Chaos (Blackwell Bayou Series Book 1) Read online

  Chaos

  Chelle C. Craze

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chaos

  Synopsis

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chaos

  Blackwell Bayou Series

  Book One

  Chelle C. Craze

  Copyright © 2017 by Chelle C. Craze

  Edited by Paige Maroney Smith

  Cover Designer: Tiffany Black @ TE Black Designs

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Chaos is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Otherwise, hold on and enjoy the ride, you crazed lunatics!

  Gene

  Your memories live on through the words we speak & the love we share.

  09-19-1967 to 10-12-1974

  Synopsis

  Due to the nature of this book, it is only recommended for mature audiences. 18+

  Please note this novel contains strong language, sexual situations, and the death of a child.

  Drex and I weren’t two of a kind. We more closely resembled the rare one-eyed Jacks or suicide kings of the deck. The wild cards people often overlooked, tucking them into the pile, without ever giving them a second glance. Never knowing how truly special they could be if paired correctly.

  Honestly, we were simply two lonely souls trying to find direction.

  When I thought my story had reached its finale, his had merely begun. I’d fought for so long to barely survive that I had entirely forgotten what it meant to live. Drex was my reminder.

  Some things happened without reason, and some reasons never made sense. This was how it was between us. I never knew from one second to the next what to expect. Except the unexpected, that was. I learned to accept what I couldn’t change and to grow with what I could.

  There were more than enough reasons why we shouldn’t be together, but certain things in this world were unstoppable. Natural disasters. Death. Drex and me. Apart, each was abrupt and life-changing, but when they intertwined, they could only be described as one thing: beautifully chaotic.

  Prologue

  "Momma? Where are you?" Noah was quick to ask after looking behind the couch for me and then dashing to check the recliner.

  "Momma?" he asked again, with obvious disappointment brewing from his voice. There weren’t too many places I could be hiding in our two-bedroom. Our apartment was small, but affordable and just the right size for the two of us. We’d lived on our own for three years now, but that didn’t mean Mom and Dad didn’t slip the occasional fifty into my purse when I wasn’t looking. Moving out of their house was a necessary part of growing up, even if it was a hard decision to leave my parents and brother, Jaxson.

  Plopping down in the recliner, he gave up the search for me and placed his chin in his palms with a huff. He may have only looked in two places for me, but patience isn’t something many seven year olds have a lot of.

  "Noah, baby, it's okay," I said and popped my head up from the side of the couch he hadn't checked. He smiled and blushed a little, tipping his nose downward in embarrassment. Most wouldn’t read into the situation; that was, unless they were a mother—specifically his. With one smile from him, I knew unconditional love. I caught a glimpse of heaven. I knew without any doubt I was his world, which was good because he was unquestionably mine. He was quite simply all I ever needed.

  No one could have been more wrong when they said I’d ruined my life by getting pregnant at sixteen. They said I would never amount to anything, which didn’t upset me. I hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do with myself anyway. Noah gave me purpose. I became the one thing I never knew I wanted to be: a mother. I had only begun my life when Noah was born. The moment he took his first breath, I was born right alongside him. Everything that preceded him was time spent in limbo. None of it mattered. Seven years following his birth, we were still struggling to make ends meet, and probably always would, but I was the happiest I had ever been.

  Happiness was a puzzling emotion. Some fought their entire lives to have it, without actually ever getting it. People crossed and forgot loved ones because they thought it helped them reach their ultimate goal, only to find themselves miserable and alone in their last days. I was one of the lucky few that accidentally stumbled upon it, and with the exception of Noah's deadbeat dad hadn't really pissed anyone off too bad in the process.

  I spread my arms open as wide as they would go, knowing what he was going to do. He leaped from the chair and took me into his arms. Some parents may say they hold their child, but Noah wasn't the one who needed held. It was me. He didn’t question everything in this world as I often did. He just went with the flow of things. His little fingers sprinkled hope across my heart, and his tiny hands continued to mend my soul daily.

  "I'm here, baby boy. Forever..."

  "And always," he said, finishing what he'd heard every day of his life. Even before he knew what words were, I ran my fingertips along my swollen belly and whispered them to him. Although, at that point, I think the words were more for my comfort than his.

