Page 26 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

T rips leaves, and whatever barrier I had between him and his family vanishes. Trevor slinks up beside me, his politician’s grin like gold-plated plastic. “Hello, little sister.”

“I’m not your sister. But you have a perfectly fine one right over there,” I say, pointing at Mattie.

Mattie, meanwhile, is still engaged in whatever argument she’s having with her mom, but her eyes flash with something cautious as she watches her brother approach me.

Trevor’s smile drops for a moment, petulant as only a spoiled son of a wealthy man can be. Then, the smile’s back. “True. But I already know all about her. I’d rather know all about you.”

“Not much to know,” I say, this time catching the attention of Trips’ stepmother, intention and fear competing as she watches me talk to her eldest stepson.

There are so many meaningful glances being tossed around the room that I’d need a primer to even begin to understand them. They’re all important, that much I can tell. But otherwise? Trips wasn’t lying when he said there were novels worth of information I’d need to survive here.

Trevor takes my elbow, moving me across the room, creating more space between me and the other women, and while I debate pulling away, I don’t know how to do it without causing a scene. He’s creeping me out, but I’m not alone with him. If I screamed, the other two would help.

Wouldn’t they?

“Now, I can tell you must have a special spark for Archie to be so enamored with you. I’ll be honest, I never guessed my brother would go for someone with such a sweet disposition.”

I smile as sweetly as he implied I could. “You, of all people, should know that appearances aren’t everything.”

His face twists into a mockery of disappointment. “Now, what has that heathen of a brother been saying about me? I promise, I’m quite the prize.”

“Olivia must be so lucky,” I chirp back, not liking the direction the conversation is turning.

“Olivia is young. And at college. Both of which can be a good thing. But other times, just the illusion of youth is enough, don’t you think?”

I’m saved from that confusing comment by Mattie popping up next to me and taking my other arm. “I’m stealing her,” she announces before dragging me to yet another corner of the room. The feeling of Trevor’s fingers on my arm lingers long after he lets me go.

“Ugh. Why can’t I just be a normal teenager with a normal family?” she groans, pouring us both a glass of ice water from a carafe on a side table.

“What’s going on?”

She leans against the table, plucking one sleeve of her turquoise sweatshirt.

“My dad won’t let me out past eight. It’s like I’m a pumpkin, or seven years old.

I’m in high school. Who has an eight o’clock curfew in high school?

And my mom won’t fight him on it, even though she knows it’s ridiculous. I’m practically a prisoner here.”

“At least it’s a pretty prison?” I try.

She scoffs. “An illusion. As I’m sure you know by now. Anyway. My mom wants to talk to you but apparently can’t approach you. So, I’m her unwilling accomplice.”

I get tugged across the room again to where her mother waits, perched on a sofa chair in the corner. This dining room is like the set of a Jane Austen movie, with more pointless chairs and heavy wood tables than I could ever imagine surrounding myself with.

“Here you are, Mom. I’ve made my delivery. But as payment, you can’t force me to leave.”

“Matilda Evangeline, it doesn’t work like that. I’d like a word with Clara, alone.”

“I can’t hang out with my friends, I can’t hang out with you, I can’t hang out with Archie’s fiancée , just who am I supposed to hang out with, mom? My imaginary friends? I haven’t had one of those since I was six.”

“Please, Mattie. This is important. I don’t have long before your father’s back.”

This piques my interest, and I give the strawberry blonde woman beside me my attention.

She waits on Mattie, who after a moment sighs and stomps to the table, folding herself into a chair and whipping out her phone, likely to tell her friends that whatever fun thing they were planning isn’t going to happen.

“So, you and Archie,” the woman begins, patting the seat beside her.

I flop down onto it, not trying for good manners. I’m already exhausted and I’ve only been here fifteen minutes.

The ice water in the glass slowly numbs my fingers, and I shiver, remembered cold sinking into my skin. “Yes. Me and Trips,” I reply, not able, or maybe not willing, to switch to the name he uses here.

“I need to tell you something you won’t want to hear about this family. But I need you to hear me out.” She looks scared, her face close to mine, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I’m listening,” I whisper back, curious what she could tell me that Trips hasn’t already shared.

A hearty laugh interrupts our tête-à-tête, Trips’ father leading a dejected Trips into the room. “Alright, who’s ready for dinner?”

