Reckless Home of Three

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“US AGAINST THE WORLD” BY CHRIS GREY

ANATOLE

“What the rich fucking bullshit is this?” Nox hisses from the back as we make our way up a tree-lined fucking driveway, following the social worker’s sedan in front, my kid brother’s face staring at me in the back.

My neck started prickling as we entered the nicer part of town, and all the hair on the back of my arms stood on end when the houses started getting further apart, then all we could see were fancy metal gates with honest to shit guardhouses.

“They're not gonna like us,” Nox mutters, and I glance in the rearview to see him pulling his hood up.

“Don’t.” Steele's voice is quiet but firm beside me. “Makes it worse.”

Nox's jaw clenches, but he pushes the hood back down. We all know the drill. Look non-threatening. No sudden moves. Let them see our faces. Let them see we're not armed, not dangerous, just three guys trying to keep a kid with his brother.

When Marie turned into this one, the two guards looked at us as if we were worse than dog shit.

One of them clocked Steele first, then Nox, and I saw it — that look. The one that sees skin color before anything else.

It didn’t faze me; I’m used to it by now. People see the ink, the worn clothes and beat-up truck, and assume the worst.

For Steele and Nox, it's worse. They get that look even in their Sunday best. The one that says ‘thug’ with no one having to open their mouths.

Well, fuck them and their racist bullshit.

Steele followed Marie’s car, and now we’re pulling up to the biggest mansion I’ve ever seen, and I can’t help agreeing with Nox. It’s a huge white house, with flowers all around, and a pit opens in my stomach. How the fuck are we meant to compete with this?

Eight fucking years of all three of us working toward something like this, and we still can't offer him a fraction of what this foster parent clearly has.

Marie’s car parks up out front, so Steele pulls in next to her, and I’m getting out before he’s even parked.

“Ant!” Jus calls, running from Marie’s car and straight into my arms. I wrap them tightly around him, glaring at the social worker as she sighs, the pale skin around her eyes tight.

“You need to come in with me, Justin,” she says, her voice strained, but fuck her for taking him away from me. Again. For telling me for fucking years I’m not good enough to look after my own goddamn brother.

I thought aging out of the foster system would be the end for all of us, that we could finally all be together without having to worry that they’d take him away again or we’d be separated.

But the fucked up system just keeps on taking, hence us standing outside this palace trying to argue that our shitty studio apartment, the only thing we can afford with the few jobs we’re able to pick up now and again, is the better option.

Even I know that compared to this, we have fuck all.

My teeth grind at the reminder that once again I’ve failed.

I should have had priority — kinship care was supposed to mean something.

When I turned eighteen, I walked straight out of my group home and straight into a social services office.

They put it in writing. Unsuitable. Too young.

Unstable income. Insufficient housing. And the file they had on me — my own damn file from being in care — they used it against me like I was the fucking threat and not the system that built it.

“We’re coming in with him,” I state, and she opens her mouth, but the enormous front door opens, an older lady stepping out. She’s got a head full of wispy grey hair that’s in a long plait, a pale face full of wrinkles, and is everything I always imagined a grandmother to be.

“They’re more than welcome to come in, Marie. Blossom is running a little late, but she’s on her way,” she tells Marie, her accent sounding British if I had to guess. Marie gives her a grateful look and holds her arm out to show that we all go inside.

“Come on, kid,” I tell Jus with a sigh, my shoulders tense as we walk to those big ass doors that have fucking stone steps leading up to them and honest to god pillars. Fucking rich people's bullshit for sure.

I step inside, Nox and Steele behind me and…

fucking hell. The entrance hall is bright, painted a light blue with gold-framed pictures lining the walls and a massive crystal chandelier sparkling in the sunlight.

My heart thunders as I look around, then pause when I spot a kids jumper handing off the bannister, a stuffed toy on the side table next to a glass vase filled with flowers, that look like they’ve been cut from a garden and not just bought in.

It looks lived in, and my brows draw down because that’s not what I expected.

“Come on into the living room, dearies,” the old lady says. “My name is Christina, but only my father called me that, God rest his soul, so please call me Tina.”

She ushers us into the sitting room, another huge space, but there’s even more kids’ stuff in here.