  "Get your shoes on, kiddo. Granddad will be here soon," I said against his skin, after kissing his birthmark that resembled a heart on his forehead. He used to be ashamed of being “different” because of it, but that was before I got it tattooed in the exact same spot on myself. Afterward, he was proud the two of us were the only people in the world who had them. It made something he’d been ashamed of transform into something he considered special. That fact alone was worth the water bill that went unpaid and turned into a disconnection notice, when I used the bill money to get the tattoo, hoping it’d help him see himself as I did: beautiful.

  His cheeks flushed
as they often did after I kissed him. It wasn’t the action itself that caused him to blush. It was the fact I reminded him he was much younger than he thought he should be. Noah was a little peculiar, but then again so was I. I hadn’t spent much time around many children before him, but I had spent enough to know he wasn’t like most children his age. Noah was a little immature for his age. I knew a great deal of that was influenced by me being overprotective, something I tried to work on most days. He didn’t seem to mind being different, so I tried not to worry about it too much.

  When he was reminded of his age, he’d find something to make him appear older, in his eyes anyway. It usually ended with his age becoming more apparent than ever, but I never told him. Who was I to destroy his dreams, even if they were a bit odd? My favorite example of this was the time I found him sitting on the toilet wearing two old mismatched tube socks that were so big on him they rolled down to his little ankles, and on the tip of his tiny nose was a pair of sunglasses with only one lens. He was “reading” a coloring book, upside down nonetheless. He said it was what men did. Which he wasn’t entirely wrong. At least, that was what the men in our family did. The only man in his life was my dad. Noah did find Dad sitting on the toilet at their house with the door opened wide, reading the paper, and he played it off as he didn’t care. He had said, “If God intended for us to wear clothes, we would have been born with them.” Which was his way of covering up his embarrassment for not completely closing the door. At times, I thought he intentionally left the door open to annoy Mom, but forgot how curious Noah could be.

  Winking at me, Noah grabbed his neon green sneakers, slid his feet into each of them, and tightly secured the strings in a double knot. It wasn’t too long ago he’d learned how to tie his shoes, and occasionally he still needed help. Not today, though. He picked up his blue fishing hat and flipped it on top of his shaggy hair.

  “Okay, Momma, I’m ready,” he announced happily, gleaming with pride. Dad had invited him out on the lake to fish. Jaxson and Mom had the stomach flu, and somehow Dad had managed not to catch it. This was the first time Noah was going out in the boat without Jaxson or me, so it was a special guys’ trip. Something that didn’t happen often. I tried to let Noah spend as much time as possible with Mom and Dad, but it always seemed time wasn’t on our side. Either one of us was working opposite shifts, Noah had school, or maybe the planets weren’t aligned in the exact coordinate and were missing one or two degrees that was needed to make it work. Who knows? It just usually didn’t seem to work out in Noah’s favor. Disappointment was something that even at his young age he knew well and now accepted in stride as part of life. I hated that part of being a single parent. Every parent made sacrifices for their child—every good parent at least. Yet, when you were physically one person trying to represent two, sometimes your child got the short end of the stick. Those were the times I regretted moving us into our own place.

  A horn beeped seconds after I heard gravel crunching in our driveway. Noah jumped, forgetting he was wearing a hat, but was reminded when it shifted on his head. He dramatically slapped his hand down on top of the fishing hat and clenched his teeth.

  “Phew! Can’t lose my fishin’ hat!” he breathed out with a sharp exhale, and a slight whistle squeaked out of the gap between his front teeth as he flat-palmed the top to keep it in place.

  “Definitely not,” I said with a gentle smile, sweeping the few loose hairs that escaped under his hat, knowing I was luckier than any person in the world.

  He hurried out to meet Dad, leaving his tackle box and lunch I packed for them just inside the door. Shaking my head, I picked both up and laughed to myself. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt even a tenth of the excitement he had to be going fishing with Granddad. After setting the things into the bed of the truck, I leaned in and kissed Noah on his birthmark.

  “I love you, Noah.”

  “I love you, Momma!” he said and glanced at my dad, waiting for his reaction. My dad was always an affectionate man and very open with his love, so I wasn’t sure where Noah got the idea Dad would judge him for saying he loved me. Probably school. Most of those kids were little assholes.

  “I love you, baby girl,” Dad said with a head nod of approval and adjusted his ball cap. Noah smiled, already twisting the knobs of the radio to switch it from country to a classic rock station.

