Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

20. Clara

Chapter 20

Clara

T rips drops a tablet in my lap when I meet him in the living room. “Read it.”

“Okay. Can I eat first?”

“Can you read and eat at the same time?”

Taking the tablet with me, I pull out the last of the Christmas leftovers and put a few things that look vaguely appetizing onto a plate, Trips mirroring my actions while also making a pot of coffee.

We eat in silence, Trips lining up a collection of milk, sugar, and cocoa in front of me with my mug before I remember the syrups from Emma. Only, he’s being nice, so I leave them for now. My second cup can be crazy creative.

I toss the cocoa and the milk in with the coffee and dig deeper into the document Trips prepared for me—a dossier on his family.

And it’s nasty .

It’s dry and clinical, like this world is separate from Trips, like it’s not the life he was born into, the violence and manipulation he grew up thinking was normal.

I want to vomit.

Page after page of abuse, of blackmail, of control so absolute, I hardly understand how Trips is here, at this house, attending the U with us.

His theory, according to this work-up he’s done, is that his dad wants him to want this inheritance of blood and mistrust.

To Trips’ father, legacy is everything. Archibald Clarence Westerhouse Sr. was a dark power on his own merit, but his son took it to extremes, and he wants his own children to take the destruction national. Trips is supposed to be the brains and brawn of the family business, while his brother is expected to be the face and the legalized power. Trips’ kid sister is mostly ignored, it seems, as Trips’ dad is about as old-school sexist as it can get.

And it’s clear as day that Trips was abused. That his mom was, too.

Stepmother, brother, likely little sister, it’s all there.

Clinical.

A list of broken bones and hospital visits organized by age for Trips.

The way his mom died in her thirties from a stroke, three days after his parents had a huge fight, the same night she’d been complaining of a headache, but had been forced to host a party despite her acute discomfort and slurred speech.

How his stepmom started out kind and loving, but pulled away from him, isolated him, while hiding herself and her daughter from everyone in the house to the best of her ability.

The fact that he was forced to watch a restrained man shot in the head at thirteen after he’d gotten into a fight with his dad and threw his first punch back.

I push my plate away the farther I read, the more blood-soaked the memories.

The alcohol Trips abused through high school, the harder drugs he’d experimented with, hoping for an escape.

The stint at rehab followed by his explosive rage directed at another high schooler, which, surprisingly, led to his first hint of freedom as the Ivy League option disappeared. For the first time, Trips got a choice.

The details on more recent years are sparse.

There’s a section about his brother’s political career, about the bribery and extensive private tutoring needed to get him to where he is today, a rising hometown star on the national political stage.

There’s an even smaller section about his sister, and here, for the first time, the clinical language disappears, and I see the same young man that was too tired to keep up his walls after a little more than twenty-four hours at home, a big brother who wants great things for his little sister, and his heavy fear he won’t be able to save her from the same fucked-up world they both were born into.

I reach the end of the document, the light in the kitchen already fading, the clock reading a little past three.

Trips must have spent hours on this. And it had to have driven fucking railway spikes into his soul to do it.

He’s not in the kitchen. I don’t know when he left .

I don’t know how long I’ve been crying.

Hurrying to the bathroom, I take a minute to collect myself. There’s no way Trips is going to react well to my tears, even if his history more than earned the ache in my chest.

Once I think I can keep my reaction to his upbringing to myself, I find him sitting in his chair in the living room, TV on, some football game humming along while he pretends to watch it. But the second I enter the room, he’s on his feet, facing me like he’s ready for a fight. “No pity. No tears. I just needed you to understand exactly how dangerous you being on my father’s radar is.”

“Understood.” I hand him the tablet, and our fingers graze, my breath already tight in my chest, a noose around my heart.

He studies me, looking for signs that I’m going to interpret this information as anything besides facts needed to do this job. And as much as I want to gather him into my arms, it would be the first thing to make him step back, to step away from me again.

Because I’m starting to get it.

How can you care about anyone when just being friends puts them in danger?

You can’t. He can’t.

Not with me. Not with the guys. Not even with his sister.

Because to his father, we’re all levers he can pull to get Trips to fall in line.

I don’t want Trips to fall in line. I want him to break free—true freedom without fear of reprisal or coercion.

But I have no idea how to win that for Trips. Especially given I’ve only had a glimpse of the lengths his dad will go to keep him chained. So no, I’m not going to give him an ounce of sympathy. It’s the last thing Trips needs.

What he needs is what everyone tells me I’m the best at—paying attention, learning the rhythm of a place, of the people that inhabit it, and then creating the opening I need to slip in and steal what I want. What Trips needs.

The freedom we all seek.

He clears his throat, then slumps back into his chair. “Do I need to quiz you?”

“No. It’s seared in my mind.”

Nostrils flaring, he twists back to the TV. “Same. Do you get how serious this is?”

“Yes.”

“The goal will be for you to blend in, for both of us to be boring and unremarkable, make our little curtsies to the king, then disappear before he decides to take a closer look at you.”

