Change Rein - Anne Jolin Page 0,14

least two years. The more intense my training got, the less time I spent on things that didn’t enhance my professional game. It would seem I don’t hold my liquor quite as well as I used to, if the hangover I am sporting is a telltale sign.

“Here.” My older brother thrusts two Advil and a glass of water in my direction.

After snatching them from his hand, I greedily swallow both pills and chug the glass of water. When my stomach protests against the hydrating liquid, I groan.

“Oh God, are you going to be sick again?” he whines, taking two steps backward and raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Why are you still here?” I growl, wishing he were close enough to hit.

As the thought occurs to me, my pillow comes back to haunt me. He launches it across the room, and it connects with my pounding head.

“I hate you,” I murmur, toeing my boots off.

“The first trailer will be here in fifteen minutes,” is the last thing he says before the door to my apartment closes and the sound of his boots going down the barn stairwell hits my ears.

After standing up, I pad to the bathroom, and the sight in the mirror is absolutely terrifying. My long hair is sticking out every which way, the mascara I was wearing is now under my eyes and running down to my cheeks, and my dress, well . . . that appears to be crooked.

I look like a hot mess. Emphasis on the mess.

I debate whether it’s even possible to look half decent without taking the time to shower, but come to a hard no on that decision.

Ten minutes later, I’m showered and no longer smelling like something found in a barn—despite the fact I am, indeed, something that can be found in a barn. Checking the time and realizing I have none to spare, I slip a pair of cut-off jean shorts on and pull an old camouflage hoodie over my head before stepping into my work boots and forgoing doing up the laces.

I grab my aviators and a hair elastic off the kitchen table, putting my hair in a ponytail as I descend down the stairs two at a time.

“You look how I feel,” Aurora moans as she walks through the barn doors.

Walking up to her, I shove my hands into the pocket of my sweater and kick dirt in her direction. Then I sit on a bale of hay. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she repeats, plopping down beside me and putting her head between her legs.

Honestly, from what I can remember of the night—which, I’ll admit, is only anything before my fourth beer—it went better than I’d expected. There were, of course, the people who stared, which I really only encouraged by making an idiot of myself on stage, apparently. But, aside from that, most people left us alone, seeing as Owen had decided to join us. He wasn’t the kind of guy whose baby sisters you messed with when he was around, not unless you wanted to be wearing a shiner come the next morning.

We were lucky anyway. It was more of the older crowd—our daddy’s age and such—there last night. I’d sure have gotten a lot more negative attention had the place been more of a high school reunion. Everyone in a small town loves to knock their peers down a few pegs, even when we’ve long since graduated.

I hear the sound of tires coming down the road and lean forward to see what looks like three massive truck-and-trailer combos a few minutes away.

Daddy must have heard them too. He’s coming down from the house, adjusting his ever-present ball cap on his head.

“Holy hell,” Owen says as we all move to stand in the driveway. “Look at them rigs.”

He isn’t kidding. Each truck and trailer match—white, black, and gold, with logos reading Tucker Farms on every door. It’s impressive, and I’m sure they cost a near fortune. Real estate must be damn good work to be in around here.

The first rig in the convoy pulls to a stop in front of us, and a petite brunette close to my age climbs from the passenger’s seat.

“Good morning,” she singsongs.

I wince behind my sunglasses. Her chipper voice is a little too loud for my hangover’s liking.

“I’m Charlotte.” She looks directly at Owen when she speaks, and I’m thankful everyone misses the rolling of my eyes. I’m hardly ignorant to my older brother’s reputation and poor taste in pastimes, but occasionally witnessing it can