Page 55 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Walker

T he silence in the house has me dragging my feet as I head to the kitchen. But when I get there, I don’t find any additional motivation. Instead, I open the cupboard and pull out one of Clara’s granola bars, forcing it into my mouth, one arm braced on the island.

Halfway through, I toss the rest in the garbage. It tastes like shit.

We planned for this. But I’m not sure any of us realized how it would feel to be forced apart. Jansen shut down completely on the couch yesterday, slow tears streaking down his face as he stared at the door, not responding to any of us, not even Evie.

After hours of trying to rouse him, we finally got Evie to leave, with a promise that she’d be back today. It sounded more like a threat than anything.

RJ immediately wandered the house, taking down cameras and listening devices and stashing them in a box.

They’re now in the basement, just in case we can use them for something else.

Then he disappeared without a word, diving into the mountains of legwork he has, the hum of his music drifting from behind his door after I tucked Jansen in on the couch and went to bed, and still humming when I gave up after a few fitful hours of sleep and came back downstairs.

A thunk above me has me moving enough to glare at the ceiling.

A second thunk has me stumbling back upstairs, the key to Jansen’s room snicking into the lock only to not be needed, the door open.

One glance tells me it’s empty, Jansen not there.

Confused by what I’d been hearing, I turn in place, staring at a few books in the middle of the floor until a yowl has it all making sense.

Prince Fluffington sits on the highest shelf of Jansen’s bookcase, his tail swishing angrily. He leaps onto the desk, then the floor, as light on his feet as his accidental owner, then winds between my legs, yelling at me like I speak cat.

Which, after the last few months, I do. “You didn’t get fed, did you?” I ask, giving him one solid stroke before looking around for his things.

A few minutes later, his royal highness has his very delayed dinner and clean water.

I sit down on Jansen’s unused bed, knowing I should figure out where he is.

Only it’s seven in the morning and I’m already exhausted.

Resting my head on my palms, I stare at the floor, the colors dimmed by my mood and the shadow I’m casting.

Another shade of gray appears a moment later, Fluffington butting his head against my hand, demanding pets now that he’s finished his food.

He takes his due, then hops up on the bed behind me, getting to the important work of cleaning himself now that he’s done.

“You’re an okay dude, you know that?” I say, remembering running out to buy jingle balls and catnip with Jansen, a side trip that now looks so light and fun, even though not much has changed between then and now.

We were already in this sinkhole, even then.

The hum of RJ’s music continues, and I already know at some point today I’m going to have to go in there, take away his Mountain Dew, and force him to bed.

The same as I know the second I’m back on my feet, I’m going to have to find Jansen and make sure he’s slept, make sure he remembers to eat and move himself.

This isn’t my role. I’m supposed to be the artsy, moody motherfucker in the house.

But with Trips and Clara gone, RJ’s going to work himself to exhaustion, paranoia, and burnout.

And Jansen’s been barely holding onto himself for months.

If he doesn’t sleep, eat, and exercise, he’s going to spiral faster than Clara knows.

She wasn’t there the last time. And none of us told her, because Jansen said he’d be fine. That he was fine. None of us contradicted him, even though we could see he wasn’t.

Optimism is as fucked-up as a drug.

With a sigh, I open the door, and Fluffington bolts for the stairs. Because there’s only so much I can handle today, I let him go, leaving Jansen’s door open so he can find his water and litter box when he finishes his exploration.

Stopping in the living room, I find the couch empty, the blanket in a heap on the floor.

I stand there, trying to figure out where else Jay could be.

Did he leave? Because he’s in no state to drive.

Or probably to walk. And the buddy rule is there for a reason, one that even amid his spiral, he has to remember.

The sweat that beaded at RJ’s hairline every time sirens passed us on the interstate during our long drive home was enough of a reminder for all of us.

All the cars out back haven’t moved. The van is still parked half a block down out front, too.

My heart stutters as I pull up the tracking app RJ put on all our phones when he set them up yesterday, fearing that he’s already vanished, gone to her, done something dangerous, or something so Jansen that we’ll have to rescue him, but when I pull it up, his phone is still in the house.

