Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

41. Clara

Chapter 41

Clara

T rips shakes me awake, the living room dark. “Crash, you’ve got to get ready.”

The couch is cold under me, and I blink back the confusion. “Where’s RJ?”

“Family shit. You’re covering for him tonight. He said he trained you, and Walker said you’ve been practicing.”

I struggle upright, disoriented. “Give me coffee and try again.”

He chuckles, holding a warm mug before me. “I added some of that sweet shit you got and some milk.”

“Thank you,” I say, my mouth singing when a bright citrus and chocolate combo hits it. It’s almost overwhelming, but it wakes me up faster than a black coffee would. Trips twists on a dim lamp, letting my eyes adjust before he sits in his chair, watching me with the drink. When I’ve made it halfway through the cup, I set it on a coaster. “Okay. I think I can follow now. RJ went home?”

“Yeah, it’s a family emergency.”

My heart rate immediately spikes, making me dizzy. I’ve missed yet another meal. “Is everyone okay?”

Trips stares at the ceiling. “Not that kind of emergency. So, yeah, I assume so.”

Okay. Probably stuff with his dad. That sucks, but it’s better than the alternative. “And I’m doing his job tonight? What even is his job at these things?”

“On a normal game night, he’d be running the names of new players to see if we should extend credit to them, as well as monitoring the video and audio feeds as needed. But tonight was invitation only. You're responsible for double-checking anyone that loses a bunch to make sure they haven’t suddenly become poor, and that's it. He said he’d share the current status and limits document with you on your new email account.”

“I have a new email address?”

Trips tosses me a slip of paper. The address is a random collection of numbers and letters, like the most obvious of phishing scams, and the password looks the same, just with different letters, numbers, and symbols. “Burn it in the sink once you’re in and wash it down. I’ll need you upstairs with your laptop in thirty minutes. Dress is semi-formal.”

I blink up at him, wishing my brain would fully turn on. “Like, normal people semi-formal, or Westerhouse semi-formal?”

His lips twist into an almost smile. “Normal people should be fine. ”

Nodding dumbly as he gets up, I stretch, trying to get my limbs to work. When I open my eyes, he’s still in the doorway. I stumble to my feet, the coffee warm in my hand.

“I’m glad you got some sleep,” he says.

“Me too.” And I didn’t wake from a nightmare. Maybe they can’t find me if I sleep during the day? Yeah. Right. More than likely, it was just a fluke. “Thanks for the coffee,” I add, not sure how to take Trips’ kindness.

He goes one way, and I go the other.

It’s just so unclear. I still want more from him, but it’s selfish. Only there are just enough hints that he wants more, too. He had coffee ready when he woke me. Which means he saw me sleeping, and instead of jolting me awake and insisting I get ready, he walked past me, brewed a pot of coffee, doctored it the way I like, then gently woke me.

I get why he wants to keep his distance. It’s obvious there’s more to his life than I even know about, as if today’s multiple house revelation didn’t drive that home in an instant.

Pulling on the dress I wore that fateful Thanksgiving where my old life shattered and Walker put me back together, I find there’s still the slightest brown tinge of bloodstains on the sleeve. It’s going to have to be good enough.

I slip on my new heels, the sparkles perfectly festive for New Year’s Eve. Having seen some guests this fall, though, I’m not going to impress anyone. Spiraling my hair into what I hope is an artful knot on top of my head, I swipe on my makeup, my features stark against my face.

Sighing, I close my eyes, not wanting to see that girl in the mirror anymore. Why do I look like I’m recovering from months of illness? Has it really only been a few weeks since Chicago? Forcing myself to think about food, I know I gobbled up the feast Walker made before he went home for Christmas. But before then? I’ve been skipping meals basically since we got back.

When did I last buy groceries?

With a shake of my head, I hang hoops from my ears, the simple shape reminding me of the girl I’d been before I met Bryce, before everything turned heavy and dark. I need the reminder.

I’m the girl who tried to run her way out of her neighborhood.

And when that failed, I still scraped my way out with good grades and hard work.

