Page 86 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Jansen

W alker and RJ are late to visit on Monday, my nerves pinging with every click of the old clock above the front desk.

When they finally come in, their energy is jittery enough that I have trouble focusing on what they’re telling me, especially with the haphazard code words we’re coming up with on the fly, so no one realizes we’re talking about the stuff of movies, not middle-class America.

What I understand from the conversation is that Clara was in a fight and that she’s okay. Which does absolutely nothing to help the electricity sparking in my veins, my energy having surged back full force yesterday.

I feel like me again, more or less, but the doctors say this isn’t normal either.

Which I get, but also, maybe my normal is just a little zingier than other people’s?

Either way, I’m feeling well enough that I don’t have any desire to stay.

I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours doing harmless lifts on staff, ending up with some spare change, a lighter that should have been left in a locker, and a phone that also isn’t supposed to be here with us.

Nothing too fun, but still, it’s been keeping me on my toes. After the guys leave and we’re given dinner, I can’t even focus on my fun. The image of Clara bruised and beaten, purply black thighs and stomach, the regret in her gaze, plays on repeat in my mind.

I don’t want that image of her stuck in my brain. But I can’t shake it. Her smile bright with shared mischief, the way her eyelashes flutter before she tugs my braid, dragging me to her for a kiss, the velvet of her skin under my palms, none of the memories feel as real as the way I last saw her.

And she’s been in yet another physical altercation. She probably wasn’t even healed from the first one.

My mind’s a wreck by the time I’m invited to join a game of Apples to Apples, and while I try, I’m just too scattered to keep up with everyone else. I’m not surprised when the attendant recommends I go to either the gym or the meditation space.

The gym would be the better choice, but I beeline for the meditation space. And once I’m there, the window that shouldn’t open, but does, occupies all of my attention.

The guys said she’s okay.

But what if she’s not?

She’s good at acting, at pretending she’s one thing when she’s not. She spent all last winter break secretly starving herself while simultaneously laughing and begging for sex like it was her drug of choice.

Which it was, but still. I could tell something was off. We all could. But I didn’t really get how bad it was until it became impossible to ignore. Until she focused on getting better and I could see the person she was supposed to be instead of the shell she’d been.

So, what if that’s what’s going on now? What if this fight was terrible, but she didn’t want Walker and RJ to worry, so she didn’t tell them everything?

Or maybe she did, and they can’t tell me because I’m too loopy to be allowed out in public.

Dimming the lights and turning on one of the preloaded soothing soundtracks should help, but every gong strike and tree rustle has me worried that my time is running out. That something bad is coming for us, and I won’t be there to stop it.

I’m stuck curled up on the floor in front of the speaker, trying to figure out which side of me to listen to—the side that believes Walker and RJ when they say she’s fine or the side of me that knows I can just go check for myself.

I haven’t seen her since the first day of school. Weeks. And the last time I saw her, she could barely walk.

I could just sneak out, steal a car, check, and come right back.

An hour and a half, tops.

Another gong sounds, and it jolts me to my feet, my body sliding the window open like it’s controlled by somebody else.

But when I spin to sit on the edge, I’m with it enough to go back and pry a bit of laminate off a cabinet to use as a shim, adding it to my other prizes stashed in my pockets.

Not a full toolkit, not by any measure. But with the way the wind’s blowing, I’m sure I’ll find what I need in the gutter on my way toward the interstate.

My shitty tools collected, I slide out the window, chucking my socks back into the room.

No shoes are allowed here, just slippers that will make me look more like an escapee than anything else, so barefoot will have to be good enough.

My braid makes me look like a hippie stuck in the wrong decade, so walking barefoot won’t be memorable should I not get back in time. I hope.

And with that thought, I drop from the window to the small roof beneath it, then slide off the awning and, with a long drop and a roll, land on the grass below.

I can worry about getting back inside later.

Right now, I have a girl to check on.

The rust bucket I broke into doesn’t belong in Trips’ neighborhood, but I find a safe home for it at a park not too far from his house. Unfortunately, the jog over has the still healing soles of my feet burning by the time I get to the walled edge of the Westerhouse estate.

I should turn back, but I’ve made it this far. I’m going to see Clara. If I’m lucky, maybe I can sneak into her room and hold her for the night. I’ll get in trouble with the facility, fuck, they might kick me out for not taking my treatment seriously, but this is an emergency.

Otherwise, none of this makes sense.

