Sweet Chaos (Love & Chaos Book 2)

by Emery Rose

  I tried to think about this rationally, like a sane person who didn’t feel the sting of rejection. His sister was having a baby. He wanted to be there and was obviously too drunk to drive. He was calling me for help.

  Why me? It made zero sense to call a person who didn’t even own a freaking car. He should have called Cruz.

  But I couldn’t take the incessant calls anymore, so I caved, and I answered the phone.

  “Where are you?” I snapped, not even attempting to hide my annoyance. New song in the background. Still loud. Def Leppard?

  “He’s at the Last Stand, darlin’.”

  My brows drew together. I didn’t recognize the voice. “Um, who’s this?”

  “Name’s Cal Whitaker. Your boy’s in a bad way. I think he could use a friend.”

  “He’s not my boy and we’re not really friends.” Now I was just being petty.

  Cal chuckled. “Whatever you say. Think you can come and get him? His car’s here but he’s in no shape to drive and neither am I.”

  “Do you need a ride somewhere?” I thought to ask.

  “No, darlin’. Just come and get him.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  After I hung up, I looked at Nic.

  She sighed. “Let me get some clothes on.”

  We scrambled off the sofa and got dressed in record time. Minutes later, we were headed to The Last Stand with Nic cracking last stand jokes while I chewed on my thumbnail.

  When Nic pulled up outside the bar, we both stared out the window. Dylan was leaning against the brick wall, a lit cigarette clamped between his lips, the neon sign above his head bathing him in blue. The smoke from his cigarette curled into the air, forming a smokescreen over his face. Dressed in black, dark hair messy and disheveled, with his tattoos and his cigarette, he looked like he belonged on an album cover.

  “He looks really shitfaced,” Nic said. “Do you need me to drive you guys?”

  “No, thanks. His car’s here. I’ve got this.”

  “I’ll just wait here to make sure you’re okay.”

  I reached across the center console and hugged her. “Love you. Thanks for being the best friend ever.”

  She laughed and swatted me away. “Get out of here. Your boy needs help.”

  And man, did he ever. I walked toward Dylan and stopped in front of him as he exhaled smoke from the corner of his mouth, his bloodshot blue-grays trying to bring me into focus. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and he had stubble on his jaw like he hadn’t shaved since I’d last seen him.

  My heart stuttered when I saw the sorrow and pain etched on his face, a bruise on his cheekbone like he’d been in a fight. He took another drag of his cigarette then tossed it to the ground and let it burn. I crushed it under my boot and focused on him again.

  “Are you okay?” I reached for his hand, not to hold it, but to inspect the damage. Even though my touch was gentle, he winced. His knuckles had scabbed over, and his hand looked swollen. “What happened?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He lightly brushed the backs of his knuckles over my cheekbone. “Sweet, sweet Scarlett.”

  I pulled away from his touch and took a deep breath, trying to steel myself against the tenderness in his voice and the sadness in his eyes. When he said he’d ruin me for other guys, he hadn’t been joking.

  “We should go.”

  Wordlessly, he handed me his keys and pushed off from the wall then stumbled across the parking lot to his car. He was so drunk, it took him three tries and a lot of muttered curses to click the seatbelt into the holder.

  The drive to the hospital was quiet. He was passed out in the passenger seat while I navigated his big-ass SUV, sneaking furtive glances at him while he slept. When I pulled into the hospital parking deck and cut the engine, I released my seatbelt and turned in my seat, watching him for a few minutes until his eyelids fluttered open. He sat up, running both hands through his hair and looked around him in confusion.

  “We’re at the hospital. Remy’s having her baby,” I reminded him. He shoved the door open and tumbled out of the car, grabbing hold of the door before his knees hit the concrete.

  “Fucking hell,” he said, forcefully slamming the door shut like it had wronged him.