I’ve had to recreate myself before. I can do it again. I just have to remember that the struggle is part of the transition. And if this one is harder than I’d like, that means the payoff is bigger too.

Grabbing my laptop from my room, I go up two flights of stairs to find the attic transformed.

Gold and black fabric drapes in artful cascades from the center of the room out, like I’m in a gilded tent, fairy lights strung at uneven intervals, adding whimsical flare to the even cadence of the fabric.

The stripes continue down the walls, but opaque bobbles, different sizes and shapes, scatter in clumps over every third stripe, gold glass against black fabric, and black glass resting against gold.

A warm presence steps up behind me, Walker’s pine and maple syrup scent making me melt against him. “What do you think? ”

“It’s gorgeous! How did you do it so quickly?”

“I had some help, even if I was down one set of hands.”

Because I’d fallen asleep on RJ. At least he doesn’t sound upset by that fact.

He continues, hands running down my arms. “I’m glad you like it, princess. But there’s one more thing.”

I turn to face him, finding the left half of his face covered in a mask that matches the decor, velvety black with slashes of gold leaf slicing across it like claw marks from a viscous magical beast. Or like the shedding of a snake’s skin. The sculpted face looks like temptation incarnate, Walker’s eyes adding to the illusion.

My hand goes up, sliding along the edge of the mask, feeling his jaw, brushing up to his hair, pushed back for the night. “It’s beautiful, but how am I supposed to kiss you if half your mouth is covered?” I ask.

Jansen’s laugh has me looking over my shoulder, his mask covering his eyes, swoops bending from the outside up in curved triangles, while the bottom of the mask has a mirrored image curving over his cheeks. His is more gold than black, the pattern reminding me of the spots of a leopard’s skin. “She’s got a point,” he says, his arms banding around my waist, but not pulling me from Walker’s grasp.

The visible side of Walker’s face scrunches up. “I didn’t think about that.”

Trips just huffs out a disgusted sound, and turning the other way, I find his mask entirely black, covering everything but his eyes, a demon or bear readying itself to growl. His skin looks pale as snow, his icy blue eyes nearly glowing from the contrast. “How are you supposed to eat? To talk?” I ask him.

He just raises a single eyebrow, and well, I guess that explains that.

Walker’s finger on my chin has me turning back to him. “I made one for you, too.”

The urge to bounce on my toes bubbles up, and for once, I’m not faking it. My nap must have helped. “Really? Can I see?”

He looks me over, his grin growing. “You even dressed to match.”

Before I can ask for clarification, he hands me a delicately wrought mask of gold wires, the edges spreading wide into golden wings. Finer wire threads the feathers, making them look almost real, like a bird was unlucky enough to fly in front of Midas, its feathers turned to gold and abandoned on the cobbles. “Oh—” I say, unable to put into words how it’s literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever held.

“Is it okay?” he asks.

“Walker, it’s breathtaking,” I manage, following the wired feathers that spring out from the center, along the top, plumage that will never fade or be nibbled on by mites.

Walker’s hands wrap around mine. “Can I tie it on?”

I don’t want to stop looking at it, but I also want to see it on. I nod, turning. Gold ribbons disappear from my periphery as I hold the mask to my face, Walker’s fingers gentle. Jansen’s gaze is bright as he takes me in with the mask on, Trips behind him watching too.

Once it’s tied, Walker pokes my head with a bobby pin a few times before I hold out a hand. He sighs in relief, handing me an entire package of pins. “I have no idea what I’m doing with those. You might need to redo my pins. Jansen’s too.”

I cross a few over the ribbon on either side of my head, shaking to make sure it sticks. “Can I look first?”

It’s Trips who answers, though, by opening up the camera on his phone and switching it to selfie mode, holding it up to me like a mirror.

The woman looking back is mysterious. Classy. And with the way the feathers angle up from my eyes, feral.

I love it.

“I’ll take good care of it, Walker. You’ll get it back in one piece, I promise,” I gush out, almost unable to believe that the woman staring back at me is really, well, me.

“Clara, it’s yours. I made it for you, so you can take as good care of it as you please.”

