree that I wondered how I hadn’t seen it before.

Triplets!

Holy! Shit!

How is this possible?

What does it mean? Am I adopted? Or were they adopted?

Question after question tumbled through my head.

How long had Grayson known?

How long had the Elite known?

Why hadn’t any of them told me?

Did Kenna know?

What the fuck!

It did explain why there had never been any kind of attraction between Grayson and me, no spark. I’d been certain Grayson hated me.

Now I finally had an inkling why.

He looked at me and saw his sister, which I sort of figured out already. How could he not when I looked so much like her? Did he believe that I knew about them? That I had somehow abandoned them? Because that was the only rational explanation my mind could come up with for this anger he had toward me. My parents had given Grayson and Kenna up for adoption but kept me. If that were true—if being the big factor—then I couldn’t imagine how he felt, nor could I understand why my parents would do such a thing.

Okay, yes, Angie had me at a young age, but my father stuck around, he married her, provided for us. Had they not believed they could have done so for three babies?

Another gazillion questions ran rampant through my head.

Or… had Grayson’s parents given me up? Was I adopted? It might explain why Angie hated me so much, why we never got along. But why wouldn’t my parents have told me? Never once had they ever let on that I wasn’t theirs. I’d heard my birth story a million times over the years.

One thing was certain: I had to talk to Angie.

I had to uncover the truth. I deserved the truth.

Brock noticed where my attention diverted, reading my range of facial expressions. “Look, I’ll explain everything after we get out of here,” he whispered near my ear.

My gaze shifted to Brock, and I saw the concern he had for his friend. Grayson was going through some shit, but so was I. I just found out that I might have a sister and brother. Like, holy hell. What was I supposed to do with that information? Keep it to myself?

Other than my parents, Grayson was the one person I wanted to talk to. He had answers I desperately needed, but the closed expression on Brock’s face told me not to prod him.

Not now.

Grayson needed to cool off.

And I needed to pinch myself. Or wake up. Nothing that had happened tonight seemed real. How the fuck was this my life?

“I can’t go home,” I muttered, thinking of Carter. Not tonight. Hell, maybe never. The idea of facing Carter…

I shuddered.

In the dimly lit car, Brock’s gaze drifted to my swollen cheek, his eyes darkening. I hated to admit just how much it freaking hurt. “You’re not,” he said, expression serious.

“Oh.” I exhaled as my nails still dug into my palms to stop the shaking, but it appeared to be an ineffective tactic, seeing as I still trembled.

“You’re coming home with me. At least for the night,” he added, his breath warm along the side of my neck, doing wonders to thaw the ice in my veins.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Micah asked. He forked a hand through his bleached blond hair before resting his elbow on the windowsill of the car door.

Why would my staying at Brock’s be a big deal?

I’d spent the night once before, but his parents hadn’t been home. Was that the problem? His parents? Did they have a strict no-girl policy? Seemed unlikely Brock had rigid parents, but then I remembered Mads telling me Brock didn’t take girls to his house, definitely not to his room.

So once again, the Elite were breaking the rules for me.

Why?

Because I was Grayson’s sister?

Considering how much Grayson gave off the impression that he didn’t like me all that much, it didn’t make sense. I planned to uncover why Grayson hadn’t welcomed me with open arms. Or perhaps I already had unearthed the reason why.

He had come to my defense with Carter tonight. That was something… wasn’t it?

If Grayson was angry with me, then he had to have his reasons, and until I got some answers, I chose to hold on to the bead of hope that we could be friends, at least while I figured out how I felt about having a brother and a sister.

“I’m not letting her out of my sight,” Brock said. “We can think of a better plan tomorrow.” Without the radio on, our voices easily carried throughout the car, even over the purring engine. “Drop us off and then you guys go back to Grayson’s and kick everyone out. Stay with him,” he instructed, falling into his leadership role.

It suited him, giving commands without blinking and expecting them to be carried through, no questions asked.

Ten minutes later, we rolled up past the community gates and onto Brock’s driveway. Darkness shrouded the house, only a single porch light casting a soft glow over the entrance. Not a single window was illuminated.

