Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

48. Clara

Chapter 48

Clara

A blue envelope waits against the door when RJ and I get back from our run. And all I want to do is turn around and sprint as far away from my problems as possible.

RJ stomps up the stairs, kicking the snow from his shoes before reaching down and picking it up. “Band-Aid off quickly? Or slowly?”

“Fast. I guess.”

He hands me the envelope, and I tear into it, fear and anger rippling over me like the goosebumps I only banished twenty minutes ago. Inside is yet another card, this one with curling script that says, “Deepest Condolences.” Where did Bryce get these cards? Did he just grab whatever was on sale?

Inside, though, I see his sick logic.

Blurry photos, night and movement making the image impossible to parse if I didn’t already know what I was looking at. “Fuck.”

Jansen’s car on the side of the road, two cop cars on either side, the light from the headlights catching on the reflective lines of RJ’s coat.

The message is clear before I see the words. “Broken toys and broken boys. Nice shot, eh?”

The sob catches me off guard, but when RJ goes to pull me to him, I hand him the photo instead. Because he should know.

I brought Bryce into his life.

And he’s the one whose life was nearly forfeit because of it. A sweet, nerdy computer guy spent the night in jail because of Bryce. Because of me.

He’s not even the first one, but unlike Trips, it was all for nothing. He’d done nothing wrong.

RJ’s silence is just as scary this morning as it was yesterday.

And I’m a coward. I don’t look, just type in the door codes and get us inside, tears hot on my cheeks.

I should transfer, leave the state, study abroad, something. They shouldn’t have to pay for my stupidity. I could keep them safe if I just vanished.

I take off for my room, jamming my laptop into my backpack. Then I shove in a phone charger and a handful of clean underwear and socks, followed by two pairs of leggings and a sweatshirt.

Deodorant and toothpaste. I’ll need those too.

I rush back to the bathroom, RJ’s presence a shadow I don’t want to acknowledge. Because he’ll try to tell me he’s fine, but he’s not. He’s in danger. They all are.

I push past him, my arms full of toiletries, and struggle to get my shampoo into my backpack with the sweatshirt.

“Damn it.”

“Clara, what are you doing?”

“Disappearing.” I rush to the kitchen, grabbing granola bars and apples, shoving them into a plastic bag I find, adding the deodorant that I still have in my hand.

Halfway back to my room, warm fingers weave into mine, halting my momentum. Turning me, forcing me to look at him, RJ presses his palms to my cheeks. “Clara, this isn’t your fault.”

“But it is. If I weren’t here, you’d be safe.”

“No. I wouldn’t. Not really.”

“I brought this into your life. I’ll get it out.”

“Not like this, Clara. I need you here.”

“You need to be safe to leave the fucking house.”

The anger that thrums under his fingers spikes out in words, unexpected, but maybe not. “Damn it, don’t be a bloody damn mule. It’s not that simple, and you know it. Clara, if you weren’t here, I’d be stuck. Glued to doing the same shit I’ve always done for no other reason than because I can. You unstuck me. I found purpose, laughter, someone I trust, truly trust, and that’s you. I found this, Clara.” His lips press against mine, our noses still icy from outside. “I found you, Clara. And I’m not letting you run away. We want to keep you safe. Let us.”

“But who’s keeping you safe?”

“I ignored the don’t go solo rule. That’s on me.”

“There shouldn’t be a ‘don’t go solo’ rule,” I yell.

“You’re right. But it’s not there because of you, Clara. It’s because Bryce is fucked up. And escalating. We always knew this was a possibility. ”

“You almost getting shot by the cops on New Year’s Eve was always a possibility? Bullshit, RJ.”

His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t let go. “Don’t push me away. Don’t try to make me mad, Clara. That’s not going to help. He’s decided we’re all targets now. You leaving won’t change that. And we’d all be fucked up without you. I’d be fucked up without you.”

I close my eyes, shaking my head, both grateful and angry when he doesn’t let go. “You don’t know that. Maybe if I disappeared, he’d give up.”

“Because he seems so prone to walking away,” Trips’ grumble comes from behind me, cold air trailing him as the back door clicks shut behind him. “What happened?”

RJ keeps staring at me, like he can make me agree with him if he forces me to gaze into his eyes long enough. And it might be working. “Front hallway. Is Walker with you?”

“Yeah, grabbing the last of the groceries.”

Trips passes us, his chest brushing my arm as he goes, bags of food bumping my legs in the narrow space.

“RJ,” I whisper, feeling my chance to run vanishing as the door creaks open behind me yet again.

“I’m not letting go, sugar. I’m just not.”

The tears double down, but now they’re not just fear and guilt, but coupled with whatever it is that makes it feel like my heart is about to be crushed under a pile of textbooks. It’s big, bigger than I want, and when Walker stops beside us, dropping his groceries but not coming closer, like he doesn’t want to break whatever moment RJ and I are having, I crumble .

