Page 24 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Trips

F ull dark has fallen by the time Clara and I head to my father’s Sunday dinner. Not something I’d planned on being coerced into doing ever again.

Three years of freedom from family war rooms put on by a corrupt man and his unwilling generals. Not that business is addressed, but it’s close enough. It’s all about appearances, about expectations, about where to stand, when to smile, how to answer that question that gets too close to the truth.

Clara is wearing her usual jeans and a sweatshirt, as everyone there, except maybe my brother, knows she isn’t Midwest royalty. She’s just a girl, and I’m glad that, for once, I didn’t have to ask her to be anybody other than who she is.

But even in her own clothes, she’s wearing armor.

Her makeup is precise, and her hair is down, the curls free to bounce around her like a moving curtain.

And all I want to do is dig my hands into her hair and kiss her until she’s smudged and messy.

I want to see that feral look in her eyes like when she bit me yesterday, as out of control with me as I always feel around her.

I want to stop on the side of the road and drag her into the backseat, finally giving in to the pent-up tension that’s always hovered between us.

But I can’t. Because I fucked up the way I always do. I lost my shit, and instead of some dirty asshole losing his dick, she almost lost her life. I almost killed her.

Just because she’s sitting beside me doesn’t mean she’s forgiven me. She shouldn’t.

She makes a humming noise, and I catch her eye. Her lips twist to the side, and her hand taps out its familiar rhythm against her leg, but she stays silent.

I hate that she’s uncomfortable with me. That I can’t look at her without seeing her lips a berry blue, her lashes damp with snowflakes against the unnatural paleness of her cheeks.

Like she was already dead.

Even with her dark eyes peering up at me, like they are now, I can’t look at her.

Because I’m a fucking disaster.

All my life, I was supposed to be the fists. The stick to my brother’s carrot.

It wasn’t until Trevor was almost done with college that my father realized that his beautiful boy was an idiot.

And then he pulled me into his work in ways besides beating secrets out of innocent men.

I learned about the cameras and recorders in the house, the mountains of blackmail he holds over all his employees, about all kinds of secrets and power plays that no teenager should have control over.

I shared what I learned with Mattie as she got older, leaving out the blood that stuck in the bed of my nails after a night of helping Father.

She was a kid, but she needed to know what was going on so she could keep herself safe.

Because by then, I knew I couldn’t be the puppet master my father wanted me to be.

Not only would Trevor never give me the reins, but I also didn’t want them.

Being a king was all fine and dandy, but I didn’t want my throne resting on the quicksand of my father’s blackmail.

Even Mary, sweet Mary, was stuck working in that house because my father had something on her.

I had her love and loyalty. How long would that last if I took to power and didn’t set her free?

The first year away from home, I started severing ties, and my father gripped the remaining few with more urgency while still giving me my space.

I think he believed cutting me off, leaving me only a tiny portion of my trust fund to play with after I bought the house, and uninviting me to his parties, blocking me out of his strategy meetings, would leave me isolated and coax me back.

Little did he know that those were the best years of my life.

I didn’t miss the newest season of luxury clothes or the catered dinners. I still had access to the family’s fleet of cars, even if none of them had my name on the title. And the last thing I wanted was to flaunt my name like it meant something.

My name is nothing but bloodstained mud to me.

I should have seen this tact before it came. I should have planned for him using the people I care about to control me. He’s done it before with Mattie. But, for some stupid, hopeful reason, I thought he’d given up on me.

I’d hoped he’d let me go my own way.

Fucking hope always shits on my life.

Clara gets up the courage to speak, and it fucking kills me that she has to psych herself up for it.

“What should I expect tonight?”

“Usually Sunday dinner is a Westerhouse family board meeting. I imagine my father will lay out the plan for our engagement in more detail. Besides that, I can’t tell you. I haven’t spent much time there lately.”

She swallows. “I’m going to find a way out of this.”

“I hope to shit you’re right.”

A hint of a smile twitches in the corner of her mouth, then disappears before I can appreciate it.

I miss the little teasing grins she’d shoot at me.

I miss fighting with her, in class with grades, on the job with her unhinged plans, in my room with foam pads keeping our skin from touching.

I miss her calling me ‘Grumps,’ and the way I’d sometimes catch her looking at me like she wanted to lick me from head to toe.

But I don’t deserve those things. All I can do now is get her out of this mess and clear a path for her happy ending with my friends. And I plan to offer myself up to the altar of evil my father worships to make it happen.

What’s my freedom worth if I’ve ruined the happiness of everyone I care about?

“When we get there, I’m going to meet with my father. I want you to stay with Mattie.”

Her eyes ask more than her words. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Let me try, Clara.”

“What are you planning, Trips?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s just a conversation,” I say, wishing she weren’t the kind of person who would pick up on the subtext.

But she is that person, and she doesn’t seem convinced that all I want to do is talk to my dad.

She’s silent the rest of the drive, but her glances at me are full of questions she’s keeping to herself.

Pulling into the garage feels like entering prison, the door rolling behind me, locking me in as well as any iron bars. I find a spot on the lower level, but I don’t get out.

I can’t.

It feels like my damn heart is trying to break out of my chest.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want Clara here. And I sure as shit don’t want to trade away my freedom. But I’ve got nothing else to trade. Nothing besides the guys and Clara, which is what got us in this situation to begin with. My father stole my friends’ freedom to get me back in his grasp.

Forcing myself out of the SUV, Clara meets me at the tunnel to the mudroom, silently keeping step beside me, dark eyes scanning every foot like the walls will tell her how to get the fuck out of this.

