There were three places my sister could’ve been.

One was sleeping at Jordan’s place—he was the leader of her crew. He had a storage building, similar to my warehouse, but it was at his family’s place. Edging down his driveway to the building, I didn’t see her truck there. I didn’t want to deal with any questions, so I eased right back up the driveway, turning my lights on as I cleared the woods around their land.

Another spot was her best friend’s house.

Bren and Cross Shaw were best friends like Heather and I had been growing up—minus the sex, at least as far as I knew. Heather and I had started doing it early, way too early, but the last I’d heard, Bren and Cross were still just friends. That was a conversation I wasn’t sure I wanted to have with her—not that she would participate. I imagined me sitting there, explaining what it meant if a bee’s stinger went inside the female bee and how little bees were created, and that whole scenario seemed so wrong.

Bren was smart. She’d practically raised herself because I knew our dad had been worthless the last few years, and while she’d had a boyfriend for some of that time, she hadn’t gotten pregnant.

Heather told me she’d seen Bren buying condoms, so at least safe sex was a topic I didn’t need to cover.

Fuck. Did I?

When I arrived at the Shaw house, I didn’t see his truck or my sister’s, so that meant she was at the third place.

I didn’t know if Bren knew I knew about this last one.

I’d discovered it one night around three in the morning when I woke up for a piss and realized she was gone. I’d sent out a full-crew alert, and it took ten minutes. Moose found her. Or he found her truck parked on the steep bank.

I drove there tonight, going up the gravel road, up the hill to the small clearing.

She wasn’t alone.

Shaw’s truck was parked behind hers, and I hesitated before turning off my truck.

Here’s the truth of my situation: I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

There was overlap between my father and me between the time he was having legal problems and when he actually went to prison. And even before I got the official guardianship over Bren I’d started paying attention, so this wasn’t the first year of me taking care of her. It’d been a couple, maybe more, but I was still clueless. Or I felt clueless.

I’d been shitting bricks this whole time.

She was seventeen. I’d left the house when she was four. There were times I’d stayed with them, but for the most part, I was gone. She didn’t grow up knowing me, not really. She grew up probably hearing Dad bitching about me, so I got it. I really did. I understood why she’d looked like she would rather eat poison when the judge gave me guardianship over her.

Dad owned the house we grew up in. When he went to prison, the bank took the house.

That meant Bren lost her home.

I didn’t get it until that first night I found her here, because if you go down the steep bank and across the road, right there is the house we grew up in.

Or she grew up in.

I chose to leave. She was forced out.

That first night, when I crept up on her, saw her sitting there watching the house, I almost fell to my knees. She’d been crying. They weren’t loud tears or a meltdown. It didn’t even look like she knew she was crying.

One tear after another left her eyes and slid down her face, and she didn’t react. Not a bit.

She sat, stone-faced, and she barely blinked.

It was a swift kick to my junk.

I’d taken her from her home. No wonder she hated me. I hated myself a little bit too that night, and this night was almost no different.

I had to check on her. I had to. If I didn’t, I would worry all night, so I crept into the woods—like Brandon’s stalker—and got just close enough to see them.

They were sleeping, arms hugging themselves, one curled toward the other with a whiskey bottle between them.

A small bit of pride flickered in me. Again, not the best role model here, but she was a Monroe, that’s for sure.

I eased back. I got in my truck, started it, and went back home.

Heather was sleeping, the fan still blowing. She must’ve woken at some point because her tank top was on now, along with a pair of panties, but no pants or shorts. I curled in around her, skimming a hand over her tiny underwear. I loved the lacy white ones, or the pink ones. Most guys like red or black because that means sex, but I liked the white and pink better. They were the ones Heather liked the best, so when she had them on, I knew she felt comfortable.

She probably knew I’d left for the crew. She was probably frustrated, but I didn’t care right now. Everyone I loved was okay.

Heather. Bren. My crew.

I’d deal with the other shit later.