Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

29. Clara

Chapter 29

Clara

A t the end of the day, I ended up with a charcoal cashmere coat apparently from three seasons ago, a black purse that looks like any other black purse but cost so much used that my stomach turned, sparkly dark gray heels with ankle straps and pads that are surprisingly comfortable, and after a fight, a pair of pinkish-purple tennis shoes that match the new silk tank top I was talked into for the day after brunch.

There were these amazing gladiator-style heels that made me think of the sexy, see-through dress I vetoed, and while I spent a while looking at them, there was no reason to get them. And the price would have stopped me, even at the consignment shop.

Instead, I stuck to the itinerary, getting black wide-leg pants that reminded me of Jasmine and a gray zip-up sweater for the morning after, both of which were new and did have prices on them, which helped me understand exactly how much Trips spent on this wardrobe upgrade for me.

It’s terrifying.

I would be sweating if I spent that much in one day. Possibly comatose.

Trips just flicked a card across the counter while texting, like it was nothing.

And maybe to him, it is.

At least Walker made RJ buy new dress shirts, slacks, and shoes as well, so I didn’t feel quite like a charity case.

Or more accurately, I had company in my suffering.

Summer spent the rest of the day explaining how to tell expensive clothes from cheap ones, and quality clothes from ones that will fall apart. Because even if you’re spending three hundred dollars on a T-shirt, that doesn’t mean it’s quality. Go figure.

Once we head out, my dress and slacks abandoned until I can meet with the tailor, Summer whispers something to Trips before waving and walking back toward the shoe store.

“So, food?” Walker asks as he unlocks his car, Trips taking the passenger seat, leaving me sandwiched between Jansen and RJ.

“We should pick up Thai on the way home,” Jansen announces, and after a chorus of agreement, they go about ordering. When it gets to my turn, I still can’t think about food without it sounding like a lost cause, so I ask them to order for me.

I get a look from every guy at that, ranging from anger—Trips—to concern, pity, and sympathy from everyone else. But it’s not worth it to pick something just for me if I’m only going to have a few bites.

Food collected, we file into the house, Trips and Walker helping me bring my new clothes back to my room, RJ taking care of his own purchases, and Jansen left in charge of the food.

“Thanks,” I say to Trips as he hooks my new coat over the bar of my clothes rack.

“It’s just part of the job,” he says.

“I don’t think meeting your dad is usually part of the job.”

“Turns out he was our last client.”

“Not on purpose,” Walker gripes, putting my new shoes against the wall next to my running shoes and now useless sandals.

“Either way. That shopping trip was, well, it was too much. But I know you’re just going to act like it was nothing, so I don’t know why I’m even trying to tell you how uncomfortable I am with this. I guess what I’m saying is, thanks. It was a big thing, and you didn’t have to do it.”

Trips hangs up my new sweater and shirt. “That’s where you’re wrong. I have to. My father is a judgmental asshole, and my brother isn’t much better. The best thing for you is to be perfectly forgettable. And if you showed up in a cheap rayon dress, they’d remember you, and on top of it, you’d be an embarrassment to them, because you’re my guest. You don’t want to embarrass the asshole progenitor. Invisible is best, followed by unremarkable, and intriguing, in that order.”

“Be invisible. Got it.” I pluck at the seam of my pants, so tired and overwhelmed after etiquette, waltzing, and hours and hours of shopping that my skin hardly seems to fit anymore.

Walker drags me into his arms, and I sigh against his shirt. “Should I draw you a bath?” he whispers while Trips leans against the wall, not leaving even though his hands are empty.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“I could make you a cocoa with one of the fancy new syrups Emma got you. And I’ll bring you a plate with a little bit of everything we ordered so you can decide what tastes good.”

He’s so good at taking care of me, and it just makes me feel like shit for not being able to take care of myself. “That sounds like a plan,” I say, trying to add something besides exhaustion to my voice.

With another squeeze, he leaves, the sound of the tub echoing through the wall a second later.

