Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

6. Clara

Chapter 6

Clara

S hoving the blankets away, shivers course over me as my sweat meets the cool air. Pain and fear follow me to consciousness, and I scramble for my phone—5:43 a.m.

A little over three hours of sleep. Great.

I haul myself out of my bed, stumbling to the shower, the only thing I can think of to reset me. My skin is flaky and red from too much time in the water, but I don’t know of another way to chase away the monsters that haunt my dreams.

Slightly more awake, I double the grounds in the coffeemaker, brewing what would be considered sludge under the best of circumstances. But I pull out some of Walker’s oat milk to cut the acidity. Raking my wet curls onto the top of my head, I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my fists, ignoring how quiet the house is.

What can I do to move time forward ?

I’d planned on cleaning up my email yesterday, like an adult or something.

It’s better than nothing.

I scroll through, deleting as I go. And then. There it is.

An email from the FBI Internship program.

My heart pounds as my finger hovers above the message. What if I got in? What if I didn’t?

Oh God.

I down half of my sludge, then risk opening it.

A yelp of joy gets caught in my throat.

I got in! I’m FBI worthy!

My sleep-deprived body feels so fluttery that I might actually be flying. Shit. This is amazing.

And absolutely terrible.

A laugh-sob pops out, the morning light barely tinting the sky gray out the kitchen window.

“Shit. What should I do?” I ask the empty house.

I’d almost forgotten I’d applied. But I did apply. And I got in. Right after I started to find my place in a criminal crew. Obviously, this makes as much sense as anything else in my life right now.

Closing my eyes, I imagine what a normal girl would do right now. She’d be screaming, jumping up and down before calling her mom and dad to share the good news, collecting excitement from everyone who loves and supports her.

She’d respond to the email immediately, then search for summer sublets, unable to slow down for a second. Because she’d made it. Years of hard work, all leading to this one moment, this one win.

But me ?

I turn off my screen and rest my head in my palms, leaning against the kitchen island.

Right now, I wish I’d let Emma in on the craziness my life has become. I need an unbiased sounding board.

Only idiot girls throw away their futures for some guy. Or in my case, for a group of guys.

I’m not a tagalong. I have goals and ambitions separate from the men in my life. This is one of them.

But I have a future here, too. I know it. I fucked up, but working with the guys, it feels like stepping into a pair of perfectly broken-in running shoes. There’s so much to learn. But I want to learn it. My soul fucking sings when I create order from chaos under threat of jail time and violence.

And the FBI?

There’s still the threat of jail time and violence, but not for me. And the order I’d create is less “sprinting down alleyways, protecting the guys,” and more “sifting through financial paper trails and putting people like the guys behind bars.”

Shit.

I can’t make this decision. Not today. Not right now.

The response day is the fifteenth of January. Less than a month to decide.

Fuck.

This requires sugar. All the sugar.

And more sleep than I got.

I pile a plate full of cookies, nibbling on the edges as I ignore the FBI’s message, instead clearing the rest of my email. Once it’s all sorted and the cookies are sitting uncomfortably in my stomach, I wash my plate, then pick up my long-sleeved shirt from yesterday. The gold envelope flops onto the counter .

My name in fancy calligraphy decorates the front. Who would leave me a Christmas card on the porch?

Tearing it open, a classic winterscape card, complete with sleigh ride, greets me. “Happy Holidays,” it says. I open it as something flutters onto the floor. The card itself is generic and unsigned.

The hair on the back of my neck rises as I scoop up a face-down photo from the floor. Flipping it over, tears prick in my eyes, blurring a moment that was filled with joy, now fading into fear and disgust.

Me, arching back, Walker’s head clenched between my thighs, Jansen’s teeth shining white as they dig into the skin around my nipple.

The night before Jansen went home for break. Four days ago. An amazing fucking goodbye.

And someone watched. Watched and took pictures from a crack in the curtains in my bedroom. Then sent it to me.

Scrawled across the bottom in all caps is “WHORE.”

“Very unoriginal,” I say, my hands shaking as I set the photo on the counter. “Do better.”

As if insulting a ghost helps.

It has to be Bryce.

But he’s in jail.

Isn’t he?

Forcing myself past the discomfort, I pull the photo close to examine the handwriting, but with all caps, it’s hard to tell if it’s Bryce’s or not. I mean, I guess one of the neighbors might be a perv.

But it’s probably Bryce.

Shit .

The cookies roll in my stomach, but I force myself not to lose them.

One glance at the clock tells me it’s not even eight. Too much, too early.

Am I safe here alone?

The rundown that Trips gave me yesterday of the security updates tells me I’m as safe as I can be. And the person was outside the house—the photo blurry from the glass, the edge of the curtain visible on one side. My solid pink curtain, right across from my bed. I guess you have to have the best angle for your pervy photoshoot.

