Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

59. Clara

Chapter 59

Clara

T he crowd that waits for me at the front of the house makes me feel like I’m getting the prom I missed, only I want to take all the guys as my dates.

Walker’s eyes are bright as he takes me in, meeting me before I’m fully in the front hallway, taking both of my hands in his, then having me spin, one hand at the small of my back, his palm fitting against my skin like it belongs there. Because it does.

Jansen, meanwhile, is taking picture after picture before turning and taking pictures of RJ and Trips, muttering about adding it to an album, whatever that means.

RJ’s already seen half of my reveal, but his smile is as soft as his gaze, even if he stays two steps up, not joining the rest of us, his hand clenching the banister.

And Trips .

His glare coats me from head to toe, then slides back up. “Fuck.”

“A good fuck?” I ask, a second before I realize what that sounded like.

Jansen laughs, RJ smiles, and Walker leans in with a chuckle, whispering for only me, “Always, princess. And as a bonus, you’re especially gorgeous tonight.”

Trips, though, he just rolls his eyes. “I think I’m glad we brought Summer in for this. You’ll do.”

Damned by faint praise.

If I hadn’t seen the rest of the guys’ reactions, I’d take it more to heart. But the tightness of Trips’ jaw tells me he’s already on edge about tonight and tomorrow. He’s going to struggle to find the nicer guy I know is hiding in there. That Trips doesn’t belong where we’re heading, just the same as the Clara itching to stretch out from under my skin has no place there either.

He bends down, picking up a box, popping it open without ceremony. “We got you earrings and a bracelet. Put them on and we’ll go.”

Walker shakes his head, snatching the box from Trips and presenting me with the jewels.

Peeking out is a pair of earrings about three inches long, dark silver winding from stud to stone like branches of a tree, grasping an ebony stone. There’s also a similarly dark silver bracelet, with the same dark stones cut into neat squares, chained together like so many boxes in a row. Not a set, but somehow singing to each other .

“You guys. I—”

Walker gazes into my eyes as he removes the plain silver hoop I’d put on, then slips the silver fairy-magic-made earring into my ear. “These are Art Nouveau, from around the turn of the last century.”

Before I can figure out what to do with that statement, he tilts my head to do the same with the other earring, then clasps the bracelet around my wrist, his fingertips brushing against my pulse, lingering.

“And this is Art Deco, probably from the 1930s. You’ll look like old money for sure now.”

His words state facts, but his face darkens the longer he traces the underside of my wrist, teasing the clasp. Like he’s claimed me.

I swallow back the need to dive into him, to say fuck it to the whole plan and vanish into heady pleasure. “Where’d you guys find them?”

“Stole them,” Jansen says, pulling me from Walker’s gaze, taking in the apparently finished look. “They look good on you.”

“Wait, you stole them?”

“Last night. What do you think?”

The panic licks up the inside of my ribcage, making me itchy. “That’s what you were doing last night? I mean, they’re gorgeous, but I don’t think I should wear hot jewels out the day after you stole them. Isn’t that, like, criminal mistake number one?”

RJ finally comes down the stairs, one finger brushing an earring, making it swing. “You’ll be fine. The guy is a miserly, secretive collector, he won’t be there, and he didn’t report it to the police. ”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Trips steps over, snatching the box from Walker and jamming it into a bag at his feet. “Because he’s been collecting illegally acquired Nazi shit for decades, so he can’t really claim them as his own. Don’t get attached. We’re looking for the rightful owners.”

I glance down at the bracelet, horrified. “Now I really don’t think I should wear these.”

“Don’t break it, don’t lose it, and it’ll be fine. We’re just taking them for a test run before we send them on their way. And with the workload RJ has, it might be months before we find the families they belong to,” Jansen says, his fingers brushing along my very bare spine.

“I don’t know shit about historical documents. It might be longer than months,” RJ adds. “But we’ll do the best we can. So, for now, use them, keep them safe, and know in the end, this theft isn’t totally selfish.”

Trips zips up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, his face grim. “We’re ready.”

The mood set, I nod at him, understanding that from here on out, I’m playing a role. Sensing the change, Walker drapes my designer coat over my shoulders.

“Where’s my stuff?” I ask, knowing that I’ve had basically zero say in what was packed for this event. Even the underwear was selected by Summer.

Trips tugs at the collar of what I’m just now realizing is a wool coat worth thousands of dollars. “We forgot to get you luggage, so we’re sharing. Apparently, we’re pretending we live live together.”

If this weren’t so serious, I’d laugh at how uncomfortable Trips looks at that idea. A twinge of sadness hits me in the chest, but I swallow past it. “It’s time, then?”