  “Love you, too, Dad,” I said, silently chuckling at Noah. Dad shrugged and I shrugged in return. They both waved, and as I walked toward the house and they began to pull out, I yelled, “Forever!”

  Noah’s little head poked out of the window as he answered with, “And always, Momma!” I watched until they were out of sight, thankful the Lord saw it fit to let me be his mother. If I never did another thing right in my life, I knew I’d done right by Noah.

  Each firework that exploded sent a new wave of pain through my chest. I was having an anxiety attack, which was odd, because I hadn’t had one since I was little. I usually enjoyed watching the fireworks, but this time was different. They were lacking the lustrous colors that normally drew me into them. Dark blue and red were the only colors that flashed before my eyes. No pinks or purples decorated the night’s sky. The explosions were growing louder with each firework, and my ability to breathe was lessening.

  “It’s okay, Momma,” Noah said, not taking his eyes off the sky, but took my hand with his.

  Refusing to let the panic overcome me, I forced the stale air to leave my lungs and breathed in a fresh mouthful. My eyes abruptly opened, and I realize it was a dream. At least part of it was. My living room was flooded with red and blue lights, and the screen door rattled in protest as someone loudly knocked.

  1

  Eris

  “Hi, my name is Eris. I’ll be your serv—”

  “You can skip the theatrics.” The words boomed outward from the deep depths of his dark facial hair, with a faint smell of whiskey trailing quickly behind them. There was a mouth underneath all of that beard, I was certain, but my eyes darted away too fast from him and to the pad in my hand to notice.

  I slowly nodded my head and gave him a sideways glare, flipping his mug over and filling it to the brim with coffee. I started to offer him a couple of aspirin instead, or at the very least to fix him a hot totty, but figured by his rudeness he wouldn’t accept either anyway.

  “It’s not going to earn you any more money,” he continued his asshole rant, glanced up from beneath his eyebrows and then back to his newly poured coffee. Red lines streaked across the whites of his eyes, a look that was all too familiar to me. He clearly had a reason to his abruptness. He was hungover.

  My shoulders simply rose and fell in response. I’d been there. It hadn’t been too long ago, in fact. I didn’t drink daily, but when things seemed a little too intolerable, I did. It took the edge off and helped me keep what sanity I still had.

  “I want it black,” he sharply clarified, covering the top with his hand and shaking his head as I pulled a few creamers from my apron.

  Most days I would have found the energy to be as rude to him as he was to me, but today I didn’t have it in me. Last night was nightmare after nightmare. After a while, I fought sleep entirely, trying to run from what my subconscious had placed on repeat, but it was useless. Some things couldn’t be forgotten. I wished they could. The mind is a wondrous thing. There are memories you cling to every thread, desperate to remember every detail, and you still lose them. Yet, the most wretched of things seem to seep from your gray matter and intoxicate you. Today I was drunk on nightmares and hate, a bad combination given my line of work. This was especially true when my newest customer seemed to be battling a hangover of his own.

  “Would you like a few minutes to look over the menu?” I quickly asked. My words rushed into one another, creating a train wreck of syllables. I realized I had been staring into the coffee I poured and tried to disguise the lost time.

  He shook his head. I studied his face—what I could see of it—wo
ndering what led him to drinking so much, his choice last night still apparent on his breath. Not that I really cared. I was just curious.

  His brown eyes had tiny golden flecks swimming around in his irises, the type of eyes you could easily get lost in, if they weren’t bloodshot, of course. Even with the red lines, I still wanted to dive into their depth. His nose was narrow and the end was rounded, but not too much. He ran his fingers through his thick beard and scratched his upper lip. He had nice lips. The kind that shouldn’t be hidden by all of that hair, and I liked beards, so that was saying something. They were full, and despite the harsh words that seemed to naturally flow from them, they looked soft and very kissable.

  He ran his dirt-stained hands along the exterior of the menu until he had touched all four corners twice and hummed a tune that was oddly familiar. The dirt on his hands made it clear he worked for a living, but his knuckles weren’t cracked open, so he probably wasn’t a mechanic. I watched his fingers long enough to decide they weren’t calloused enough for him to be a construction worker or a rock climber. I wondered what he did that allowed him to appear so handsomely unkempt, something I had thought impossible until now. His eyes flickered to my face, and after a momentary pause, his focus went back to the outside of the menu.