Which doesn’t make me feel any better.

I’m about to yell for him when I realize there’s one place I haven’t checked yet. Pushing open the door to Clara’s room feels like a violation even though she’d welcome me in if she were here.

But there, his arms wrapped around her pillow, his braid half falling out, Jansen lies sprawled across her mattress.

Knowing that what I’m doing makes no sense, that it makes absolutely nothing better, I kick off my slippers and crawl in behind him, tugging the blanket over him, up to my chin, wishing she’d spent more than one night in this bed before she was gone.

Wishing that it smelled like her. Wishing that she was squeezed between Jansen and me, my arm wrapped around her waist.

And when he turns, burrowing into my chest like the heat-seeking creature he is, I let him. It’s not Clara, not at all, but it’s better than the aching loneliness that wants to settle into my skin.

Details pop out as I lay there.

The cracked and flaking pleather of her desk chair reminds me of a treant shedding its skin.

One of her boots that we bought in Chicago is slightly turned, not in perfect step with the rest of her shoes.

The purple silk slip I stripped from her lays where I dropped it, the color different in the morning light than under the night’s yellow bulbs.

Stretching to pick it up, I press my nose to it, but it was barely on her before I tossed it aside. I lay it in the space between Jansen and me, a foolish act, but still. I do it.

A rumble is all the warning I get before Fluffington wedges his twenty pounds of feline between me and Jansen, his purr sparking a stupid touch of anger—how can he be happy when she’s gone?

But he’s a cat. What does jail or coercion mean to him? He’s basically from a long line of inmates himself. And everyone knows cats can’t be coerced into doing anything they don’t want to do.

So, I stroke him and gather what few reserves I have.

We came up with a plan—we all have our jobs. But I know I have an extra one that we didn’t discuss with the full group because no one wanted to admit it would be a problem.

Clara and Trips are coming back.

But it’s my job to make sure the rest of our family is still whole when they get here.

The bell has me untangling from Jansen, damp from an unplanned nap with a cat-shaped furnace and a clingy man.

I glance at the time as I go, if for no other reason than to know if this is an early morning kind of problem, or a reasonable time kind of problem.

As it’s a little after ten, I figure we’re dealing with reasonable people.

With a cursory glance, I see Emma and Evie arguing on the front porch. I do quick calculus in my head—will they sell it for us? Would Trips’ father send someone to watch the house? Or did he already get everything he wanted?

Knowing I need to answer the door no matter how I’m feeling, I put on my mask, one that I promised I’d never use for Clara, but I’m still free to use on anyone else, and open it.

Evie pushes inside before I can even say hello, and Emma apologizes for her.

“So, how is he?” Evie demands.

“He’s sleeping finally,” I say, hiding all my agony from the two women in front of me, pretending I’m nothing but a concerned friend.

Because to Evie, Clara isn’t mine. She’s Jansen’s.

The way my heart is breaking can’t show without us knowing how Evie would take it. And Jansen kept it a secret, because according to him, when Evie goes into protective mode, everyone becomes a danger.

Case in point: she spins on her heel and rushes up the stairs, planning on either waking Jay up or sitting vigil at his side like some plague-times sickbed painting.

I’m leaning toward the former. Emma has bags under her eyes as she watches the smaller blonde woman rush away from her.

“Sorry, Walker. She’s worried sick about Jansen, but it’s Jansen, so I don’t really get it. ”

I nod toward the kitchen, and with a sigh, she follows me.

“He’s going to wake up and start making jokes about all this, right?” she asks.

I open the fridge, not sure what to offer her. I didn’t pay attention to what she likes. Which is sucky of me, considering she’s Clara’s best friend. “Beer?” I ask, not caring that it’s 10 a.m. on a Friday.

“Sure,” she says, and I take out three bottles for when Evie comes rushing back in, annoyed that Jansen isn’t where she thinks he should be.

I pop the tops off two. “She’s right to be worried. Jansen, he’s—” I don’t even know how to explain it. “Sometimes, he struggles.”

“Like, depression?”