“It’s been an… interesting night, new girl,” Micah said with a wink, his dimples flashing on either side of his grin.

“Try and stay out of trouble,” Fynn added as he glanced over his shoulder, an impossible request considering who I hung out with—the fucking Elite.

Had entangling myself with them been a mistake?

Too late now.

I found myself glancing at Grayson. He leaned forward in the seat, elbows propped on his knees and chin resting on his hands. His left foot tapped agitatedly on the rubber floor mat.

I should say something, right? Like, see you later, bro?

No. Definitely not.

He did bother to look up at me, so I took it as a sign.

Brock opened the car door and gave the side of my thigh, close to my ass, a pat. “Come on, Firefly. You and I need to have that talk.” The way he said the words made it sound like he was about to deliver me a stern lecture.

Like hell would I listen to him scold me over my choice to trap Carter, despite it having completely backfired.

I jumped out of the Jeep and strolled onto the porch, waiting for Brock to key in the code that unlocked the door. He swung it open and waited for me to walk through. Inside, darkness greeted me, and for a moment, absolute blackness bathed over me. Panic clawed inside my chest as memories of waking up blindfolded and with hands bound inside the back of Carter’s SUV came barreling to the forefront of my mind. Quick pants of breath expelled from my lungs. Not now. Not now, I chanted. I would not lose it.

Brock flipped on a light switch, flooding the room with light. Fumbling with my rings, I stood in the center of the entryway, staring at nothing.

“Josie.”

The sound of my name snapped me out of that too-fresh memory. I blinked, allowing my gaze to focus on my surroundings. Brock had one of those magazine-quality homes, but I didn’t really see any of it. My brain was so blown by the events of tonight, it just stopped fucking processing altogether, a defense mechanism to keep me from having a meltdown.

Who knew how long I’d be able to keep the hysterics at bay? I suspected at some point, I’d have to let the emotions in and the floodgates open.

Later.

Right now I had questions.

Millions of them, and yet, I couldn’t form the words. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling cold again, and wished to be back in Brock’s arms, which was so wrong.

Or right?

I didn’t know anymore.

Brock grabbed my hand, tugging me down the hallway. “Come on, Firefly. You need ice, pills, and a drink.”

Blindly, I followed him to the far end of the house. He sat me down in a chair before rummaging around in the kitchen, coming back with a gel ice pack, two white pills, and a glass of water.

“Thanks,” I muttered, reaching for the aspirin and glass of water first. The pills went down smoothly. As long as I didn’t think about the pain, the throbbing in my cheek was manageable—not that I would recommend everyone to go out and get hit in the face, but there were worse kinds of pain.

And it wasn’t the first time I’d been slapped.

“Good,” Brock said, pulling out the seat next to mine. “Let me take look at that cheek.” Before I had a chance to protest, he slipped a finger under my chin, tilting my face to the side. His eyes flashed, and a sense of danger radiated off him. Not at me, but at the one who had hurt me.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m fine,” I insisted, captured by the intensity in his gaze. When he didn’t say anything and only continued to scowl at my face, I asked. “Is it that bad?”

“You’ll have one wicked bruise.” He picked up the ice pack and placed it on my cheek, inciting an immediate wince. “I’m still pissed at you. Grayson too. Things could have gone down very differently, and you might have ended up with something a lot worse.”

I frowned at him. “You might need to work on your bedside manner.”

He shook his head. “You should count yourself lucky. If you didn’t look so pitiful, I’d let my temper loose.”

“Why hold back?” I grumbled.

He stood and grabbed a bottle off the counter. A shot of something amber and strong dropped down in front of me. “Now drink this,” he ordered.

Was mixing liquor and pills a good idea?

Yes.

I down the shot without a second thought, letting the heat warm my bones. Brock didn’t bother with a glass and took a long pull directly from the bottle. “Fuck, I needed that. What a shit night,” he grumbled, raking a hand through his dark hair.