Peeling my gaze from my image, I turn to him. “Really?”

The side of his face I can see shows something that’s equal parts mirth and exasperation. “Yeah. Everyone gets one. That’s what I made them for.”

“RJ too?” I ask, strangely caught on dumb questions, the workmanship somehow turning off the part of my brain that lets me stop asking things when I already know the answers.

“Of course. I put his by his chair in the corner. I figured you could set up there and it might give you good luck.”

Nodding, I swallow back emotions that feel too big. Wrapping my arms around Walker, I whisper in his ear, suddenly shy, the overwhelm making me wish I wasn’t caught in the gaze of these three men. “Thank you, Walker. It’s beautiful.” I press a kiss to his exposed cheek, the faint outline of my lips left from my recently applied lipstick. I go to wipe it off, but Jansen steps close, stopping my hand.

“Leave it. It suits him.” I twist to look at him, and his eyes are dark, the teasing light absent. “Actually. I want one too.”

An incredulous scoff comes from me, but Walker turns me to face Jansen, and I stretch to press my lips to his cheek as well. Jansen holds my gaze longer than is comfortable, like he wants to say something, but he stays silent, his eyes serious.

I feel my brows crease, and his grin returns before he gently pushes me from the safety of his and Walker’s arms toward Trips. “Your turn, man. It’s part of the dress code now.”

Tracing my gaze over Trips’ all black ensemble, perfectly tailored to his broad body, and now I can tell, horrifically expensive, I take my time to reach his eyes, afraid of what I’ll see there. When I force myself to meet them, I find longing so strong my chest aches. I take a step forward, needing him despite the risks, but a chime sounds, the spell broken.

“Food’s here,” he says, his voice muffled from the mask, and he turns away, rushing down the stairs and out of the attic.

Jansen presses a kiss to my head before trailing after him to help, leaving Walker and me alone in the cavernous space, spanning the width and breadth of the house.

“Stubborn ox.”

I close the space between us, needing his arms around me after that subtle rebuke, and he holds me close, the mask digging into my cheeks the tiniest bit. I shake my head against his sternum. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. ”

A pathetic little noise comes from me, and I mentally kick myself. That isn’t the sound the woman in this mask would make. “I love you, Walker.”

“I love you, too. I’m not the only one, you know.”

Pulling back, I lead him to the chair, picking up the pack of bobby pins that I’d discarded there. He sits and I struggle to hook the pins in his short, silky hair. “I know,” I mumble.

“Who?”

“Jansen. He was mostly asleep. I don’t think he knows I know.”

“How do you feel about that?”

The ribbon cuts diagonally across the back of his head, tucking under his ear, and I can tell the top desperately wants to slip off. The pins dig into his scalp, and he flinches. “Sorry. This is going to be hard to keep on.”

“It was the first one I made. I should have at least crossed my face at some point. I did better with RJ’s. If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”

I add more pins, hoping more metal will make it more secure. “I want to. It’s just, it feels like a lot of responsibility to love Jansen. Not bad responsibility, nothing like that. I just have the feeling that he falls hard.”

“He does. Dangerously so.”

Finished pinning, I move to the front of the chair. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Not my story to share.”

A rustling on the stairs draws my attention, and Jansen and Trips return, aluminum vats of food in their arms .

Glancing back at Walker, I find he’s already moving to help them, organizing the food on the chafing dishes. What did he mean?

I go to help, eventually getting set up in RJ’s usual chair, Trips explaining a bit more about the plan for tonight.

He emphasizes that he’s in charge of any big calls, repeating that anything important has to go through him. Walker will man the bar solo. Jansen’s lifting wallets to see if the guests’ credit cards are still of the limitless variety, then he’ll have me check their socials. But that’ll only be for the players that are losing and likely to buy back in on Trips’ dime. So, for much of the night, I’ll be people watching.

And because Trips isn’t a fan of just enjoying himself, he’s tasked me with studying players for their tells.

It’s going to be a long night. But for once, I’m in it from the start, with a role to play—planned and everything.