Who knows. With her, maybe the walls really do tell her how to save us all.

I take her coat and stow it with my own, the silence of the house just as ominous as it always is. No one dares to speak any more words than necessary for fear of their futures.

Smart people.

But I miss the buzz of our little house in Dinkytown.

Walker’s music drifting out from under his door.

RJ’s tapping on his keyboard clear through the walls.

Jansen’s chaos always introducing unexpected sounds to the mix.

And Clara, wandering from room to room, the soft patter of her feet as familiar as my own.

I lead us both to the dining room, knowing that we’re cutting it close. On time, but only just. I’m not willing to anger Father, not right now. Otherwise, I’d be late, despite my discomfort with the feeling. It’d be worth it to see his lips pinch and nostrils flare.

But not with Clara at risk. Not with the guys at risk.

The room is exactly like I remember: Trevor and father with their heads together, amber liquid in glasses in front of them. Mattie and her mom are on the other side of the room, Mattie waving her phone in my stepmom’s face, obviously annoyed that she’s stuck in here with the rest of us.

I can’t blame her.

Trevor’s fiancée is nowhere to be seen, which doesn’t bode well for Clara and me tonight. I can’t imagine Father will bring Olivia into the fold until it’s impossible for her to leave. Likely after she’s pregnant with the spawn of my brother. Poor girl.

But the asshole progenitor already has his claws in Clara, so here we both stand.

“Archie,” he calls out, a fake-as-shit grin creasing his face as he gets to his feet and comes to meet us. He ignores Clara.

“Father,” I say, dipping my head like I know he wants me to. “I was wondering if you might have a moment to speak before dinner.”

Small fingernails dig into my arm, but I ignore Clara’s silent warning not to do anything stupid. Stupid is my middle name. Grades notwithstanding.

“Of course, my boy,” he says, his hand clapping on my shoulder with enough force that a smaller man would stumble.

Why he’s putting on a show for Clara when he’s already shown his true colors, I don’t know. A tiny part of me worries that he’s excited I’m here with him—the last thing I fucking want to be true.

I peel Clara from my arm, the absurd engagement ring glinting in the light of the obnoxious chandeliers. Another choice we made to not piss off the man who holds our fates in his hands. I follow him to his office, my heart still pounding against my ribs.

Once there, he pours us both a scotch, and as much as I know I shouldn’t, I take a sip for courage. But only one. I’m not giving myself any more chances to fuck up, and my control is always worse when I’ve been drinking.

“Any problems I need to know about?” he asks, his genial mask half dropped. Which means the other half is actually him being happy to see me. Shit.

“No, sir. I just had some time to think.” He stares me down, and not for the first time, I wish I were allowed to fidget. “I was hoping we could come to an agreement that would leave Clara unattached.”

“Don’t you want the girl?”

I want to lie. But he’s always seen through my lies. Not one has gone unpunished. I’m left with nothing but the truth. “Yes. But she doesn’t want me.”

“She seemed quite interested in you last I checked.”

“I messed up.”

“Then buy her some flowers or jewelry. She’ll come around. I’m releasing your trust fund once the engagement photos are published.”

He stands, deciding the conversation is done, leaving his untouched scotch on his desk for someone else to deal with.

“I’d come back to the family. Full involvement, no asking questions, if you cut her loose.” I sound desperate. I am, but shit, I wasn’t supposed to sound it.

He comes around the desk, leaning against it as he looks down at me in a way he never could if we were both on our feet. “Archie, why do you think I’m doing this?”

Another test. One I’m going to fail, my heart so loud that I can hardly hear him. “You want me back in the fold.”

“As usual, you see half the picture. I want you back, that’s true.

But neither you nor your brother have proven yourselves willing or able to take over what I’ve built.

And I’ve worked too hard to have it all vanish once I’m gone.

So, Archie, I don’t want you. Not the way I did when you were younger.

Instead, I want another chance at sparking the same passion in another. ”

I shake my head, not wanting to hear more about my goddamn kid stuck in his grasp. Wishing I had the courage to point out he has a wife already and no need for me to take up the mantle.

Whatever Jessica has on him must be world-ending for him to turn to me for this.

He smiles, but it’s nothing more than a flash of disappointment.

“You fail to see the bigger picture, Archie. You see, I hold the future of those other boys your Clara cares for, so I can keep her in line. And I hold her future to keep you in line. I will get what I want. We both know I don’t take half measures.

I will have a grandson, and it’s going to be yours.

Trevor and his little kitten are sweet but dumb.

For as much of an idiot as you can be, Archie, you’re a better bet by far.

And that girl, as much as I dislike everything about where she comes from, she has the kind of smarts and drive that I want my heir to inherit.

So no, I’m not cutting that girl loose. And this conversation? It’s your first strike.”

The words have a shiver rippling down my spine.

Twice before has he been that serious about consequences.

Three strikes and he beat me until I could hardly crawl to the bathroom to vomit blood into the toilet.

The other time, I was older, stronger, so he locked me in one of the bedrooms for days without food.

I was so weak by the time he let me out that a simple backhand from the man had me falling to the ground.

He leaves the room, and I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, gripping my hair until the pain knocks me out of the fear spiraling inside me.

This was a long shot. I knew it was. But deals were the primary way we’d managed for the last few years. To go backwards, back to threats and counting my errors? It’s beyond fucked.

And based on what he just said, those strikes won’t land on me. They’re heading straight for Clara.