It looked like were finally going to have that talk.

I held out my glass, silently asking for more. Hell, I deserved it. Brock obliged without blinking. “How long have you known that Grayson, Kenna, and I are related?” The question blurted out of me. I blamed the bourbon for loosening my tongue.

Brock set the bottle on the table, keeping a hand secured around the neck. “Since we started looking into your family. It wasn’t information I went looking for. And trust me, no one was more shocked by what we read than Grayson. He was a wreck for months. Adding that your mother stole you on top of what happened with Kenna, Grayson reached his breaking point.”

Stole!?

Dear God. I couldn’t breathe. “I was kidnapped?” This was way worse than being adopted. A part of me, from the moment I found out, had had an inkling Angie was responsible. But kidnapped? Why would she do that? How had she done it? And get away with it for so long? We lived in the same town.

Oh, God. My parents weren’t my parents.

I’d never felt more lost in my life as I did right now. This had to be a joke.

The vanilla and oak notes inside the bourbon turned sour on the back of my tongue. Too damn afraid that my mother had done exactly what Brock implied—stolen me from the Edwardses—I tossed back another shot. Knowing my mother, I was inclined to believe Brock had every right to be disgusted.

A bead of worry and sympathy for Grayson, Kenna, and their parents found its way into my heart. Had the Edwardses hidden their missing child from Grayson and Kenna? Trying to make sense of it all made my head ache more than it already was.

“From what we were able to gather, your mother—Angie,” he corrected. “She was also pregnant around the same time as Mrs. Edwards. The details of the switch aren’t clear. The three of you were born early like many triplets and spent time in NICU at the same time Angie’s baby was there, also born premature. Her little girl had health complications and the baby died. We can only conclude that she somehow switched that baby with you, allowing the Edwards’s to believe that one of their little girls didn’t make it.”

“So they don’t even know about me,” I whispered.

“No.”

I shook my head. “This can’t be true.”

Brock shoved a hand through his dark hair, exhaling. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. And I wish it wasn’t like this.”

“So your private detective found out what happened.”

He nodded. “A total fluke. As I said, it was not something we went searching for. The detective is a personal friend of our families. He was actually Grayson’s father, uh, your father’s,” he added, glancing at me. “…college roommate back in the day. He noticed the date you born and the hospital on your birth certificate. The same day and location that one of his close friends went through the best and worst days of his life. So for kicks and his own curiosity, Oliver ran a DNA test on you. None of us expected for it to come back as a match with Grayson’s.”

My finger traced over the rim of my empty shot glass as I stared at the few lingering drops of amber liquid gathered in the bottom. “Can I read the file?” I lifted my eyes, and our gazes crashed.

Brock’s brows drew together. “Do you think that is a good idea?”

“I need to know the truth.” And I couldn’t be sure I would get that from Angie. I could already hear her giving me a sob story about losing her baby, being alone, young, and scared. I’d heard it all before. I had a feeling today was the last day I’d ever consider her my mother or capable of being a decent person. “It’s one of those things I have to see for myself.”

“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “Don’t move.”

As if I had anywhere else to go. I waited until he cleared the kitchen before reaching for the bottle to fill up the small glass and tossing back another shot. He returned a few minutes later holding a familiar manila folder. Setting it down on the table, he pushed it toward me with his middle finger. As Brock took another long drink from the bottle, I opened the file. My fingers shook slightly.

Brock remained silent while I read the details of the hospital records for both Angie and Mrs. Edwards. My eyes hung up on the lab reports where it showed my DNA to be a damn close match to Grayson’s and Kenna’s. There was no question that we were related. For seventeen years I’d been living a lie. Angie had been living a lie.

Did my dad know?

He wasn’t really my father.

And that sudden knowledge stabbed me in the heart.

I had a hard time believing my father would have agreed to steal a baby. He was a decent man—a good man. That definitely would have been a topic thrown around during arguments. They aired all their dirty laundry when things got heated, which they had often. I grew up thinking the arguments I witnessed between my parents were totally normal.

OMG. I have a family.