“How bad is the level of interest he’s shown so far?”

His lids press closed, not able to look at me. “Bad. He told me all about a knee injury you had in high school. That’s why you don’t run track, right?”

“It didn’t heal correctly. There was a specialist that the GP recommended, but we couldn’t afford to go to her. We went with what we had, and even after months of physical therapy, when I go all out for too long, my knee locks and down I go.”

“That sucks.”

“It did. It killed my chance at a free ride.”

The hint of a grin creases his cheek as he opens his eyes. “At least that’s not a problem anymore. ”

“Trading a sports scholarship for a criminal apprenticeship—exactly the solution I was looking for as a confused and demoralized high schooler.”

He huffs out a laugh, forcing himself to his feet and stretching. “Recap: what new skills have you tried out?”

“I can almost lift a wallet with a strong dose of distraction, I’ve watched a few poker tutorials, I am a solid liar and solid lie detector, I can throw a rudimentary punch, I understand the basics of social media data scraping, and I guess I’m lifting cars with Jansen tonight, so we’ll see how I do at that later. And you know, I know more about your family, too.”

“Okay. I’ll get RJ to bring you to the gym soon to learn basic self-defense. We need to brush up your surveillance skills, although that will probably be close to natural for you, then teach you etiquette and waltzing. Picking locks can wait for now. And we have to get you a socialite’s wardrobe for the party. Unfortunately, we have game prep taking up all of Monday, so that day will be a wash for new skills.”

“Still, that’s not so terrible.”

“It wouldn’t be if you were sleeping and eating.”

It’s my turn to stare at the TV, a hard tackle making me twitch. “I’m working on that.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, Crash.” He pulls out his phone, and the sound of rustling starts upstairs.

Walker is the first to arrive, and the way he comes straight to me, kissing me like it’s been days rather than hours since we were last together, it feels too real in the haze of my mind created through too little sleep, too much sex, and too much fucking trauma. It blisters when it should simmer, and I’m pathetically glad when he pulls away. “I’ll see what I can make happen,” he says to Trips before pushing through the door into the kitchen, the sound of banging pots echoing moments later.

Jansen and RJ stumble down together, Jansen swooping me into his arms before carrying me to the couch, holding me tight to his chest. RJ smiles, and it’s warmer than usual, glowing with secrets and revelations. “What’s up?” he asks, folding himself onto the couch beside us, pulling my legs across his lap.

“Can you bring her to the dojo sometime soon and get her going on basic self-defense? Running is always going to be the best choice for her, but that’s not always an option.”

“They’re closed for the holidays, but I’m sure I can get the key.”

“Make it happen. Jansen, you’re taking her tonight, right?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Anything she needs to practice before you guys leave?”

Jansen tickles me and I squeal, diving to the other side of the couch and into RJ’s lap. He bundles me away from the threatening fingers, leaving Jansen no choice but to answer Trips. “I don’t know. How are your sneaking skills, beautiful? Can you drive stick?”

I lean into RJ, needing his calm more than Jansen’s humor or Walker’s passion right now. I hope they understand. My moody-ass, exhausted brain is running the show right now. “I have no idea if I’m good at sneaking, but I’m excellent at driving stick.”

“How excellent?”

“I can pull a 180 drift with a front wheel drive car in the snow. ”

All three guys stare at me like I’ve just professed my hatred of color-coded notes.

“My dad was serious about teaching me how to drive in all conditions and all stress levels. We’d borrow his friends’ cars so I could try stuff out in bigger and smaller vehicles. He’d take me to the country so I could get used to the dark and the deer, and into downtown so I could adjust to one-way streets and bike lanes.”

Jansen turns to Trips. “Can we buy her a car? She needs a car.”

“Not until we graduate. We’ve got a cover to keep. She can’t suddenly come into money right after she moves in with us.”

Jansen turns back to me. “What do you want? I’ll get it as a graduation gift. Something new? Vintage? It’s got to be fast, though. I want to see you fly.”

I blink at him. “You’re not buying me a car.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t just buy people cars. That’s only mildly less terrifying than buying someone a pet.”

Trips claps his hands, getting our attention. “Back on task. Jansen, you’ve got Clara for the rest of the afternoon. Teach her sneaky shit. If she’s good at it, go back to picking pockets. Tomorrow, Clara, I want you down here at one, and we’ll do etiquette and waltzing. Shopping has to be done soon, too, in case anything needs tailoring.”

I feel the start of a grin peel at the corner of my mouth. “I knew we needed a syllabus for this. Or at least a shared calendar.”

“No paper trail, no evidence. Speaking of which, I’m deleting the document I showed you earlier. ”

I nod, understanding, but not liking it. The list of hospital visits, that one is going to stay with me for a while. And now I’m curious about the statute of limitations for child abuse-related charges.

My agreement received and the plan made, Trips marches back upstairs, leaving Jansen to teach me the finer points of sneaking, with RJ as my target.

If it turns into a tickle war every time RJ spins and catches me close to him, well, at least it’s a fun way to learn.