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my legs giving out. “I’m so sorry, RJ. I’m so, so s-s-sorry.”

Walker half-catches me, RJ joining us on the floor, the two of them pressing me between them as I continue to sob and apologize, gasping for breath.

Gasping like the badass bitch I’ve been working to become is nothing but wet tissue paper covering the weak, terrified girl I’ll always be. Like a balloon screaming as all the air escapes, leaving nothing but a limp, stretched out bit of rubber. Like I’ve been drowning for months. Years.

When I’m scooped up from the floor and into the steamy bathroom, I don’t know how long I’ve been crying. When comforting voices ask if they can help me undress and get into the tub, I nod numbly, tears still streaking down my cheeks, my breath erratic, dizzy from the change in position, from still not feeding myself the way I should.

When the hot water inches up my body, my bra and underwear left untouched, I cry harder, but sink into the tub, seeking something outside of the overwhelming emotion to focus on, even if the water burns my icy fingers and toes.

I duck under the surface, needing to separate from the sound of my breakdown, the sloshing of water against my ears a welcome change. It’s quiet under the water. I can’t feel my tears against my cheeks, the sound of my whimpers muted, like they belong to someone else, someone far away and not at all me.

I must hide from myself for too long, though, because delicate artist’s fingers drag me back to the surface.

Whimpering, I rest my forehead against the edge of the tub .

“Damn it, Clara, don’t scare us like that,” Walker murmurs, his grip tight on my forearm, like the only way he knows I’m okay is if he can feel I’m still here.

I shake my head, not able to say that I didn’t mean to scare him. That I wasn’t trying to do anything scary at all. I just wanted to hide for a moment—it’s just too much.

The hold I had on all the memories I’d been choosing to forget, all the things I didn’t want to remember, let alone speak about, it shatters like thin ice on the surface of a lake. Out flood all the jagged memories that make me a pathetic idiot who should have seen what was happening sooner. Sharp memories I’d needed to forget, ignore, push away.

They stab me, vivid and aching, and I’m shaking in the tub, my stomach twisted and clenched. “Why is he like this? Why me?” I squeak out, my voice sounding nothing like me.

RJ pushes my wet hair back from my face. “Sugar,” he says, but stops. Because what is there to say that he hasn’t already said?

Skittering back, I curl up at the foot of the tub, wrapping my arms around my knees, as if I can protect the softest parts of myself. But how can I protect myself from the past? From memories that never should have been made?

“Talk to us, princess,” Walker says, his tone bleeding. Like seeing me breaking breaks him.

And I cry harder. Loving me just gets people hurt.

I’m the problem. Maybe not directly, but I am.

Me.

What had Bryce said? He picked me because I was already broken. Defective.

He saw it. The damn monsters in Chicago saw it too .

I press my forehead against my knees, not wanting to watch as my poison infects everyone, breaks them too.

Eventually, the room grows silent, the water cooling against my skin.

I run out of tears, my heart loud against my ribs as I stay, unmoving, wishing that I were someone else. Someone better.

But the shit thing is, I’m never going to be anyone other than who I am.

And I have no idea who that is. Not anymore.

I won’t be defined by my past, by my mistakes.

And I won’t be defined by the men that I’m with. I tried that with Bryce and look at how that turned out.

What’s left after all that?

The burst of adrenaline racing down the interstate, cops hot on my heels. Lists of expenses and revenues built in my mind from an illegal poker ring in the attic. The ache of my fists becoming as familiar as the ache in my legs after a long run. Curiosity over this new world I’ve found myself in and the skills I need to develop if I want to survive here.

Freedom to trust myself, my body, my moods and needs. Dancing. To-do lists and color-coded notes. Running. Always running. But maybe not always away.

It’s time to run toward something.

Only, I don’t know the course. There are obstacles at every turn. And I might even be going the wrong way.

Am I?

How much can I trust these guys I live with? That I’m falling in love with? I’ve trusted them this far. But what about with these daggers of memory I refused to remember? Can I trust them with the parts of myself that I wish didn’t even exist? Can I trust myself with those parts?

The pink dress flashes in my mind. Sweet, beautiful, demure.

I remember thinking that it fit who I was.

The blood-red dress, though, it was too much. It’s not me.

Not yet.

Is that who I want to be? Fierce? Blood-soaked? Dangerous?

Fierce, that I want. But the rest? Is that me?

Does it matter?

Do I need to define myself right now in the cooling water of the tub, my face sticky with drying tears?

Or should I just take one step? One small step toward fierce, badass, poised. Toward the woman I want to become.

Be brave, Clara. Excise the wound. Let it heal. Then see where you’re at.

