Page 29 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)
Walker
T rips lets me take the driver’s seat without a fight, which is one of many indications that this guy is broken. After he explained what had happened, he didn’t say much of anything, leaving the three of us to decide to run.
His contribution was staring at Clara as she clung to me. His face was blank enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know him.
Too blank to fool any of us.
His father is dangerous, so dangerous that fleeing is the right choice, one he didn’t even fight against. He mentioned his sister, once, but then shut up and went along with it.
His hand is nearly the size of his big-ass head, and every time he goes to do something with it, he sucks in a breath, an announcement on a billboard signaling that it hurts like hell.
Add the scratches from the cat? He’s not doing well.
“Where to?” I ask, pulling out of the drive.
“Where would you go on a Sunday night?”
“The studio. Otherwise, nowhere.”
His nostrils flare, and he casts his gaze around us. “No way you’d be bringing me to the studio with you. Start for your parent’s place.”
“Seriously?”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“No, but how the hell are we going to get back from out there?”
“Just go. We’ll figure it out.”
The drive is silent, the car cold, the fan kicking out air that’s barely above freezing.
Mile after mile passes, the car slowly heating.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I say, not liking the silence. I’m wound too tight for it. Until I get back to Clara, until I know she’s safe, I can’t handle where my mind is going without distraction.
“She’s smart. Smart enough to get herself out of there. Eventually.”
“Like you did?”
“I never got out. My leash was just long enough to give me an illusion of freedom. Nothing more.” He scans the space behind us, then curses. “Take the next clover exit, no signals.”
“We have a tail?”
“I think so. They were following from in front for a while. Now they’re behind. Knowing my dad, they’ll be switching out drivers to make it harder to spot as soon as they can get a car out this way.”
“At least they’re twenty-plus minutes out.”
“Shit luck that your family is out this way, too.”
“You picked the destination.”
“Fuck you.”
His heart isn’t in his insults, so I let it be.
I don’t want to give him grace, not after what he did to Clara, but he’s also been a friend for nearly four years.
He’s given me space when I needed it and called me out on my shit when I needed that, too.
I don’t know how to get over this, the anger toward him squeezing a tight knot in my gut, but I don’t like this beaten, deflated version of the asshole, either.
Trips has always been larger than life, one of the few people I’ve met whose bravado and desire to be something bigger than the sum of his parts matches my own. And looking at him now, he’s nothing but a sad lump built of failure and pain.
“What are we going to do about your hand?” I ask, cutting across two lanes and spiraling up to the cross street, Trips twisting to watch if we’re followed.
The headlights slice across the blacktop to follow us. We have our tail.
Hopefully, we’re the only ones dealing with this.
“It’ll be fine,” he grumbles as I spiral back down to the interstate to head in the opposite direction.
“Yeah, right. That’s why it’s the size of a volleyball.”
“Bigger problems right now, Walker. Don’t get back on the exit. We know they’re following.”
I zoom onto the highway, uncertain what to do next. “We need Jansen. How do we lose a tail?”
“We need traffic. Or a bunch of tight turns. Maybe a well-timed train.”
“So, we’re fucked on a Sunday night?”
“Probably.”
I glance at the clock. “We have a few hours.”
“How much gas do you have?”
“An hour or so?”
“Not enough.”
“It’s not like I was planning on running tonight, man.”
“None of us were.”
He flinches as I hit a bump.
“We should have waited until after your hand surgery.”
“We should have left the second I found out my father was onto us.”
I watch the headlights at our rear, no longer pretending that they’re hiding.
“What are the chances we could take on whoever is following us?”
“If I knew who he sent, I could answer that. Two of his guys are ex special ops, and there’s no way we could take even one of those guys on.
But most of his security are just big guys with small brains that my father likes to have on staff to boss around and make him feel like a genius.
One of those guys we could take. Fuck, we could probably lose one of those guys in a convenience store with a single door. ”
I choke on a panicked laugh. “How do we find out who we’re dealing with?”
“We need light.”
I drive us back to Dinkytown, the minutes clicking down on the clock a neon reminder of how fucked this could get.
But the lights here are bright at night—the campus is lit up like a Christmas tree in the name of student safety. “What are the chances your dad knows we’re running now?”
“Fifty-fifty. Maybe we just forgot some shit and have to go home and grab it. Maybe we were just going for a joy-ride.”
“A joy-ride in my mid-grade SUV? After ten on a Sunday night?”
“If we’re dealing with one of the dumb ones, he won’t want to be wrong. Honestly, whoever is following us won’t want to risk being wrong. My father doesn’t deal with incompetence well.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” I joke.
“Repeated.”
Damn. I always knew there was more to Trips’ dislike of his father than met the eye, but that single word tells me more than anything else he’s let drop in the past three plus years combined.
“Got the scars to prove it?” I ask, keeping my tone light, even if my gut’s twisted in knots.
“Got the tattoos to cover them. How well do you know the campus tunnels?”
I’ll have to revisit that comment some other time. “I’m not an expert, but I’ve used them on and off over the years, especially when it’s cold like this.”
“I’ve always driven.”
“You want to lose them in the tunnels? Isn’t that a risk? A confined area on foot? Especially with a special ops guy? You only have one hand, man.”
“Can you throw a punch?”
“I have three big brothers, but I’m no fighter.”
“So scrappy if need be?”
My hands clench on the wheel of their own volition. “I can count the number of fights I’ve won on one hand.”
“Then I guess it’s time to work on the second hand. Pick a parking garage you know the tunnels around. We’re finishing this on foot.”
“Shit.”