Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

31. Trips

Chapter 31

Trips

T he knock comes a little after two, thankfully excusing me from the piss-poor attempt I was making at sleep. Switching on my lamp, I pull on some sweats and a sweatshirt—layers are the only armor I have against the temptation that I know is on the other side of that door. As much of my skin covered as makes sense, I swing the door open, letting Clara stumble in, a few tears still clinging to her lashes.

I’m no stranger to nightmares, to the way the bad shit always seems to attack when you’re most vulnerable, and I can’t help but wonder what her nightmares feel like. Are they pits of darkness that swallow her whole? Is she running and running and never escaping some horror that always returns? Or does the terror freeze her, forcing her to watch disaster as it crawls ever closer?

I’ve had all three, as well as instant fucking replays of all the shit I try to forget .

It’s no wonder I’ve developed what my fucking shrink called “maladaptive sleep behaviors.” He would have too, in my situation.

Clara folds herself onto my desk chair, bruised eyes blinking up at me in the yellow light of my lamp. “I take it the offer to punch shit still stands?”

“Yeah. It still stands.”

“Good. Tape me up.” She holds her hands out for me, and it’s all I can do to force my feet across the room to get the tape instead of taking her by the hands and hauling her against me.

The fucking asshole progenitor has always been the reason I don’t do girlfriends. Flings, yeah. But something serious? Something that might make my father think about vetting the poor girl, only to scare her off and replace her with some connection-rich debutante he judges acceptable? No thank you.

I’ll pretend to not want anything serious until the unlikely day the devil calls his number. If I look interested in “settling down” or some shit, I’ll find myself at the front of a chapel so fast I’ll wish I’d accidentally snapped my neck on the way.

But the way her skin warms against mine as I focus on getting the lines straight, the way her breath hitches when my fingers linger a second too long against her palm, it could be addicting.

But with any addiction, the ending is never pretty.

If only everything weren’t so damn vibrant when she’s around. I mean, waltzing with her was bad enough. But now, the two of us, alone in the middle of the night, the same fucking electricity fizzing between us ?

Fuckity fuck shit balls. This self-restraint is hard .

I finally get the tape done, snatching up the pads, so there’s another barrier between the two of us. Again, she grabs my pen to hold back her hair, and I know, just like the last time, the scent of her shampoo will linger on it.

I’m going to turn into some pen-sniffing pervert if these late-night visits continue.

Warming her up, I watch her form, giving corrections when needed, but again, entirely unsurprised that she’s picking it up quickly. She has no muscle behind her hits, but she understands how to move.

Considering the way she dances, I guess that’s no fucking surprise.

Each hit she lands makes me happy for all the layers between us, her respect for the lines I’ve drawn. Because I’m realizing that I’m running out of self-control when it comes to this slip of a girl across from me.

Walking her through some combinations, it’s obvious I need to correct the movement in her hips. I want to step behind her and drop my hands onto the gentle swell that looks built for my palms. But I can’t.

Or more accurately, I shouldn’t.

Instead, I clear my throat, pausing her sequence. “Don’t forget to snap from the hip at the end. But don’t offset your balance on the reach. Strength will never be your priority, but rather speed. And if you lose your center of gravity, it’ll slow you down.”

“Got it.” She does the sequence a few more times, and my fucking libido whines when she figures it out with just my words—no hands-on assist needed .

I don’t know if I should be happy or pissed about it.

Finally, she slows, sweat trickling along her hairline, pushing me toward pissed.

“Better?” I ask, knowing that’s a dumb question, but not able to stop it from popping out.

“No. But my arms feel like jelly, so that’s a change, at least.” She collapses onto my chair, and I perch on the bench at the foot of my bed across from her. As she wipes her forehead on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, my pissy libido points out that she’s wearing pajama pants tonight.

I’m so fucked.

She picks at the tape, so I reach over and start unwinding it, the same quiet closeness falling over us. My damn heart is pounding loudly enough I’m worried she can hear it.

“Thanks,” she says, the heat of her gaze burning my face while I refuse to look up from my self-assigned task.

“What keeps you up at night?” she asks.

I swallow down the shock of fear that surges through me. “Memories.”

“I’m sorry, Trips.”

It’s a factual statement. If she’d said that with an ounce of pity, with regret or tears, she’d be out of this room before she finished speaking. As it is, I answer, “Me too.”

With both of her hands free from the tape, I run my fingers under her palm, wanting to hear that soft intake of breath again, just a little taste to keep me from doing more. The gasp she makes is only a minuscule pressure valve for the ache inside of me that just wants to destroy all my rules. To take the risk with her. “You should get to bed. And maybe take RJ for a run in the morning. I’ve found that exhaustion is the only way to make it through the night.”

“Good to know.”

She sits there, waiting for more, but I don’t have anything else for her. I can’t without risking everything. Without risking her. Sighing as she stands, she pulls my pen from her hair, turning to set it back on my desk. With the thing an inch above the wood, she whips back and holds the pen out for me to take.

I look up at her, wrapping my hand around the pen, interlacing my fingers with hers before she lets go. Her eyes shimmer in the dim light, something between a smile and a frown flickering in the corner of her mouth. “Good night, Trips.”

“Night, Crash.”

The soft click of the door behind her reminds me to exhale. And when I bring the pen to my nose, her scent of spring flowers brings the same fucked up combination of pain, longing, and acceptance to me.

This is for the best.

It has to be.