Scanning for cameras, I find a lone blind spot under a weeping willow. The tree is not meant to be climbed, but I make it high enough to fling myself over the wall, landing in a crouch, almost skewered by a maze of red roses that butt against the wall.

As I wind through the roses, the sun moves to kiss the horizon, bright orange light flashing off the lake in the distance, the colors and scents brutally vivid after the quiet calm of the facility.

Staying in a crouch, scanning for cameras and guards, I double back a few times before I’m safely to the yard proper.

But then I realize I have no idea where to even begin looking for Clara.

This isn’t a house so much as a mansion with bonus mansions attached to it. And while I visited Trips over the Fourth of July a few years back, the scale of the place leaves me hunched under a bush, kicking myself for even coming out here.

Because even if I knew which room she’s been assigned, there’s no guarantee that she’ll be in it right now. What is guaranteed, however, is that her room will have a security camera. Which means showing up here is dumb.

Really, really dumb.

I’m hunched under the bush long enough that the sun fully sets, artful lights turning on automatically, one of them straight into my eyes. “Ouch,” I hiss, only to duck down lower, the sound of swiftly approaching boots having me hold my breath.

But, somehow, I’ve got luck on my side, because the swift rustle of combat boots sprints right past me. A second pair follows soon after, and because I’m part idiot and part curious cat, I follow, dodging from obstacle to obstacle, my ears trained on the growing commotion at the front of the house.

When I come around the side, I skirt the edge of what looks like a legit forest, so it’s nothing to climb up the tree closest to the house. Then I inch out on a big branch, finding a perfect seat for the action.

A whole hoard of guards are out front, whispering to each other and wandering from group to group. One guy laughs while another guy looks like he might piss himself. None of them seem interested in scanning the grounds for an intruder.

The front door opens, and I almost forget to breathe.

Clara, wearing slacks and a blouse like some charity gala coordinator, her hair pulled back into a braid, steps onto the veranda, her face stone-like.

Trips follows her, his hand on her waist, a similar look on his face. Only darker. More violent.

So, he knows about the fight she was in. And he’s not happy about it.

Shadowing the two of them is another guard, older, and the men in the courtyard quiet down when the older guy steps forward.

Last through the door is a struggling man, held back by two more guards as an SUV pulls up at the bottom of the steps. The man yells, but I’m not paying attention to him, rather the girl he’s screaming at.

Clara tilts her head, looking over at the yelling man beside her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “I was just defending myself.”

Trips leans down, pressing a kiss to her head, and follows the struggling man down the stairs.

Seeing her has me inching farther out on the branch, needing to be closer.

And despite the risks, I leap off, landing on the roof with bare feet.

Then I skitter along the overhang until I’m directly above her, figuring everyone is watching the man, not looking for somebody on the roof at night.

Especially once the troublemaker breaks free from his handlers as he reaches the circle drive.

Lying flat on the edge, my hands gripping the gutters, I can barely see Clara’s head as she comes down a step, her attention on the man as he tackles one of the other guards.

I want her to look at me, to see me, but I don’t want to get shot by the veritable hoard of hostiles out here. Maybe when she goes back inside, I’ll be able to figure out which way she goes and slip inside to see her? My plan set, I scan the chaos that everyone else is watching.

And that’s all the warning I get.

A flash of silver as the formerly restrained man spins with purpose and training, taking a knee as a guard dives for him. He rolls, and comes back up, pointing the weapon at Clara, a grin across his face that makes me look perfectly sane.

I don’t think.

I can’t.

There isn’t time.

I somersault, kicking off to make sure I get in front of Clara, pushing her back as I fall from the sky, feet first, one toe catching a stair, the other flying out into nothing.

The sting registers before the pop, and with a twist, I stumble into Clara’s terrified and confused arms.

“Beautiful,” I say, meaning it, not just as a greeting, but as a fact that should be stated with the same frequency with which I get to see her.

But the sting gets bigger, turning into something more like a sore muscle, but it’s deep inside my guts, which makes no sense.

“Jansen,” she says, only she’s yelling, fear writ large across her face, my body jostled, my world condensing down to this one point. This one woman.

I grin, happy just to see her as the world around me fades, high pitched ‘ting’s’ that should worry me sounding around us.

But I’m tired. Too tired to listen to what she’s saying. Too tired to figure out where I am, why I feel so weird.

Too tired to keep my eyes open.

So I close them.

And my world gets very, very quiet.

Hi! Maisie here! That's quite the cliffhanger, huh? Sorry . . . kinda. All I can promise the final book in this series is going to be a banger.

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