Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

1. Clara

Chapter 1

Clara

F rigid wood greets my cheek, shocking me out of my nightmare, as I scramble from bed, desperate to get away from dirty, grasping hands. Away from a voice that makes me freeze into a terrified lump, my breath coming in jagged gasps.

The damp of my skin is slippery against the varnish. Whether my cheek is wet from tears or sweat, well, I’m not going to check. It’s bound to be one or the other, so I’m going to need a shower, regardless.

The house is achingly silent as I haul myself to the bathroom, everyone long gone to their Christmas celebrations. And I’m here. Alone. My choice, of course, but one I’m beginning to regret.

My only plan for today and tomorrow is to watch all the John Wick movies. There’s nothing like a little violence and mayhem to keep a girl from thinking about being alone on Christmas.

Three missed calls from my dad have already come through this morning. I’d worry, but there are no voicemails, so there’s no emergency—he just wants to pretend everything is normal at home.

It’s not.

Surprising no one, my mom hasn’t called once. Not to wish me a merry Christmas. Not to invite me home. And for sure not to apologize. Because Maggie McElroy née Brown can do no wrong. Except marry the boy from the wrong side of the tracks and then regret all her life choices after that one. Including me, apparently.

Perfect little Clara McElroy grew up, and I’m no longer a trophy or a doll for my mom to show off. I’m not a reason for her to feel superior to anyone else.

I’m just me. Even if I’m not exactly sure who that is right now, I know I’m not my mom’s porcelain toy. Not anymore.

My shower washes away evidence of my new soggy morning routine. I’m a fucking mess. I don’t even have to look in the mirror to see it. It’s living right here, like a storm behind my breastbone, desperate to escape. Scratching, squeezing, making my breath come in shallow pants.

Shit.

Distraction. I need a distraction.

I swipe open Jansen’s text chat, which has two messages from after 3 a.m.: one wishing me a merry Christmas Eve and the other a super close-up of his kissy lips that makes me grin through my mounting panic .

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Only, he probably isn’t even up yet. I will not ruin anyone’s Christmas with my stupid anxiety.

Tossing my phone onto the step stool Walker added to the room for just this purpose, I wish desperately for some coffee. Coffee, a hot bath, and maybe some music that will force this excess emotion out of me.

And my guys.

Damn it.

No.

I can do this. Two days. One night. Walker and Trips will be back tomorrow evening. Jansen and RJ will be here this weekend.

If I want to be the badass bitch near strangers keep assuming I am, I can’t be afraid of being alone. Because badass bitches aren’t afraid of anything, let alone something as stupid as an empty bed and a too full mind.

I rush to the kitchen in my towel to make coffee, adding some Bailey’s instead of creamer. It’s Christmas, whether or not it feels like it. I might as well make things festive.

And because it’s a holiday, I fill the tub and flop down into the warm water. Walker left some luxe, woodsy-scented bubble bath for me, so I add that and let the soak do the hard work of relaxing my stiff body.

Too bad the stiffness is more from stress than from my run yesterday.

Cranking up some old sing-along Christmas classics, I slump back into the tub, nursing my extra-special coffee.

It’s 9:47 a.m. Only about thirty-four hours left alone. Easy.

I might need more Bailey’s.