  “She’s gonna be okay,” he said as we waited for the elevator after having confirmed that the birthing center was on the fifth floor. “She has to be okay. Can’t fucking lose her.” The words were ripped from his throat like it was painful to say them and for a brief moment, I got a glimpse of the boy, not the man. The achingly beautiful boy with messy dark hair and a vulnerability that made me want to wrap my arms around him and soothe his troubled soul.

  How could he make me want to throat punch him one minute and cry for him in the next? It was his superpower. It was how he got under my skin, into my heart, and into my head.

  “You’re not going to lose her, Dylan. She’s going to be fine. You’re going to be an uncle soon. Everything is going to be okay,” I assured him as the elevator doors opened and we waited for a few people to get off before we stepped inside. We rode to the fifth floor in silence and followed the signs for the Patient Check-In desk. The fifth floor was decorated in blond wood and celery green with brushstroke paintings on the walls. It was calming and serene, the space open and airy, and looked more like a hotel than a hospital.

  My plan was to leave Dylan in the waiting area while I checked at the desk for news. If the nurses got one whiff of his whiskey fumes, they might pass out or send him home. A few people cast curious glances at Dylan as he swaggered over to a seating area. His shin crashed into the coffee table and he cursed and kicked it. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he sent an upholstered chair flying. It crashed on its side, the sturdy wood frame still intact, thank God.

  What was wrong with him? I righted the chair and gritted my teeth as he plopped down in a seat and massaged his temples with his tattooed fingers.

  An older woman, her purse resting on her lap, ankles crossed, scowled at his obvious drunken state.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, showing up here like that,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. She was wearing a lavender twinset and pearls, her graying brown hair swept into a smooth chignon.

  Dylan barked out a laugh and gave her the middle finger. “That’s how much your opinion matters to me.”

  Oh my God.

  Her jaw dropped. “I should have you removed from this waiting area.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Dylan said, his eyes closing as he leaned his head back against the wall like he needed it to support him.

  The woman stood up in a huff and cast another dirty look at him before she scurried away toward the Patient Check-In Desk. “Wait,” I called after her. I deserted Dylan and chased after the lady, catching up to her before she reached the desk. “Please. He’s just… he’s not usually like this. He’s—”

  “An abusive drunk.” She pursed her lips and wrapped her arms around her purse which she held against her chest as if she needed the protection.

  “He’s not abusive.” Okay, well, he had just verbally abused her, but he wasn’t an abusive drunk in the sense that she was implying. “Please. Just…” I looked over my shoulder. Dylan was asleep, his head lolling to the side, the picture of innocence. Or as innocent as a tattooed bad boy dressed in black from head to toe could look. “He won’t cause any more trouble.”

  Knowing I couldn’t make that kind of guarantee, she gave me a skeptical look. “Take it from me, honey.” She patted my arm. “Boys like that will only break your heart.”

  Having delivered that sage advice, she returned to the waiting area but moved to a seat on the opposite side of the room. Crisis averted, I let out a breath of relief and checked at the desk. There was no news of the Wilder baby yet, so I returned to my seat next to Dylan and scrolled through my phone for a while. Feeling his eyes on me, I turned my head to look at him. Under the hospital lights, he looked even worse. Like he hadn’t slept in days.


  “What happened to you, Dylan?”

  He ignored my question and pulled my hand into his lap, his much larger calloused hand engulfing my smaller one and I stared at our clasped hands, our interlaced fingers, and tried to make sense of this. But I couldn’t.

  Boys like that will only break your heart.

  How right she was.

  I needed some air and some space, and he needed to sober up quick. What would Shane and Remy think about him turning up drunk like this? Coffee. I needed to get him some coffee. He’d still be drunk but at least the caffeine might make him more awake when he heard the news.

  Decision made, I stood up. “I’ll go and get you some coffee.”

  “You gonna leave me, Starlet?”

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Everyone leaves,” he mumbled. His eyes closed again, and I watched him for a few seconds, trying to figure out what was going on with him, but I had no idea what went on in that big brain of his. He was an enigma. A jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. A bad boy who was going to trample all over my heart if I let him get close again. From now on, I needed to keep him at arms-length. No sex. No kisses. No intimate moments on rooftops or in speeding cars or anywhere else.

