Page 35 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Jansen

T he RV falls silent, everyone sinking into fitful sleep as the highway leads me farther from home.

We never picked a destination, so I head west, figuring we should go where none of us knows anyone.

Plus, I should probably cross state lines before morning comes and whoever I stole this bus from notices it’s missing.

Hopefully, they’re snowbirds, and it won’t be reported until spring, but based on the small things everyone’s shared, we won’t be that lucky tonight.

I never thought my fucked-up sleep schedule would come in handy, but it lets me drive until the pale sun inches over the horizon behind me.

The one lucky break we got was this beast had a full tank when I took it, but now it’s inching toward empty. A quiet gas station in South Dakota calls my name, so I pull in, hoping the stop won’t wake everyone up.

Only Trips’ eyes flicker open as I turn the key, the wan morning light making him even paler than usual.

“Gas, food, first aid,” I say, not ready to have a real conversation with him.

He hands me a wad of bills that probably totals a thousand, his cash operations also coming in handy. “I’ll get the cat situated if you find me something that can be turned into a litter box.”

I nod, grabbing a red and white trucker hat that came with the rig, tucking my hair up under it, and stepping out into the winter air. This was not the plan. Not at all.

There was a heist, even if it was a small one, to look forward to. A therapist to trick and my girl to cling to when it inevitably wasn’t enough. My sister and Emma were supposed to be another distraction, a way to make it through this shitty dry spell forced upon us with some levity and grace.

Now? The unknowns feel equal parts thrilling and terrifying, the blank slate marred by the trauma it took just to get this far, and the knowledge that we’re probably the best off we’ll be for a while. And I don’t even know what happened to Clara and RJ that has them so spooked.

I hit up the bathroom, debating the merits of freeing my hand. In the end, I figure I should finish up with the attendant before I set my mangled hand free. We don’t want to be memorable, and if my hand looks like it feels, well, the woman behind the counter won’t forget it soon.

Prepaying for an absurd amount of gas, I get that started, pretending my ankle isn’t begging me to limp, before wandering the aisles, gathering bottles of water, a loaf of bread and some peanut butter, and more first aid supplies than is probably forgettable.

My chest gets tight as Trips comes in covered in blood, the second trucker hat from the RV pulled low across his brow.

I add a plastic tub for Prince Fluffington, wishing I had a way to get him back to my mom, but shut that thought down hard.

Trips comes out from the bathroom with his head damp and blood free, then pulls a bag of ice from the freezer. I add some Ziplock bags for ice packs and the biggest bottles of ibuprofen and Tylenol they have to my basket.

Donuts get added as an afterthought, something sweet and cheap to cheer us up. At least, that’s the thought. The clerk rings me in, her eyes half closed and her movements glacial, a sure sign she’s nearing the end of her shift. Less chance of her remembering us.

After everything is in the RV, the gas finally done pumping, I head back to the bathroom, the newly acquired first aid supplies shoved into my pockets.

Soaking the leather takes forever, the quality of the gloves working against me. A single careful tug tells me that the only way my hand is getting out of its casing is if I cut it free.

So I do. And when I peel my hand free, I almost vomit.

Washing my palm has sweat beading across my face, the pain making my movements shaky, my head spinning.

But I get it clean, the water finally running clear.

After jamming the glove to the bottom of the trash, I dab my mangled flesh dry.

Smearing antibiotic ointment over all my fingers is an exercise in delayed gratification, the numbing agent taking way too long to activate.

I wrap each finger individually in gauze, taping them closed against my palm, the pattern vaguely spiderweb-like.

Like a reverse, damaged version of Spiderman.

Slipping out of the store and back into the RV, I head to the back bedroom to check on Walker. Trips has already switched out his ice pack, but the blood on his head is dry and flaky, his face pale. “When do we worry?” I ask, knowing the space is small enough for Trips to hear me.

Sure enough, he stands, his face grim. “Try to wake him up. If he can talk and makes sense, he’ll be fine. He’ll just have to take it easy for a while.”

I’ve picked up enough to know Trips didn’t have a childhood full of cuddles and silly games, so I don’t ask how he knows.

I’m not an idiot, even if I play one better than anyone else on this bus. I just prefer it when things are fun, light, and engaging. The side of me that comes out when shit gets dark isn’t a side of me I much like.

Squatting next to the double bed, I shake Walker’s arm a little, hating that I’m waking him up at all. Not when sleep is what’s going to help him heal.

“Hey, man,” I say, my voice scratchy from a lack of use.

Walker blinks his eyes open, squinting in the pale light leaking in through the doorway. “Where am I?”

“Do you remember much of last night?”

“I took out a guy with cat litter. But it’s a little hazy after that.”