With a shuddering breath, I wash my face in the tub, finally looking up from my mock solitude.

Three sets of eyes meet mine as I look across the room.

Walker, close enough to touch me, his hand on the side of the tub, knuckles white from gripping the porcelain.

RJ, on the floor, his back against the vanity, his gaze as piercing as it was the first time we met, hands laced around his knees, mirroring my position. Like if he could model the calmer version, I might pick up on it, and absorb some of his peace.

And Trips, neither in the room nor out of it, leaning against the doorframe, nothing but barely banked flames in his eyes.

“Sorry,” I croak. “I think I’m done for now. ”

“Don’t go back to apologizing for every damn thing, Crash. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I don’t plan on it, Trips.”

“Good.” He spins, disappearing from the room, leaving RJ and Walker silent on the floor.

“I, I think I need a towel. And maybe some food. Walker?”

“What food?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to have to force myself to eat. I can’t keep doing what I’ve been doing.”

“No, you can’t,” he says, dark eyes saying more than his words can. He leans over, pressing a long kiss to my forehead. “I love you, Clara.”

“I love you too, Walker. I’m going to try harder. Try to be better.”

His lips twist, like he’s not sure that’s what he wanted to hear, but I don’t know what else to say. Drowning, literally or figuratively, isn’t working. Starving myself isn’t making food taste any better, only making me more of a wreck. And the nightmares, well, I guess I’ll deal with those as best as I can. No real solutions there.

He stands, shaking out his legs before he leaves, cluing me in on how long I’ve been lost in my own thoughts.

That leaves me and RJ. He’d left while I spoke to Walker, but he’s back with a towel, waiting to wrap me up in the cotton. “I don’t know why I’m the one falling apart. By all rights, you should be the one weeping in the bathtub while I get you Mountain Dews and cookies.”

He doesn’t answer, but he pulls me close, his chin on the top of my head .

We go to my room, and I dig through the dirty laundry, hoping to find my favorite bralette. Another task to add to my never-ending list. Eventually I find it, stripping off my sopping sports bra and panties. Then, with a glare at my ever-growing pile of dirty comfy clothes, I pull on a gray t-shirt dress and yellow sweater, grabbing a random pair of pink knee-high socks from the chaos on my bed. I probably look like a toddler, but I’m covered. Not wanting to deal with the mess I’ve made of my hair, I tie it up, then, exhausted, melt onto my mattress.

RJ sits beside me, our hands linked. I lean against his shoulder, needing his quiet, but worried about it at the same time.

I don’t look at him, but I have to know. “ Do you need to cry?”

He rests his cheek against my head. “Maybe. But not today.”

Bringing up a thought that’s been percolating, but which I don’t know will help the situation, I force the words out. “He targeted Jansen’s car. I don’t think he meant for you to be the one he called the cops on.”

“I saw pictures of you and Jansen sneaking out in the middle of the night on his phone.”

“So he probably was hoping to get me or Jansen, then.”

“The cops said there was another call about a similar vehicle from the night before.”

That news has me collapsing into his lap. “Shit. Why do I let Jansen talk me into doing dangerous shit?”

“Because doing dangerous shit with Jansen is fun.”

“Not if it puts you in danger.”

“Clara, I don’t know how to say this to you and have you actually hear me, but none of us are doing what we’re doing because we’re looking for a safe existence. ”

“You’re not looking to die, either.”

“No. But it’s a risk we’ve chosen to accept.”

“I don’t want you guys to take that risk. You’re worth more than that.” I roll face up in his lap, needing him to see how serious I am. “This wasn’t because of the work you guys do. It’s because of my scary ex. And it’s bullshit. I don’t understand why you aren’t furious right now.”

His hand cups my cheek. “Clara, I am furious. But not at you. Not even at your bullshit ex, not totally. I’m furious that this is the world we live in. It’s a world I’m not safe in. And that was true long before you came into my life. So that fury, it’s been with me almost as long as I can remember. Why yell, why cry, when it’s just more of the same, but bigger. Better people than me are trying to make this shit livable. And I hope to God I get to be there to see it. Until then, though, I’ll just live my life, legalities be damned. The laws were never there to protect me to begin with. They were there to protect people that look like you from people who look like me. And I will fuck that shit all the way to hell.”

I don’t know what to say. Searching for a clue to how to respond, I get caught in his gaze.

There’s more hurt there, more hope, more anger than he should carry alone. He stays in the van for many reasons. This might be another one of them.

His arms wrap around me, the net of our silent communion unbreakable. Eventually, he tucks me tight against his chest, nesting my face half under his chin, a few of his braids tickling my temple .

We hold each other, both broken, but willing to stand back up again. Because the day you stay down is the day you give up.

I’m not giving up.

I won’t.

It’s time to share what keeps pushing me down.