Some coloring on the coffee table next to a jug of what looks like homemade lemonade and a plate of cookies that, by the smell, are still warm.

On the mantel there’s what appears to be a series of colorful clay blobs that could only be made by children.

“What the hell is this place?” Nox whispers next to me and I shake my head, having no fucking clue.

“Now, we have some homemade lemonade here and fresh cookies,” Tina tells us, giving me a considering look. “But I bet you’re the type for coffee as black as the Devil’s heart, no sugar to sweeten it. Am I right?” She arches a brow at me, and my lips twitch. Damn woman has me pegged.

“Yes, please, ma’am,” I reply, and both her brows raise, a wicked smile upon her lips.

“The young man has manners; well, at least that’s a start.” I huff a laugh, watching as she turns to Nox. “I’ll bring plenty of sugar and cream for you, dear.” Nox just arches a sharp brow at her, letting out an oomph sound when I elbow him in the ribs.

“Thank you, kindly Tina.” Sarcastic dickhead.

She makes a considering sound, then looks at Steele. The size difference is comical; she barely reaches his chest. “A proper English cuppa for you, I think, not microwaved. Milk, no sugar?”

I still. What kind of witchcraft is this? Steele had one home before he came to the group one where they drank tea, the only decent home any of us ever had. It’s his preference, and he’s always banging on about how most Americans microwave it, much to his disgust.

“That would be appreciated, Tina. Thank you,” he replies in his deep voice with a dip of his head, and I blink. Not sure I’ve heard him say such a long sentence before to a stranger.

“Right, you lot make yourselves at home and Blossom will be here momentarily,” Tina orders, bustling out of the room, leaving only the scent of flowers behind, lavender I think if I had to guess.

“I feel like we just stepped into the Twilight Zone or some shit,” Nox huffs, and I nod, agreeing with him.

“Who’s Blossom?” I ask, directing my question to Marie, Jus still clinging onto my hand. He may be ten years old, but he’s been through some shit and both of us hate that we’re always separated.

“She’s the person fostering,” Marie replies, my lips pursing as I wonder why she couldn’t be bothered to be here on time.

As I open my mouth to question what the hell she means, the front door bangs open, the sound of children’s chatter and laughter following.

“Noah, Mitchell, we do not live in a bomb site, so kindly hang up your coats, please,” a prim British voice calls out from the hall.

My grip on Jus’s hand tightens, my breaths turning shallow as I hear footsteps hurrying towards us.

“Marie, gosh, I am so sorry. Rachel had an issue at school that needed my attention and—” Her voice cuts off as she rounds the doorway, large hazel eyes locking with mine. “Oh. Hello.”

“HARD FOR ME” BY MICHELE MORRONE

BLOSSOM

I come to a stop, all thoughts flying out of my head as my gaze snags on the bright blue eyes of possibly one of the most gorgeous guys I’ve ever seen. There’s a hint of surprise in their depths, underneath a calculating watchfulness that seems to strip me bare in an instant.

“Oh. Hello,” I say, immediately wanting to facepalm because, Jesus Christ. Way to sound so clueless.

I lick my dry lips, tearing my gaze away from his stare, only to note his dark hair which falls into those mesmerising eyes, his athletic build, and the tattoos peeking from the collar of his well-worn t-shirt that clings to muscles which frankly should be quite illegal if us poor women have any hope of functioning.

“Blossom, don’t worry, we’ve only been here a few minutes,” Marie states, breaking me from staring at the Demi-God who appears to be in my messy living room.

Oh god. My hand twitches, wanting to fly up to check my hair, which I know is probably falling out of its messy bun.

I want to lament the fact that I have no makeup on, am wearing jeans I know have a stain on from breakfast and an oversized jumper which hangs off one shoulder and though it’s one of my favourites, it does nothing for my admittedly not skinny figure.

I have a weakness for Tina’s baked goods and a habit of stress-eating them — my one rebellion against a lifetime of being told to watch my portions, my posture, my everything.

“Oh,” I stutter out again. God smite me now. “Thank heavens.”

“We have a bit of an unusual situation, Blossom,” she goes on, and I take a breath, ignoring the stunning man and trying to focus on her. “Justin here needs to be fostered; his older brother, Anatole, can’t take him.”