Ignoring Trips, I flop down onto my bed, staring at the popcorn ceiling like it’s a puzzle that needs solving.

I’m surprised when the mattress dips next to me, Trips perching on the edge. “It has to feel weird,” he says.

“Which part?”

His laughter lacks any joy, and I’m forced to look at him to get a read on him. And what I see is the same fear and exhaustion that lives in my chest, muted and muddled, covered by years of carefully crafted lies. But the outlines are familiar, and for that alone, I want to skip being invisible and unremarkable, and instead start with offensive, then move on to violent, which weren’t options on the Westerhouse acceptability list, but they should have been.

He drops his head into his hands as I wait for him to explain .

“I was talking about learning all the rules and niceties, about spending money that could be better used in a thousand ways than on shoes and dresses, all the bullshit that you’ll have to get through just to be ‘some girl’ that my family can forget about. But honestly, I guess it’s all weird.” He turns, his blue eyes gray in the shitty overhead light in my room. “You stole a car with Jansen. That has to be weird.”

“It was. It was also exhilarating.”

He shakes his head. “Of course it was. Why the fuck did you think you belonged in the FBI?”

Does he know about my acceptance? One glance at him tells me it's just a question, so I answer. “My dad always said that cops and crooks are different sides of the same coin.”

My heart aches thinking about my dad, but I ignore it. He made his choice.

Trips chuckles. “Maybe. Although, I’m not sure anybody in this house would have been an outstanding officer, except maybe you.”

“You probably could have been an asshole sergeant somewhere,” I say, tapping my foot against his.

“I’d have to follow someone else’s directions for too long to ever make it to sergeant.”

It’s my turn to huff out half a laugh. “You did okay listening to me in Chicago.”

“That’s because I respect you. Your brain works differently than mine and it picks up on details in the moment that I can only see when I’ve got the time to pull it together.”

Swallowing around the lump in my throat hurts. Trips trusts me. Even with the mess I’m making of this group relationship, at least in this one way, I’ve earned his respect .

But I don’t get time to revel in the big bucket of respect he dropped, because he continues on, answering my dumb teasing question.

“I don’t know. I guess I can follow directions, but only from the people in this house. So unless that imaginary precinct of yours is made up of everyone under this roof, I’m getting booted for insubordination while I’m still a trainee.”

He glances at me when I fail to respond, the words still caught in my throat. His brows crease before he goes back to staring at the ground. “You’re doing surprisingly well with all of this, Crash.”

“I don’t feel like I am.”

“Well, the feelings aren’t what you’re getting graded on. You kept up with Summer today, and she’s a tough one to be around for more than a quick conversation. In fact, I’m pretty sure she likes you.”

“I’m not sure I like her.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. But I hear she can grow on you.”

“Who’d you hear that from?”

There’s a long pause. “Okay, I haven’t heard that, but we needed her help.”

A bubble of real laughter fights with the lump in my throat, ending in an explosive chuckle and snort.

“Now don’t go snorting on me,” Trips groans.

“Are you criticizing my laugh now?” I question, knowing that can’t be it.

“No. I’m not criticizing it. It’s just too fucking cute not to join in,” he says, hauling himself off my mattress and heading to the door .

I watch his broad shoulders ripple under his shirt, and I once again wish that he hadn’t been so clear about why we shouldn’t get any closer. When it comes to safety, Trips is unmovable.

I roll across my mattress so my head is on my pillow, curled up watching the door. “You can stay, if you want,” I say, not wanting this moment of closeness to vanish.

“I should go eat. But Clara, if you’re up in the middle of the night, feel free to knock. I can teach you some combination hits.”

A sad grin pulls at my cheek. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He leaves, the door snicking shut behind him.

I stare at the windows of my room, my view obscured by my curtains, and a shiver overtakes me. Grabbing my towel and a change of clothes, I’m once again chased out of the cozy space I created all those months ago, a refuge from a sneaky monster that I thought I’d slayed.

Too bad real life is nothing like the movies.