Bad Boy Brody(2)

Kyle’s phone rang, and then I heard his voice message. “Yo. This is Kyle. Do your thing. BEEP!”

“Kyle, fucking call me. Where the hell—”

BEEP. BEEP.

I glanced at the screen, saw he was calling me back, and switched to that line. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m coming. I’m sorry. Cheryl and I had a fight.”

“Again? You guys have been fighting a lot lately.”

There was static in his background. He was straining to speak on his end. Pressing a finger in my ear, I moved farther down the hallway. I had to find out what was going on. “Kyle, where are you?”

“Listen, Brody, I’m damn proud of you. I can’t wait to get there.”

My throat was swelling, tightening with emotion. Goddamn. “Where are you?”

“I’m in your car.”

“My car?” The fuck? “Are you close? I gotta go in pretty soon.”

“No—” A screeching sound cut through his words, metal on metal slamming together.

“Kyle.”

No answer.

“Kyle!”

No.

No.

No!

I knelt, hunching over. I was in some corner, hidden by a fake plant. My palms were suddenly ice-cold and sweaty as I gripped the phone. My pulse sped up. My heart was trying to thump its way out of my chest.

“Kyle, answer me!” I was desperate. My throat was dry.

Someone touched my arm, and I shot to standing.

I rounded, finding Shelby standing there.

Her hand went to her chest. Her lips parted on a startled gasp. “Brody?” Her eyes went to my phone. I had it in a death grip, pressed so tight against my ear it could’ve drawn blood. Her throat moved. She was swallowing. “Wha-what’s going on?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t talk, not to her. I was too focused on full-on shouting into the phone. “Kyle!” People were coming from the main lobby to see what the commotion was about.

The line . . . there was still nothing on his end.

“Please, Kyle. Answer me.” I was begging. My voice cracked from the pressure. Shelby’s hand covered her mouth. She choked out a sob. I watched as the blood drained from her face.

The line went dead.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God—” Shelby was scrambling for her phone.

I couldn’t do anything.

I . . . my brother . . .

I heard her punch in some numbers, then a faint, “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”





Matthew



Pryor Mountain Range, South Montana

Present day. Early May.



A car crept up the driveway.

Its tires crunched over the gravel, moving closer to the large three-story home. There was a crisp chill in the morning air, which didn’t seem to bother the man who got out from the driver’s side. Standing over six feet tall, Matthew Kellerman ran a brisk glance over the Kellerman estate. It’d always been a gorgeous home.

He could already see telltale signs that it was empty. The grass hadn’t been mowed. Paint was stripping from the sides of the house. The shrubbery in the fields that would normally be trimmed low looked untouched.

He sighed.

Of everyone, the only one who remained at the house was his stepsister, and he found his eyes tracking out to the fields surrounding where he stood on the mountain as if he could see Morgan. He couldn’t. The house was nestled into a side cliff, just short of one of the higher peaks on the hill. He was able to see some of the land around them, the spots that weren’t hidden by dense forest and the river that swept its way around the mountain, winding to the end and leading into a lake that was hidden in the valley between two other mountains.

He could already feel the effects on his body from the altitude. His mouth was parched, and he felt the beginning of a headache forming just behind his temples.

Yes. He looked back to the stately home. It’d been too long since he’d been back.

Way too long.

Grabbing his bag from the trunk, Matthew went inside, using the keys that hadn’t been used in four years.

The second he stepped inside, memories came at him with breakneck speed.

He could hear Morgan’s laughs of glee as she raced around the house. She was the youngest of them and was brought into the family when his father and her mother married. Either he or one of his two other siblings always raced after her. Finley and Abigail doted on Morgan as much as he did. The twins might’ve only been two years younger than him, but they were four years older than Morgan.

The last time he’d seen her, which was four years ago, he had hardly recognized her. She would’ve been twenty-four then. Her hair had darkened, but there were still streaks of blonde in it from her time in the sun. Her skin had been golden tan. And she held the same smell of the wild mixed with the scent of the horses she spent more time with than she spent with humans.

Even then, he saw how wild she was. He also saw just how much like her mother she looked too. She had the same slender build, the same striking beautiful hazel eyes, and the same cheekbones. Yes. Morgan had been stunningly beautiful back then. He couldn’t help to wonder how much more so she had become, but glancing out the window, his thoughts were interrupted.

Another vehicle was pulling up outside. Matthew heard the same sounds of the tires moving over the tiny rocks, and he went straight for the coffee machine. Seconds later, laughter pealed through the air.