Page 36 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

T he sway of the bed wakes me slowly, Walker’s breath warm against the back of my head, competing rumbles hard to parse when not fully awake. Faded light bleeds under the edge of an unfamiliar set of blinds.

Blinking myself fully awake, last night comes rushing back to me, and I’m scrambling upright, Walker mumbling as I draw away from him, my back flat against the window. RV. Cat. Blood.

My stomach turns, but I force the bile down. I can’t think about it. I won’t.

But then Walker’s there, his gaze slightly unfocused as he takes my hands in his. “You’re okay, princess.”

“No, no, I’m not.” I take a minute to pick out the dark, dry streaks of blood down one side of his face. “Neither are you.”

He coaxes me into his arms, both of us leaning against the back wall of the RV, dust motes dancing in the slits of light snaking in around the blinds. Fluffington stretches against me, his nails plucking at the blanket.

Walker breaks our silent vigil. “I have a concussion, but I think I’m fine otherwise. The guy tailing us got me in the gut. I ended up slammed into the wall. But I got him back with a bag of cat litter, so I’m going to claim any bad-ass points available.”

“Was he...” I can’t even ask.

“He was breathing, but out of it.”

The bile threatens again, but I snatch an opened bottle of water from the nightstand and take slow sips until it settles. “Our tail, I don’t know. If he was breathing, that is.”

“Did RJ—”

I shake my head. “No. Me.”

He drags me against him, but I don’t want to melt into his touch. I might be a killer. Killers don’t get comforting hugs. They don’t get the sweet motion of a hand stroking my head, my back, pulling me flush against him. They definitely don’t deserve soft lips pressed to my temple.

But it hurts to stay tense. It hurts to not take the comfort offered.

I need it.

I might be a killer, but I’m also a girl being held by a guy she loves.

Slowly, I accept his comfort, my stomach still twisted and my hands shaking. Am I a killer? Should I have checked so I know for sure? Or is it better to not know for sure?

And why the fuck was I not helping RJ sooner? Why did I let the fight get that far along?

Textbook answers drift into my mind, listing all kinds of trauma responses that seem wholly illogical, cleaning being one of them, but still, this is me.

Why did I freak out and become the weirdo skittering around the edges of the room trying to coax a cat into a bag instead of keeping RJ safe?

He was in a naked sword fight against a professional security guard.

If that doesn’t scream ‘I need help,’ I’m not sure what does.

“Why am I so broken?” I mumble against Walker’s chest, not expecting an answer.

He gives me one anyway. “That stained glass window is a work in progress, princess. We’ll get there. Eventually.”

“It’s turning into a busted mess.”

“Then we try again. As many times as it takes. And each time, it’ll be better. Closer to what we truly want. More vibrant, more detailed, the tiny crusts of glass we thought we’d lost forever finally finding their perfect spot, our lives more colorful than we can imagine right now.”

Leaning into him, I try to imagine what he sees so clearly. “Do you really think that’s our future?”

He scoots back, tilting my chin up, holding me so I can’t look away.

“I believe that with everything I have. Right now, shit sucks. But we have a long, beautiful road ahead of us. We just have to scrape the canvas clean. Then it’s all white space, waiting for our story to cover it with the beautiful colors we’ll make together. ”

I blink back tears, wishing for his truth so strongly that words are hard.

He makes it sound so easy, so peaceful and gorgeous. Is it really that simple? Could it be?

His lips are soft as they meet mine, neither of us ready to up the heat, only taking comfort in the other’s presence.

Curling against his side, the rumble of the RV soothes me, along with his slow strokes down my back.

Am I a killer?

Maybe.

But I’m also safe, loved, and have a future.

When a gray head butts my hand, the rumble of purrs joining the hum of the RV, it steals the last of my tension.

Things aren’t good. Far from it.

But maybe there could be a road forward. Maybe there’s a way to scrape the canvas clean.

A way we can start fresh.

After Walker falls asleep again, I slip out of the bedroom, Prince Fluffington following me into the body of the bus.

Next to the bedroom is a small bathroom on the left and a cooktop and sink on the right, a fridge tucked right next to the bathroom.

The entrance is next on the right, across from a table with two terribly beige diner-style benches facing each other, Trips opening an eye as I reach out to the fridge to steady myself as the vehicle sways.

Past the door are two captain’s chairs with a small table between them, Jansen passed out on the one closest to the front, while a third captain’s chair sits behind the wheel, RJ’s tired eyes meeting mine for a moment.

That’s it. Our new home.

Three chairs, two benches, and a bed.

Fluffington winds between my legs, tail wrapped above my knees, meowing like it’s his job, before bouncing onto the counter, nosing the duffel bag next to the sink.