He nods, slipping between Jansen and Walker to take my arm, wrapping my hand around to rest on his forearm. I glance back, needing one last look at the network of support I’ve built for myself, and Jansen throws me a thumbs-up, while Walker and RJ nod, telling me without words to trust Trips.

This is his world.

I’m the interloper.

The drive is silent, the snow still falling, glittering under the streetlights. Trips is stuck in a cycle of gripping the steering wheel like he wants to strangle it, going to run his hands through his hair, then remembering his hair is styled, and dropping them back to the wheel.

Chipper pop music vibrates in the anxiety, the juxtaposition making me almost hysterical before we even get there. Scared that I won’t be able to keep myself from babbling inanities, I watch mile after mile pass by, things looking vaguely familiar as I realize we’re near the area Jansen and I have been stealing cars.

Stealing from Trips’ neighbors.

As we wind down a road with progressively larger and larger houses, I swallow down my fear. “Any last-minute advice? ”

Even in the half dark, I can see Trips’ jaw clench even tighter as he struggles to speak. “When in doubt, say nothing. And if I tell you to do something, please don’t fucking fight with me.”

“Got it. Seen but not heard and obedient. Like a child with shitty parents.”

“Not like a kid, Clara. Like a queen who doesn’t need to tell anyone what the fuck she’s doing. And obedient, so I can keep you safe. Not to boss you around.”

“You sure about that?” I joke, trying to make things feel more normal.

He doesn’t rise to my teasing, instead stopping at a gated drive, an attendant waiting in a small building coming out to greet us. His coat is open, the hint of guns barely visible underneath, but his gloved hands are ready with a clipboard. My breath stalls, but when the man sees Trips, the gate immediately opens, and we pull onto a winding, wooded pathway.

As the driveway goes on and on, my breath gets shallower. “Trips? I know you’re rich and all, but please tell me that was just the gate to your neighborhood.”

He snorts. “Nope.”

The drive winds some more, and the house still isn’t in sight. “So you live on a point in the lake, right? Or a really, really long isthmus?”

“Wrong again. We are on the lake, but the estate is about forty acres. And the main house is by the lake, not the road.”

“Main house?” My voice is getting squeaky, but I don’t know what to do about it .

“Yeah. The boat house and pool house are down there as well, but we just passed the staff cottage at that last turnoff. And I guess the garage is a separate building too, but it’s connected to the main house by a tunnel, so I don’t really know if that counts.”

I swallow, then swallow again. “Trips? You know this is crazy, right? I haven’t even seen it, and it’s absurd.”

He flashes his teeth at me, more like the snap of an irritated badger than a smile. “Father wanted the best. He got it. This place was a resort in the late 1890s. I could give you the whole spiel, but I have no desire to relive the torture of performing narrative history for my father and his friends.”

We come around a bend, and I see it. Stone, three stories tall with a fourth floor on one side and what looks like a greenhouse on the other side of the roof. Staff rush around the yard working on last-minute touches, while what must be a fucking valet motions for Trips to stop. Trips ignores him and instead looks at me for the first time since the front hallway. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to be pleasant while we’re here. Showing kindness is showing my father weakness. And he doesn’t take weakness well. He’s always watching, always listening, and, well…” He trails off, glaring out the window at the poor valet as he knocks.

Rolling down the window, Trips just stares at the staff person, flurries whipping into the car, coating him in glittering sparks of white.

The valet gulps. “Sorry, Mr. Westerhouse. Please proceed to the garage. I’ll call ahead.”

He nods, saying nothing, and the man skitters back, a walkie- talkie in his hand.

The window closes, and he sighs, driving around the man and heading to the right where what looks like a large house sits separate from the fucking hotel Trips grew up in. “I’m out of practice,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything.

“At what?” I ask, even knowing that it wasn’t directed at me.

The garage opens and we spiral down to the basement, like a fucking downtown parking garage. Trips pulls into an empty spot in a spotless white basement. He clicks it off, his hands still gripping the wheel like it’s harmed him. Or more likely, hurt someone close to him. “At hating everyone and everything.” He glances at me. “Give it a day.”

A nervous giggle escapes me. “Is that another of your unexpected, brooding jokes?”

He bangs his head back against the headrest instead of answering. Then he reaches around, grabbing the bag from where he left it in the seat behind us. “Ready?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good. Trust me, you’re not. I’m hardly ready. But we’ll survive.”

I nod, nerves vibrating through me. Then, with one last tap on my thigh, I put on my calm, superior mask, and step from the car.

It’s time to wear this mask like my future depends on it.

Because it does.