Trip’s stepmom closes her eyes, just for a second, then plasters on a smile of her own, and if I hadn’t just watched her pull it on, I would never have guessed it was a mask. She directs me to my seat next to Trips, and the strange and unnerving night continues.

Trips’ father and brother spend most of the dinner talking about his upcoming political campaign.

Politics have never been a huge part of my life.

I know what I believe: I want a world where things are fairer than they are now, where the circumstances of your birth don’t dictate the rest of your life, where who you love or what you look like are just part of a person, not something that requires judgment and stricture.

Basically, I want the exact opposite of the world Trips was born into.

Which means any plans those two men are making will piss me off if I listen too closely, and Trips was adamant we not make waves today.

I’m not sure what he’d think about his family’s strange game of tug-of-war over me.

Making waves wasn’t my intention, but I seem to be a pebble dropped into still water—my presence ripples to everyone else at this table.

Trips stays silent throughout the dinner, his lips twisting whenever he uses his unwrapped and swollen right hand, his demeanor colder than it was on the drive over.

Whatever his Hail Mary move was, it’s clear it failed.

And his hand isn’t getting better. I know he went to the doctor, but no one told me what the outcome of that was, and I didn’t ask.

The gulf between us keeps getting wider, even as our elbows brush when we shift in our seats.

Mattie is silent on my other side, mirroring her brother as she shoots her mom sour looks. Her mom, meanwhile, keeps trying to tell me something with her eyes, and I can’t figure it out.

So many words unsaid. So many fears, and so much anger. Rage, from the man on one side of me and his sister on my other. Fearful intention from the woman across from me. And something that looks a lot like avarice from both Trips’ brother and father at the head of the table.

Nothing good.

No jokes, or teasing, or gentle touches. Delicious food, gorgeous decor, and nothing but unease. No heart. No bones. No soul. My future, unless I can find a way out of this.

Laid out like the pristine tablecloth in front of me.

I splash a bit of wine on it, just to see if it will stain.

Trips’ father chooses that moment to call to me from the head of the table, and the urge to keep watching the wine splotch is almost stronger than the need to be polite.

“Yes?” I ask, dragging my eyes from the spreading stain.

“I just wanted to see how you feel after your week of reprieve. I hope there was enough time for you two to prepare for your future as you should.” His gaze lands on me, heavy with warning.

The guys. He’s wondering if I broke up with them. I wouldn’t. I can’t. Even if I’m stuck here, I’m still a part of them. The same as they each are a part of me.

“Yes, sir,” Trips answers for me. I’m almost annoyed, but the ‘sir’ gives me pause. This isn’t my Trips. This is Archie Westerhouse. I’m not sure I like Archie Westerhouse much, but he knows this place better than I do, so I let it go.

His father smiles. “Good, good. In that case, I want you to know that I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling an appointment with the family doctor for you, Ms. McElroy.

He’ll fix any impediments to our deal. I’ve also asked a wedding planner to visit later this week.

Of course, I forgot to tell you two about the movers that will meet you tomorrow morning, but I’m sure there isn’t much in that rundown house that you’ll need to bring with you, anyway.

Oh, and I’m sure your parents will be happy with the letter I’ve drafted, Ms. McElroy.

The rate reduction should more than make up for the clients your mother lost this fall. ”

A buzzing fills my ears as the man continues, but I’ve stopped comprehending anything he’s saying.

A doctor, to keep up my end of the deal.

Moving first thing tomorrow morning.

I flick my gaze to the tablecloth, only to find the red blot I’d flicked onto the white cloth has oozed along the edge of the wine goblet. As I watch, it slowly expands, a net of mock-blood stretched nearly all the way around the crystal.

Caught.

It’s caught.

I’m caught. Stuck. Trapped.

And for the first time, I realize there might not be an escape plan.

That this—a hollow mansion filled with nothing more than weighted glances and the illusion of choice—might be my forever.

My mind goes blank.

The amber glow of the lights inside the house has me sprinting through the door, the need to be home like a vise around my heart.

I follow the smell of warm chocolate to the living room, where I dive onto the couch blindly, Walker catching me as Jansen scrambles so I don’t knee him in the face.

As soon as I get a whiff of his maple syrup and pine scent, I fall apart.

I’d been doing so well.

But I can’t, I just can’t keep it together anymore.