Page 42 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

M y room feels like a palace after months in the RV; I hate it. There’s too much space, not enough noise, laughter, even breathing for it to feel like home.

I busy myself putting away the collection of things I gathered over the last few months.

A handful of new dresses and lightweight slacks and shirts, t-shirts, jeans, sandals, more socks and underwear than I had before.

All the fancy clothes I bought for Trips’ family event we pawned for less than fifty percent of what we paid for them while in San Diego, hoping to make enough money to pay for Trips’ surgery.

Jansen added to the pot with a small collection of things he stole in Colorado and New Mexico.

My winter boots and coat are at the bottom of the bag, and a flash of blood on a wood sword hits me like a train to the chest. Too many bad memories.

I thought I’d processed them all. Thought that the months I spent waking covered in sweat with a scream on my lips were past me. Two weeks ago, I would have said I was mostly better.

I had an appetite. I had the energy to run, spar, and learn. Nightmares only woke me occasionally. It’d been months since my last blackout-level panic attack, since I curled into a ball in an old doorway, unable to see or hear what was going on around me.

But one glance at a beautiful gift, and I have no choice but to question coming back.

For the first time since I got this room, I wish it had a closet so I could shove my coat and boots deep inside and not see them again until I’m ready.

But there is no closet, so I line my snow boots against the wall next to the army boots and sandals I left behind and hang the coat next to my dresses on my clothes rack.

Trips’ hammock is the only thing left in my bag, and I pull it into my lap, wondering why I grabbed it out of the trash in that Saturday-empty office parking lot outside of New York City.

But I know the answer.

There was one bed in the RV, and five people who needed to sleep. We created shifts as time wore on. Walker first, then me, then RJ, and Jansen joining us as the sun was rising and Walker was awake. And Trips, outside in his hammock on any clear night.

I’d jolt from my nightmares and end up on a chair near him, both of us awake when we should be asleep, Jansen idly strumming some song nearby while his mind whirred.

And Trips would give me this little half smile, one so full of sadness, regret, and resignation, that my heart broke a bit.

But there was hope in it too. Like, he knew things were fucked-up, but he too was taking this time to heal, to grow, to find a solution.

It was like the hammock was a safe place for Trips to just sit with all his shitty feelings and admit he had them.

We all had healing to do.

Most of it wasn’t even physical.

On an impulse, I bring the hammock out back, finding two trees about the right distance apart and string it up between them. Just as I finish, I hear feet scuffing through the grass behind me. I turn to find Trips standing three feet away, like he always is now.

“Why?” he asks.

I peer around, looking for cameras or listening devices, and after a second, Trips steps closer, in case there’s surveillance nearby. We don’t want it to catch our conversation. We know this whole place is bugged by now.

I rub the palm of my hand against my thigh, not wanting to tap out my worries. “I thought it might be nice to have a reminder. We shouldn’t forget what we had.”

Trips closes his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “What if we made a mistake coming back?”

“We might have. But it’s too late now. How long do you think we have?”

He shrugs. “It depends on how angry my father is. And what kind of mind games he wants to play. But it won’t be long. It might be an hour, or a day, but by the end of the week, we’ll be his willing little puppets.”

“Are you ready to dance?”

He opens his eyes, the blue there steel, his lips a straight line as he takes me in. “You’re the dancer here.”

“I need a partner.”

He grimaces, looking over the fence at the party house next door. The couch is gone, so there must be new neighbors this year. “I’ll play my part. But if I stumble, I’m not going to take you down with me. Not again.”

I take a risk, stepping closer, and pick up his hand, squeezing it, forcing familiarity where there has been so little lately. “We do this together or not at all.”

His eyes snap down to mine, and my breath stutters in my chest. “I know the plan, Crash. But I know my father too. No matter how many contingencies we have, he has more.”

“You agreed we should come back. That we should try.”

He swallows, his hand holding mine just a little tighter before letting go. “It seemed possible when we were so far away from this. But now? Shit, I don’t know if I could free a fucking penny from my father’s grasp if he wanted to keep hold of it.”

Then he takes a step back, still watching me, waiting for my response. But I don’t know what to say. He knows all my arguments, the plans, the hopes we have riding on this. Whatever there is to say has already been said.

Now, all we have left is to survive.

The back door slams, and he turns, trudging back to the house as RJ and Jansen come out.

“Phone time!” Jansen sings.

“Will you get it all…” I start.

RJ grins. “I’ll get everything set up before we come back.” He taps his shoulder bag, the crappy laptop we used in Mexico peeking out. We know that one doesn’t have any malware, at least.

He and Jansen leave together, crawling into Jansen’s ancient sedan, and a shiver runs through me. Back to the buddy system. Back to careful words and careful actions. Back to a home that feels foreign and heavy.

I rush from the warm sunshine and up the stairs, my knuckles rapping on Walker’s door before I can stop myself. As the door creaks open, I throw myself into his arms, my nose buried in his neck, needing his arms around me more than anything right now.

He scoops me up without words and carries me to his bed, curling me into him as his hand strokes my back like I’m a skittish horse. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, my breaths uneven.

This isn’t the way I thought I’d feel coming back. I thought I was stronger than this. Maybe this was a terrible plan. God, it probably was. “Is it too late to leave?” I murmur into his chest.

He squeezes me tighter before fiddling with his old phone, somehow wrangling the brick into flooding the room with music to muffle our conversation, before tossing it a safe distance away. “You can do this. We can do this.”

“What if we can’t?”

He pulls back, searching my face for something—probably the confidence I misplaced the second I walked in the door.

“I will do whatever I need to do to keep you safe, Clara. To make space for your happiness. If you say run, I’ll be there.

But I know you’ve got this. From the first moment you pretended to be my muse, I couldn’t doubt that you were made for this life.

Fear is normal. Respect it. But don’t let it own you.

You still haven’t earned your crown, princess.

Prove to me you’re the queen I know you are. ”

I twist my lips into something smile-shaped, pressing my lips to his. “I don’t think you’re supposed to end a pep talk with a challenge.”

“No? Because you look a lot more fired up now that I gave it.”

I huff out a tiny laugh.

The quiet grows heavy. “How long do you think you have?” he asks.

I shrug. “Every minute is a gift right now.”

“In that case, I want you as ready for battle as you can be.”

“What are you suggesting?”

He pulls me to my feet, dragging me from the room. “Good surprises only, princess. You deserve all the good surprises.”