So I’m safe enough here alone that I don’t need to ruin anyone’s Christmas. I’ll wait to tell them.

My mind runs through all the steps that the guys will go through once they get back to track this perv down. RJ digging through the internet, Trips pushing and pulling through the network of people from his poker games, Walker doing some color match magic to figure out what printer made this photo, and Jansen ready to break into likely suspects’ houses to verify they’re the culprit.

Okay, so probably not exactly that. It’s so obvious that I need to learn all this shit. I can’t be dead weight to these guys, not when trouble keeps finding us. Finding me.

Grabbing a notebook, I make a careful list. The last thing I want to do is incriminate us all with my need to get my thoughts organized.

Things I need to learn:

The cool shit Jansen does

The basics of what RJ does

Poker

Acting

Self-defense

My starter list settled, I shift on my seat, worried that whoever took that picture might be outside the window right now.

But I’m not going to cower. I’m going to gain control of this situation.

And I won’t feel shame.

I pick up the photo on the counter, staring at the tableau of the three of us. And despite everything, I wish there were two more figures in that photo.

“Might as well earn the title of whore,” I say to myself as I take another sip of my room-temperature sludge.

Under a pile of blankets I scavenged from around the house, I’m splitting my time between texting Emma and watching video tutorials on poker. No time like the present to learn new skills. Even if my body feels like a wet sponge from lack of sleep.

Walker gave me a key to his room before he left, so I stole one of his blankets and tucked it right on top of me on the couch, his familiar scent making me feel a little safer while amplifying my exhaustion. Sadly, my subconscious knows that I’m alone and can’t be tricked into letting me rest. Learning to take control can’t happen soon enough.

A video call request from RJ comes through a little after noon, and I scramble to answer it.

“Hi!” I say, a little too excited to see RJ on my screen.

“Hi, sugar. How’s your morning going?” The camera on his phone misses the gold highlights in his eyes, but the kindness still shows.

“Okay. I’m watching poker tutorials and texting Emma. So, not terrible. Even if I’m exhausted.”

His chuckle warms me more than the blanket pile ever could. “But you made it through the night. Be proud.”

I shrug. “I probably only slept three hours.”

“And you’ll sleep more tonight, I’m sure. But you stayed. You did it. Celebrate it. Healing takes time, Clara. Give it to yourself.”

Damn him and his reasonable words. “I’ll try.”

“I’m calling with a purpose, though. I know we weren’t doing gifts, so it’s not that, but I got you something. The delivery notice just popped up. Go to the front porch.”

My fear spikes at the prospect of opening the door. “Is there a door cam now?”

“Nah. It’s easy for the police to find a reason to get their hands on doorbell cams. Plus, Trips is weird about cameras. But I’m right here. And the package is just outside the door.”

I roll off the couch, grateful RJ isn’t making a big deal about my anxiety, and inch to the door, not wanting to be weak. Because I’m not .

I’ve just had a bit of a setback. And a new photo-delivering creep to watch out for. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Should I say something about the card?

No. Not yet. Later. There are still hours of Christmas left. I’m not going to ruin it.

A small box waits at the top of the steps, and I rush across the bitter wood, wishing I’d stopped to put on shoes before coming out to grab it. I’m back inside before the door bangs shut. “Cold,” I say, as RJ waits for me to get the box open.

“It is winter.”

“How did you even get this delivered on Christmas?”

“I paid extra. Now open it. I want to see what you think.”

Propping up the phone on the windowsill of Jansen’s meditation space, I plop down on a pillow pile, the box in my lap. I wrench it open to find a tiny black garment box inside. Pulling that out, I kick the cardboard into the front hall. I glance up at the screen. “Did you buy me clothes?”

RJ’s smile sticks, but I can see how nervous he is. What’s in this box?

“No, not quite clothes.”

With a deep breath, I open the black box, only to find black and gold tissue paper wrapped around the light bundle inside. I peel that back, and find the softest, silkiest, deepest plum slip, delicate lace lining the straps and bodice.

“RJ.”

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t sure I wasn’t overstepping. If you don’t like it, or if it’s weird, I can totally return it. I just, well, this is what I was imagining, you know, yesterday? And once it was in my head, I had to find it. But yeah. You don’t need to keep it. ”

The material is cool against my palms. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s passable. You’re what’s beautiful, Clara.”

My heart skips a beat. I spread the material out across my lap, looking up at him. “I wish you were here.”

“Just a few more days.”

“Would you like a fashion show?”

A strangled laugh escapes him. “God yes. But unfortunately, I snuck away to give you this. I’ve already been gone long enough that I’m sure someone will come find me any second.”

“So, rain check?”

“Definitely.”

I crawl to the phone, wanting to be closer to RJ, even if it’s only a video of him. “Thank you, RJ.”

“Of course, sugar.”