Page 41 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

RJ

P ulling up to the house is like time traveling back a year, but arriving as a different person.

Summer acted as our caretaker while we were gone, and seeing the van parked around front, and Jansen and Walker’s cars parked out back, the humidity weighty and uncomfortable, clinging like a wet sweatshirt against my skin, I’m drowning in unknown expectations.

This was the past. This belongs to a time when we were still pretending to be students, pretending we weren’t swimming in deep waters, pretending we could weasel our way into the shadows of the world and not get bitten by the darkness.

And we failed.

Almost eight months ago, we ran in the middle of the night, blood soaked and confused.

Wearing trauma inside and out like another layer against the cold.

But with the sun high in the sky, the birds whistling familiar songs from the trees, the scent of exhaust and wood duff, freshly cut grass and a pending storm, it feels like a dream.

Or more like a nightmare.

The silence in the rental truck we got in New York, the RV wiped down and abandoned there with its original plates, is weighty.

None of this fits anymore. We’re not the people we were.

I glance at Clara, sitting beside me, her hands fisted in her lap, her dark eyes harder than stone.

These next few months, they’re going to make us or break us.

We decided we’re not running again, no matter how hard it gets.

And I know a big part of that is because of my situation.

I wish I had no attachments. I wish I could disappear and have no one miss me.

But it’s been hell to not see Trish and Jade.

I miss the quick squeeze Mama gives me when I come in the door, and the rough chuckles of Pops from the other room.

And Jansen’s in the same boat, his green eyes pinched around the edges the closer we got to home.

My family half expects me to not keep them in the loop. I’ve always been working on my own projects, lost in my own plans and worries. But Jansen’s the kind of close with his family that shouldn’t have survived the number of lies he’s had to tell. And this was a big one.

Fluffington pounces into Clara’s lap, and she brushes a slow hand down his back. “Are you guys ready?” she asks, not looking away from the back of the house, the lawn freshly mowed.

“No,” Walker says, his sketchpad open on his lap, his pencil tapping against the page. “We could still run, you know.”

But Trips, of all people, is the first to push to his feet, throwing open his door. “It’s time to end this.”

It breaks the trance, and with varying degrees of conviction, we get out and collect our stuff from the back, Walker shaking Jansen awake in the far back bench seat.

The air in the house tastes stale, but it’s clean, Summer obviously taking her caretaker responsibilities seriously. She probably hired it out, but still, it’s nice to have a clean space.

What we can’t guarantee, though, is that the place is surveillance-free, so we say nothing as we troop into the house, each of us peeling off to our own rooms.

The curtain is open in mine, and I’m not sure the last time I looked out the window next to my desk.

I drop the two bags of stuff I brought back with me on the bed, then halt, not sure where to start.

Should I boot up my computer and see what new malware was installed while I was away?

I wiped the thing clean, so there wasn’t anything to find besides term papers and some mild porn.

Had to make it believable so nobody would look deeper.

In the end, I put away my clothes, all the lightweight options I picked up looking strange next to my sweaters and hoodies.

At the bottom of the bag, I pull out my winter gear, unused for so long I’m not sure it still fits. And pulling on my coat, I find my shoulders are broader than they were last year. Another change. Another thing about this life that doesn’t fit.

A knock on my door has me turning, Jansen hovering there. “Hey,” he says, tugging on the long braid that falls over his shoulder. I’ve pulled my own longer hair into a low ponytail. Another change.

“What’s up?”

“Have you told your family that you’re back yet?”

I shake my head, words hard to come when a wave of conflicting emotions floods me.

“Me either. But we should, right? Soon?”

“Yeah. We probably should.”

He comes in, flopping into my computer chair, his gaze locked outside my rarely open window. “But what do I say?”

The owner of whatever bugs that are here knows we didn’t study abroad, so what I’ve got to say is an open secret. “It sucks, but you lie. You lie so hard they won’t think about questioning it. Otherwise, they could be at risk.”

“I know that, but it’s just,” he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his frame taking up more of my chair than it did last year. “It feels dirty. Wrong. I’ve already hurt them, I know it, and this just feels like I’m taking a lighter to all the trust they’ve ever put in me.”

I fold onto the bed, the feeling he’s describing the cousin to the mess I’m holding inside. “Then tell stories, true stories about what you’ve been up to. The place doesn’t matter, the memories do. And those are true.”

“So, lie, but fancier?”

“Basically, yeah.”

He drops his head in his hands, his breath pained.

Another thing that’s changed. Jansen still jokes, still tries to keep the mood light, but when he thinks nobody’s looking, he’s more like this. Broken, jagged, barely holding on.

He’s a reason to come back that’s bigger than missing our families. We need to get him more help than we could in Mexico. And just as important, we need to free ourselves from Trips’ father before the chains get any tighter around our throats.

Jansen pops to his feet, pacing, his old phone in his hand. “How do I get this to work again?”

“It’s gone, man. You’ll have to use the burner for now. At least until I get us new phones.”

“Gone? Even the photos?”

The burner is full of shots he’d taken over the last few months, but he won’t tell anyone why he’s suddenly so keen on collecting memories. “Those are backed up and connected to your email, but I unlinked the number from the account when we left.”

“Oh thank God.”

I want to ask, but sometimes, it’s better not to. “I’ll see if we can get our old numbers back when I get new phones.”

“Buddy rule.”

“I know. You game?”

He stares down at the old phone. “You know what? I can call later. Yeah. Let’s go shopping.”

And there it is—the razor’s edge we’re going to be walking until we’re free. Knowing who we could be, the life we could have, but having to cram ourselves back into tiny boxes of expectation, hemmed in by rules and fear.

We’re either strong enough to make it through or totally fucked and we don’t even know it.

And only time will tell.