“Has he been fed?” I ask Trips.

He shakes his head. “I have no idea how much or how often he’s supposed to eat.”

After the night we had, I’m not worrying about how much food the cat is supposed to get.

Digging through the cabinet, I find two bowls, and I fill one with food.

As Fluffington leaps onto the counter, I open a water bottle to fill the other bowl, leaving them both up there—there’s no place to put them where they won’t get kicked around.

“There are donuts,” Trips adds, watching the cat and pointing at a bag on the table in front of him.

My stomach seems better, but I don’t want to test that hypothesis with donuts. Instead, I dig through RJ’s coat and pull out the block of cheese. It’s greasy and warm, but somehow safer than a ring of sugared dough.

The kitchen is minimal, but it’s still a kitchen. Not that I know anything about cooking, but everything I’d think to use is there. Perching on the bench across from Trips with my cheese on a plate, I try to figure out what to say.

I don’t know where to start.

Everything is so fucked-up right now. There’s no easy way out of the mess we’re in.

And while most of the mess is related to the man across from me, not all of it is strictly his fault.

Honestly, his uncontrollable temper, while his problem, could probably even be laid at his awful father’s feet.

Growing up in that house would have made everything worse. It did.

He goes to shove his hands through his hair and winces, his right hand wrapped but gigantic, a baggie of half melted ice sitting next to him at the table.

“What are we going to do about that?” I ask, motioning at his hand with an awkwardly-shaped hunk of cheese that I chopped off with what looks to be a steak knife.

He shrugs. “Jansen seems convinced we’ll find some black-market doctor to put me back together, magical thinking and all.”

“And if that magical doc doesn’t appear? How bad is it?”

He stares out the window across from us, his face grim. “I had surgery scheduled. If it’s not fixed soon, I’ll lose a lot of capability with this hand.”

I eat my cheese, uncertain what to say.

Once my plate is empty, I reach into the bag beside me, suddenly starving, and pull out a chocolate frosted donut with sprinkles. “Should we have stayed?”

The question must bother him, because he gets up, pulling more ice from the freezer and restocking his Ziplock. Out of things to do, he turns toward me, sighing. “My father wasn’t going to get better.”

“Neither is your hand.”

“He was looking for more dirt. He would have found it. Enough to keep us both trapped.”

Blood on a wood blade, blood on the floor.

I close my eyes. “I just gave him what he was looking for last night. All he had to do was wait for me to slip up.”

The old vinyl creaks as Trips slides in next to me, crowding me with his presence, but not touching.

I blink my eyes open to find his gaze on me, dark, mournful.

“That’s on my father. You never should have been in that circumstance.

We never should have had to run. You should have had a nice, boring college career full of late nights dancing and long mornings taking notes while hungover. ”

“I never had that college career, Trips. I don’t think that was in the cards for me.”

“It should have been.”

He’s right. It should have been. But I threw it away for a guy who wanted me because I was easy to train and looked like a teenager. And as soon as I got free, I found this other world, one full of adventure and close calls.

Only, it turns out that those close calls come due eventually. And mine have. I’m paying the interest in blood and fear.

We all are.

“Should have beens don’t keep us safe. Do we have a plan?” I ask, redirecting.

“Besides getting as far away from him as possible?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Pushing him out of the way, the first voluntary physical contact I’ve had with him in over a week, my palms tingling with awareness as he backs out of the bench, I dive for my bag under the small table by the door.

Digging out my notebook and a pen, I bring it back to the table, sliding in across from him.

“Then let’s get started.” I flip it open and write ‘To-Do’ on the top in large, neat letters.

Why work on my code when we’re on the run?

A public trash can in any roadside town should be plenty safe.

Trips rolls his eyes, his breath coming out in a huff. “You think a checklist is really what we should focus on right now?”

“Where are we heading?”

“West.”

“Bad call. Most people flee west in the US. We need to plan.”

“Your criminal psych books don’t have all the answers.”

“You’re right. But they have a few of them. We need to choose a destination, preferably not straight west. Then, we need an actual plan. Driving and hoping isn’t going to get us out of this mess.”

“What, you think we’re going to take down my father’s decades’ worth of blackmail and intimidation with a little brainstorming session? Us and what army?”

I don’t have a plan. I’m realizing that my checklists are more of a way to keep my anxiety under control than evidence of my organizational capabilities. But the more Trips says, the more a not-plan drifts into my mind.

There’s no plan. Not really.

But, given enough information, enough time, there could be.

Before, my success at this might have been beginner’s luck, but now? I know more. Not a lot more, but with the guys’ experience? I’m going to find a way out of this.

I have to.

There’s not any alternative. Not anymore.