  I took a deep breath and walked away in search of coffee.

  22

  Scarlett

  “I’ll come back to pick you up in the morning,” I said when I pulled into Dylan’s driveway. Shane and Remy had a boy. But we didn’t get to meet him. Not in the state Dylan was in.

  “Stay,” he said.

  One word. A command. He hadn’t even remembered calling me for a ride to the hospital. Zero recollection of it. So no, I wasn’t going to stay at his house and submit myself to more torture. I’d done my part by helping him out and that was as far as I could go.

  “I’m going home. I’m tired. You’re tired. I don’t have any clothes at your house—"

  He leaned over the center console, cut the engine and pocketed the keys. “You’re not fucking going anywhere.”

  That’s what he thought. I slammed out of the car, ordered a taxi and walked to the end of the driveway to wait for it. Was I being dramatic? Maybe. But while I’d gone to get coffee, another ugly thought had reared its head. What if Dylan had lied? What if he wasn’t really over Sienna like he’d claimed? What if the news of her engagement had sent him spiraling down? Maybe that was why he’d taken off for days and had gotten falling down drunk tonight. Or maybe this was the way he operated. Hit and run.

  There were too many maybes and not enough answers and I was too tired to think about it.

  A few minutes later, the taxi arrived, and I tugged the door open. A hand wrapped around my arm pulling me back, then he stepped forward and closed the car door. “Don’t leave.”

  “I need to go home, Dylan. Just let me go.” I was weary of this battle.

  He wrapped his arms around me from behind and buried his face in the crook of my neck. “I don’t want to be alone. Stay. Please,” he added, and it almost sounded like he was begging me to stay.

  Dylan never begged. Never said please. But tonight he’d done both. And I remembered what Nic had said about Dylan nursing me back to health. She told me he’d been so amazing, checking my temperature throughout the night, wiping my forehead with a cool washcloth, and worrying about me.

  Could I be the bigger person and do the same for him?

  “Are you coming or not?” the taxi driver asked impatiently.

  Clearly, I was a glutton for punishment. Someone must have dropped me on my head when I was a baby because I shook my head no when I should have nodded yes. “Sorry about that.”

  The driver huffed and pulled away, leaving me with Dylan who took my hand and led me back to his house. It had been a long night and I felt weary and confused as I followed him up the stairs to the second floor.

  In his bedroom, he opened a dresser drawer and gestured with his hand. “T-shirts are in there. Take what you want.”

  I hovered in the doorway until he disappeared into the master bathroom, leaving the door open. A few seconds later, I heard the shower running so I grabbed a soft gray T-shirt from the drawer and wandered down the hallway to the last bedroom on the left. Dressed in his T-shirt that hit mid-thigh and smelled like fabric softener and not like him, thank God, I rubbed toothpaste over my teeth with my finger and gargled with mouthwash I found in the cabinet.

  Crawling into bed, I covered myself with the downy white comforter and rolled onto my side. The moonlight streamed through the French doors, casting the room in shadows.

  Oh, Romeo, why did you have to crawl into my bedroom window all those years ago? I was never supposed to fall for you.

  I heard the bedroom door open, and closed my eyes, feigning sleep.

  Seconds later, his minty breath skated over my face, the scent of his shower gel masking the stench of whiskey. I kept my eyes closed and my breathing even waiting for him to leave.

  But I should have known better than to think he’d give up that easily.

  The covers slid down my body and he lifted me up and carried me in his arms like a bride, over the threshold and down the dark hallway, his stride surprisingly steady for someone who was so drunk.

  “What are you doing?” I struggled to break free of his hold, but he just held on tighter. “Put me down.”

  “Thought you were asleep.”

  “I was until you woke me up.”

