Page 18 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

RJ

T rips takes directions silently, a nod or ‘okay’ the only things coming out of his mouth. And even that makes me want to deck him again.

I always knew his temper was a problem. I just never thought it was a problem that would affect me so strongly. But that ignorance has come back and bit me so hard my insides are bleeding. I won’t make that mistake again.

It doesn’t matter how contrite he is. It doesn’t matter that he’s helping me without complaint and with only one functioning hand. What matters is that his loss of control almost cost us the best person any of us might ever know.

Once the space is as secure as I can make it on short notice, I say my goodbye and march out to Trips’ car.

When we reach the SUV he’s been using since Chicago, he stops. “You drive,” he says, passing me the keys.

I don’t take them. “Me? Drive your car?” The man has never given up the keys in his life.

He clenches a fist around them, then hands them over, even though it’s a proximity key. Pure theater. Maybe an act of contrition. Not that it changes anything.

“Yeah. I shouldn’t drive. It’s not safe with this thing busted.” The entire drive here he flinched when using his right hand, the wrappings thick. Jansen says he’s going to have surgery on it next week, and none of us wants to take him.

“Your own damn fault,” I mutter, snagging the keys and going to the driver’s side, adjusting everything to fit me.

“Do you think she’ll be safe?” he asks, watching me with a frown.

“Right now, she doesn’t seem safe anywhere.

Or with anyone.” He slumps in his seat, understanding I’m talking about him.

Deserved. “But Bryce has been quiet lately, no new photos on his phone for the past week. Between that and the security we just installed, she should be safe. But I plan to monitor his phone for the rest of the night.”

“Good.”

The drive home is full of silence that burns, but I’m not breaking it. Honestly, silence has always been something Trips and I share—neither of us needs to speak into empty air. But now, that silence is anything but comfortable.

“I wish I’d done something different,” he says when we’re about halfway home.

“Me too,” I snap.

“Stay mad at me. I’ve earned it.”

Yes. You have.

We’re almost back when sirens pick up behind me, and a cold sweat breaks out across my body.

I pull to the right, my breath suddenly difficult to catch as a cruiser speeds up behind us.

It’s not until it’s past that I realize I’m dizzy from lack of oxygen.

I pull off the road entirely, my hands shaking, no longer able to go the last few blocks home.

I’m safe. They weren’t coming for me. And Trips is in the car with me, his busted hand and white rich-boy attitude giving me some security.

But my damn heart thunders under my ribs, not listening to my mental pep talk.

“You okay, man?”

The rumble of Trips’ voice barely registers, and I force the seat back, making space to drop my head between my knees, tears making my vision blurry.

That or the fact that I still can’t breathe.

But I keep my eyes open, because when I shut them for a moment, all I see is the barrel of a gun pointed right at me.

The sludge from my icy boots makes a gray puddle in the rubber pan of foot well, and I focus on the last chunk of ice slowly melting into the rest.

Finally, I manage a series of clean breaths, and I count them until I get to twenty-five. When I raise my head and lean it back against the headrest, Trips mutters a series of curses that are even more creative than usual, cursing out the cops and Bryce in equal measure.

“Fuck, man. Shit,” he growls, his left hand in a tight fist, his right flat on his thigh, like it’s the only way he can keep it from tucking up as well.

“Yeah.”

“This is so fucked.”

“Yeah. Always has been.”

I force the seat forward, my hands still shaky. But we’re blocks from home. I can make it.

“Do you want to, I don’t know? Talk?”

“No.”

“You could punch me again.” His breath huffs out, and he tips his head back against the headrest. “Fuck, you should punch me again.”

Without looking, I deck him, his head snapping to the side, cracking against the door.

It doesn’t help, but I wasn’t going to let the opportunity slide. His groan is muffled, like he doesn’t want to let me know it hurt.

There’s just so much broken, and so little I can fix. If I never left the house, I might never have another run in with the cops, but then I’d be a shut-in. I’m not doing that.

Even if Trips disappeared, his dad still has dirt on all of us. No help there. And if we all ran, we’d never be allowed back in the country after his dad turned in the evidence. Never see our families again, our friends. Not a solution.

Bryce is out free and clear, and all I can do is continue to monitor him, waiting for him to make a fuck-up big enough to get him back behind bars. Waiting, but not doing.

My dad hasn’t spoken to me since before New Years. My mom sent a thank you text for getting them back level, but she hasn’t taken a call from me either. Meanwhile, Trish won’t stop calling. She knows something’s up, but I can’t tell her. Not without ruining the way she sees Pops.

We’ve started making up things to get Jansen out of the house, but we can all see the way he’s crumbling in front of us. But none of us are doctors. None of us have any fucking idea how to fix him besides giving him bigger jobs, riskier thefts.

And all that has ground to a halt because of the asshole sitting beside me and his fucked-up family.

The only thing that’s been going our way is that the police are following the leads to those pedophiles I fed them. I’ve been watching them wade through what I gave them, wishing they had a little less red tape and a little more manpower. Those kids need the kind of help I can’t give them.

As much as I hate the fucking police, this is one place where their overwhelming power can be put to good use.

But if I never see a crisp blue uniform again, it would still be too soon.

We pull up to the house, but Trips doesn’t unbuckle.

Curious, I stay too. There’s a small trickle of blood from his nose, and I feel no remorse. He almost killed her. A black eye and a busted nose are nothing in comparison.

We stare at the back of the house for far longer than I’d normally let the silence continue when it’s obvious he has something on his mind.

Eventually, he speaks. “Do you think I can ever come back from this?”

“Do you want my honest answer?”

“You’re the only one I trust to have one.”

“In that case, I have no idea. You fucked up. I don’t trust you. None of us do. Not with Clara, and not with the way your family is right now.”

“I don’t trust me either.”

“Then fix that. After, we can talk about forgiveness.”

He runs his left hand through his hair, flinching when he brushes the faded black eye and the new swelling from my second punch. “I still have the number of that therapist my dad got me when I was a kid.”

“Dirty enough for you to tell the truth about what’s been going on?”

“Yeah.”

“Honest enough not to tattle to your father?”

“Unknown.”

I clench my hand around the keys, then pass them to Trips. “Send me the name and I’ll dig up some dirt on the guy to keep him from tattling.”

“Thanks.”

I slam the door, striding through the snow to the house, leaving Trips to stew alone.

Because forgiveness isn’t something I can give right now.

And I’m not sure it’s something I’ll be able to give him. Now or ever.