Page 67 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Walker

“ G et the fuck out of my house,” I growl, shoving the cop out our front door.

“He needs medical attention,” he retorts.

“He’s having a panic attack because not one, but two of your officers pointed fucking guns at him. For loose lug nuts. So get your uniformed ass out of my house.”

The cop throws his hands up, backing onto the porch, but not leaving as I rush to RJ, not knowing what to do. Dealing with his panic is entirely different than Clara’s. I can’t strip him naked, toss him in a bathtub, feed him, and kiss him until he’s better.

And he’s humming something between a yell and a cry, a keening noise that has goosebumps coating my arms.

“RJ, can you look at me?” I whisper, squatting in front of him.

He rocks, his hands deep in his hair, tugging like the pain is the only thing keeping him conscious.

“What do you need?” I ask instead.

“Gone,” he barks.

“He’s gone. He’s not here.”

His head sways from side to side in denial. “Not him. The memory, gone.”

Fuck. “If I could take it, I would. Do you want to go upstairs? Go to your room?”

“Can’t.”

The cop clears his throat, and I twist with a glare. He motions me over. I focus back on RJ. “Should I step back, give you space?”

He barely nods, so I back up onto the porch with the cop. I don’t close the door all the way, though. I don’t want to lose sight of RJ.

“Panic attacks suck,” the cop says.

“No fucking shit.”

He looks me over. “There was a funeral today. I didn’t realize my blues would cause this. I won’t come back unless I’m in street clothes.”

“You won’t come back again,” I say, remembering that this man was one lever that Trips’ dad was going to pull to control the two of them.

“Is Clara here? I’ve got a question for her.”

RJ’s hands have moved from his hair to his knees, the strange keening noise fading as he rubs the fabric between his fingers, a step hopefully in the right direction.

“She’s not here. And she won’t be for a while.”

“Where can I find her?”

I turn to the cop. “Listen. I know what she was doing for you. She insisted she give you more info this spring. I figure you’re probably here to ask for another list. But you can’t show up unannounced in your damn dress uniform.”

He sighs. Then he pulls out his card, scratching something on the back and handing it to me. “Have her call when she has a chance.”

I pocket it, then march into the house, pushing the door shut behind me.

Goddamn cops.

RJ’s staring at the ceiling, his breathing almost normal.

“Water?” I ask.

After a second, he nods, and I grab him a glass, setting it next to him on the stairs. I wait for him to take a few sips, then for him to feel comfortable enough to look at me. I ignore the shake in his hands. “Almost back to yourself?”

“Yeah,” he croaks.

“If you need to go rest, do it. I’ll work on Jansen.”

His eyelashes flutter closed. “I want to help.”

“Dude, your body was just primed to fight a lion. You need to get that adrenaline out, to calm the fuck down. And I don’t think talking Jansen into going to the hospital is going to fit the bill.”

His face grim, he pushes to his feet, the glass of water tight in his fist as he slumps up the stairs. Once the door to his room closes behind him, I take the breath I need, my trembling hands something I kept hidden from him.

He’s not my biggest concern in the house right now, though, so I’ll leave him to figure out what he needs. Jansen’s my priority. Only, when I push into the living room, I don’t find him in the middle of the floor staring at the ceiling like he has been for hours.

He’s not in Clara’s room, or his own.

Not in the kitchen or the attic.

Shit. Where the hell could he be? I pull up the tracking app, only to find he’s not even in the house.

For a split second, I wonder if he went to class. But zooming in, it’s clear he’s on foot, and going somewhere far away from campus.

What the fuck?

I’ve searched all the normal spots in this random park the tracking app brought me to, but there’s no Jansen.

Which means he’s probably in the tower rising out of the trees like a misplaced storybook destination.

Wandering the base, I find a door, and with a bit of a struggle and muttered threats about repercussions if I break in and he isn’t there, I get both locks open.

Winding my way up the stairs, the interior cooler and damper than the late summer sun outside, I lose control of the worry I’ve been ignoring.

Why would Jansen come here? What am I going to find when I get to the top of this tower?

Am I capable of talking someone off a literal ledge?

The stairs end in an open observatory, stone arches creating beautiful vignettes of the city and river beyond. And if I didn’t have so much fear gnawing at me right now, I might give the view more than a passing glance and a promise to return with a sketchbook another day.

Instead of being taken in by the view, my attention locks onto my roommate strolling on top of the railing, his body bisecting one open arch, the goddamn cat weaving between his legs.

I have no idea how to talk to him without startling him.

One good scare and he’s gone. Luckily, he seems to have heard me, because he speaks without turning. “Hey.”

“Hey, man. Whatcha doing?” I ask, trying to stay casual. Trying to pretend I’m not sweaty and terrified watching him.

“Trying to feel something.”

“How’s that going?”

“Eh. It’s just a pretty view.”

Not good, then. I note that he’s not wearing any shoes and spend a second wondering how damaged his feet are after his forty-minute barefoot walk here. With a cat.

“Want to come down?” I ask.

He sighs, so big it’s like all twenty-two years of breath come out at once. “No, not really.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To feel something.”

I get Fluffington’s attention, and he leaps from the ledge, winding between my legs instead. At least I don’t have to worry about the cat tripping Jansen and causing an accidental dive to ground level.

Now, my only worry is a purposeful dive. “I want that, too,” I say.

He grips the edge, leaning out, and my hands clench into my jeans, uncertain if I should risk grabbing him, or if that would startle him over that last bit. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it to New Year’s,” he says, half dangling over the edge.

“You might need some help.”

The silence is perfectly terrible as his muscles flex and release, rocking him over the edge and back, fear scratching at my skin like dried clay splatters.

“Clara needs help,” he says, eventually.

“Can you help her right now?”

“No. Not right now.”

“Then let me help you, so you can help her.”

He rocks over the edge again, lingering in a bow shape, his hands and feet attached to the tower while his center hovers over nothing.

Fluffington yowls at me, asking for pets, but I can’t pay attention to the cat. Not when his human is so close to the edge.

Physically and metaphorically.

Jay looks back at me over his shoulder, his face cast in shadow. “How?”

“Let me take you to the hospital, Jay. Just see what they say. You’re an adult—they can’t make you do anything.

But you need help. Real help. Waiting for things to get better isn’t going to fix this, not this time.

Clara needs you healthy. So does RJ, and me, too.

Fuck it, the cat needs you healthy, Jay.

So get down from there so we can find something to make you feel better. ”

His gaze tilts down to the cat, the angle all wrong, and with a long breath, he falls backwards into the safety of the observation area. He slams onto the floor with none of his usual grace, a groan following as he grips one shoulder.

But he’s down, and I rush to his side, getting between him and the ledge he’d been perched on.

“Come on. Let’s get you fixed up,” I say, offering him a hand.

And once he has his giant, purring feline in his arms, he takes it.