  He snorted, not buying my lie for a minute, and tossed me on his bed. I scrambled to get off it, but his hand clasped my ankle and he dragged me back and pulled my body against his.

  We were spooning. Dylan was spooning.

  “Are we… cuddling?” I got a grunt in reply. I could feel his erection pressing against my backside. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re safe, Mother Teresa. I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” the charmer said, sliding his hand under my T-shirt and splaying it across my stomach. I looked over my shoulder at his face. His eyes were closed.

  Seconds later, he was snoring softly. His chest rose and fell, his breathing even, and I knew he was asleep. I stared into the darkness, my body curled into the curve of his, and I fought to stay awake. I knew that if I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to relax, I’d sleep like a baby in his arms.

  But I needed to leave. My fragile heart demanded it.

  23

  Dylan

  The next morning, I arrived at the hospital with flowers and a gold-foil box of candy. As if a hundred-dollar bouquet and a dozen hand-dipped chocolate covered strawberries would make up for a damn thing.

  My memories of the night before were hazy. I hadn’t remembered calling Scarlett, but I did remember that she drove me to the hospital. I remembered when Shane came in to the waiting room and told me it was a boy. And I remembered begging… fucking begging… Scarlett to stay with me. It was humiliating how much I’d needed her. When I woke up this morning after a fitful sleep, I was still exhausted, and Scarlett was gone.

  Now, in the harsh light of day, with the mother of all hangovers, I was going to meet my new nephew. I checked the text Shane had sent with Remy’s room number. 503. The baby’s name was Kai James Wilder, a healthy boy born at 1:42 AM, weighing 7 pounds, 8 ounces. Remy was okay. Mother and baby were doing well, he’d assured me.

  When I entered Remy’s room, she looked over at the doorway, her face lit up with a smile. My sister had always been beautiful, but today she was stunning. She was happy. She had her own little family now.

  The sun shone through the tall arched windows of her suite that overlooked the hospital campus, a green park with benches and a playground, not a single cloud marring her joy. And I knew I couldn’t tell her about our mother today. I didn’t know when the right time would be but it sure as hell wasn’t now.

  “Dylan. You’re here.” She looked down at the baby in her arms and fuck, he was so tiny, a little blue hat covering his head, his body wrapped in a white cotton blanket like a baby burrito. “Can you be
lieve this?”

  I couldn’t. It was amazing.

  I handed the flowers and chocolates to Shane to deal with. He scowled at me, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with the gifts I’d just foisted on him. But I knew he wouldn’t have said anything to Remy about the state I was in last night. He wouldn’t have wanted to upset her. And finding out that her brother had turned up at the hospital too drunk to string a coherent sentence together might have upset her.

  “I would have brought you a celebratory cigar or a blunt, but you don’t smoke,” I told Shane.

  “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Do you want to hold him?” Remy asked with a soft smile.

  I nodded and moved closer to the hospital bed.

  “What happened to your face?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

  “Just sparring at the gym,” I said, the lie ready on my tongue. Thankfully, she bought it and didn’t question me further.

  “Well, next time tell them to stay away from your pretty face.”

  I snorted. “Cover up your tits, would you?”

  “Like you’ve never seen boobs before,” she scoffed. I didn’t need to see my sister’s and they were practically hanging out of the bra she wore under a black robe. “He might be small but I’m starting to feel like the Dairy Queen. Here. Take him.”

  I had no idea how to hold a baby, but I leaned down, and she transferred him into my arms and adjusted her robe for modesty’s sake. “Just make sure you support his head. Other than that, just love him,” she said as I straightened up, the baby in my arms.

  Shouldn’t be hard. I already loved the shit out of this little guy. Unconditionally.

  Shane pulled up an armchair next to his and I took a seat, making sure to support the baby’s head as I settled in and studied my new nephew’s face.

  Let’s face it, on the whole, babies were funny-looking. But this baby was fucking perfect. Beautiful. I was in awe of his tiny fingers and his pink pursed lips. The thin veins underneath his closed eyelids.