Page 65 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

T he rumble of a muscle car has me turning too fast, the mottled purple of my abdomen seizing with pain, reminding me I shouldn’t make any sudden movements. A cough that feels like it’s splintering my insides follows my mistake, and it’s all I can do to not cry out.

But I catch sight of an electric blue sports car slamming to a stop in a no-parking zone, a vaguely familiar form unfolding from the vehicle and rushing into the building in front of me.

Some guy from one of Trips’ poker games.

It takes me a minute, but the name eventually comes to me: Harrison Grant, aka Aiden Johnson.

He seems like an ass. And I’m pretty sure he’s the one who cued Emma into all this.

I force my aching body to move as smoothly as possible, the flowing dress necessary so nothing touches me besides my underwear.

And even that feels like a rope digging into my flesh.

Trips’ gaze rests heavy on me, his desire to scoop me up and carry me away only stalled because doing that would hurt worse than my slow promenade into the Carlson building.

Catching sight of Walker off to one side, his face pointed at his phone, but his eyes locked on me, has my heart thundering in my chest.

It’s been weeks, but it feels like months since I last saw him. He’s standing close enough to another group of students for it to look like he’s with them, so the guards at our back don’t pick him out of the crowd, but I know he’s here for me.

His gaze shoots to Trips, then back to me, something fiery and rage-filled in his face.

I might try to hide how much I hurt, but Walker knows me.

There’s no way he’s missed that I’m injured.

Or that Trips seems fine. Or that there are two large men in jeans and t-shirts half a step behind us, blending in on campus as well as fish in the desert.

I tuck my chin, letting my hair fall across my face before I dare show him a small smile. Some sign that while things aren’t good, I’m still in this. He shakes his head once, a question in a movement, an action that has more in common with begging than anyone would guess.

Please, this isn’t worth it. Let me take you away from here.

But I shake my head back. It’ll be okay. I’m okay, I promise.

Trips walks me to the door of my room, a marketing class if I remember what RJ signed me up for.

I’m uncertain I’ll be able to follow anything said during the lecture.

My principal goal will be to not cry, faint, or vomit from the pain.

Thank God it’s only the first day and I probably won’t miss anything important.

“I’ll see you when I’m done,” Trips says, taking my hand and spinning the engagement ring I’m wearing, a strange nervous energy coming over him.

Like he’s too raw to pretend anymore. Not with me, at least.

He steps around me, but pauses, pressing his lips to the top of my head, both of my hands swamped in his. Then he’s gone, heading downstairs to the finance lab.

Leaving me to go to class with Smith as my shadow.

By the time class is done, my whole body feels puffed up like a jug of spoiled milk, and some detached part of my brain wonders if I poked a hole in my side, if all the swelling would flood out.

I know that’s not how it works, but the way I’m feeling right now?

It seems likely. I hobble from the room, another coughing fit taking hold a few feet outside the door.

Smith stays close enough behind me that I can feel his body heat, and if I had any ability to move myself, I’d probably shudder.

As it is, I glance over my shoulder at him as I recover.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, hoping he’ll let me have a moment.

“You can hold.”

“Trips doesn’t get out for another hour. What else am I supposed to do?”

“I was planning on locking you in the car and having a smoke break.”

Fuck this. I inch away from him, but his hand falls heavy on my arm. “I said no.”

“Do you want to explain to your boss why I pissed on the leather seats of his Mercedes?”

His lips twist, his grip adding to the cacophony of pain ricocheting through my body. “Fine. But it has to be a single stall one. No crowds for you to send messages to your little boy toys.”

“Fine.”

I’m sweating by the time I make it to the nearest single stall bathroom. The glimpse of Walker I catch across the way is the only thing that keeps me moving. As I push through the door, Smith follows me in, locking it behind us.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

His grin is mocking. “Taking my job seriously. I’m not supposed to take my eyes off you while you’re offsite.”

“I’m not taking a piss while you stare at me.”

“Then I guess you don’t have to piss badly enough for this to be worth our time.”

Fuck. This is not the plan. With a flurry, I push my panties down and flip the back of my skirt up, happy the loose fabric covers the important bits. Not that I have any modesty left after last night.

I lower myself to the porcelain, trying not to show just how much this hurts, then sit there, not letting anything happen.

“Fucking liar.”

“Shy bladder.” I say, my glare doing absolutely nothing. “Can you at least turn around? It’s not like I’m going to disappear in a locked room with you guarding the door.”

He pulls his concealed weapon out (in obvious disregard for the stated rules on the doors of the building) and taps it against his thigh.

A threat, or a promise. I’m not quite sure which yet.

He wants to kill me, but I think he wants to torture me first. So, the gun is probably a warning more than anything. Hopefully.

“Fine.” He whips around, and I count to five as I search the ceiling tiles.

There, in a corner, I see a single green eye, glancing from me to my guard. And it’s all I can do to not cry. Jansen’s here, but there’s nothing I can do about Smith.

So instead, I pull up my dress, showing him the blues and purples across my abdomen.

When I lower the dress down, I pee, the embarrassment I should feel missing after everything that’s happened.

The tile gets slid farther back, Jansen’s face frozen into a mask of Nordic vengeance, deep in shadow, but I shake my head with a smile.

“I’m okay,” I mouth. “But we can’t today.” I bob my head at Smith by the door.

My name on his lips is barely visible, and my heart breaks again.

“Soon,” I mouth. And I blow him a kiss, wishing I could give so much more. Wishing I could see more than his dark outline crouched above me.

When I flush, Smith turns back, pointing the gun at the sink. Like I don’t know what to do next. But I do, and I do it, the gap in the ceiling now only wide enough for Jansen to see me, not for me to see him at all.

When I leave, Walker still across the way, I shake my head at him too, wishing I could blow a kiss, that I could rush across and press our hearts together, the need to just exist in the same space as my guys burning across my skin like a fever.

But not today.

Tomorrow, I will get to see RJ.

And on Thursday, I’ll be back here with Walker and Jansen.

We’ll try again.

We’ll try until we get it right.