“We’re on the road. How do you feel?”

“My head feels like it got cracked open, then put back together crooked. And light feels like someone is stabbing my eyes with fucking ten-inch needles.”

Trips steps forward, closing the door behind him, Walker’s sigh of relief loud in the small space. “Concussion. Can I have you do a few things for me? Then I’ll let you sleep.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Trips has Walker stand up and balance on each foot and do all kinds of moves with his hands and arms. Once he’s satisfied, Walker inches back into the bed, the ice wedged in with a pillow as he groans. “Clara?”

“In front,” I say.

“There’s a second bed?”

“No, she and RJ passed out on a chair together.”

He looks between Trips and me. “Are they okay?”

Trips’ lips twist to the side and I shrug. “They look okay, but neither of them have told us what happened. So, no, they’re probably not okay.” This is getting too dark, too fast. “But nobody else had their brain scrambled, so you get this big bed like the princeling you are,” I tease.

But it’s not light. None of this is.

He gives me the smallest attempt at a smile, and I appreciate the effort to pretend things are normal. “Damn straight. This bed is mine now. And it’s only big enough for two, and you know I’m not sharing with your hairy ass.”

“You say that now, but you’ll come begging for my killer cuddles here as soon as you’re back on your feet.”

Trips leaves, returning with Tylenol and water, Walker taking the drugs without complaint. “How long am I going to impersonate a vampire?”

Trips tries to close the water bottle but winces and spills some on the rug.

I grab it from him, but I can’t close it one-handed either.

He ends up twisting the top on while I hold the bottle before he nods his thanks and answers Walker.

“Take it easy for two or three days. Then, it’ll probably be two weeks until you’re totally back to normal.

The longer you rest, avoiding anything that gives you a headache, the sooner you’ll get better. ”

“Hear that? You get the full princeling treatment, man.”

He huffs out a small laugh, then a larger huff of air as the actual prince in the vehicle, his silver fur nearly black in the dim space, lands on his chest, strutting around the mattress before curling next to Walker, his purr rumbling like he just found the best seat in the house.

Walker strokes his fur, the hint of a smile removing the last of the crease between his brows.

“Damn, cat. You’re half panther, you know that? ”

“We’ll leave you two lovebirds to cuddle. But he is a face sitter, so if you wake up suffocating, expect to have a mouth full of fur.”

Walker shoots me a look that’s hard to parse in the dim space, but I decide to ignore it and head back to the body of the RV, Trips trailing me out.

“Need me to drive?” he asks after he mostly shuts the accordion door, leaving space for Fluffington to come out and visit the cat box he made from a Tupperware bin meant for bungee cords and jumper cables.

“How’s your hand?”

He doesn’t answer.

“We need to find a black-market surgeon or something.”

“Right. I’m sure there are a ton of qualified hand specialists working under the table,” he spits, his face grim.

“Who knows? Maybe we’ll head to Canada, and they’ll take pity on your broken self. But no driving until you can grip the wheel with two hands.”

He gestures at my Michelin man fingers. “Same goes for you, then.”

“I’ll drive.” RJ slips away from Clara, apparently awake, flinching as he gets upright, then digging into a storage drawer and pulling out a hideous hand crocheted purple and orange blanket, tucking it around Clara.

Her head slumps to one side, and I scoop her up and carry her back to the bedroom, sliding her in next to Walker, his sleepy smile as he pulls her close telling me he likes his delivery.

She hardly stirs, only scoots closer to him, stopping once she’s touching him.

What happened to her?

I back out, still wound up from the night we had, while RJ gets himself used to the rig. Trips sprawls out on the bench seat by the kitchen table, so I take the spinny chair closest to RJ, flopping onto it as he pulls away from the gas station. I motion him back onto the highway, heading west.

“Any plan on where we’re heading?” he asks.

“None. West seemed good.”

He nods, his silence still heavy with things left unsaid.

Trips passes out as the miles go by, the sun drifting higher in the sky, glinting off flat expanses of white around us. At some point, I realize I’m still wearing the trucker hat, so I hang it back where I found it.

“What should I expect when Clara wakes up?” I ask, not sure how to get RJ to talk before he’s ready.

“I honestly don’t know,” he says.

“What happened?” I’ve never been subtle. Why I’m trying now is anyone’s guess.

“We were tailed, but the guy was happy to sit back and let us hang out in the dojo. I don’t know what changed, but he broke in.

He and I fought. He was winning until your mom’s cat pounced on his back.

It distracted him enough for Clara to slide up behind him with a practice sword.

” He swallows, blinking a few times, and my stomach bottoms out, knowing whatever comes next is bad.

“She hit a home run to the back of his head. I don’t know if he’s still alive. I didn’t want to check.”