Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

62. Clara

Chapter 62

Clara

T rips more closely resembles stone than flesh when the speeches finish and the floor clears for dancing. I wish I could crack his head open and see what has him so on edge, but unable to do that, I try my best not to absorb his mood.

Leading me out to the floor at some signal I don’t catch, his hand lands on the bare skin of my back, and I suppress a shiver from the contact, his nostrils flaring. Then he takes my hand in his, the steps of the dance filtering back to me as he moves us across the floor.

The ice in his eyes is so sharp I know he’s close to snapping. He just set aside his fourth scotch, more than I’ve ever seen him drink before, and now he has nothing to focus on but whatever is going through his head.

The weight of his hand on my skin, the sneaky brush of his thumb against my spine, like he can’t help but touch me despite his hesitancy, it has me so confused that the urge to cry comes over me for the umpteenth time tonight, but I jam it back down. He has his reasons for not getting attached. Good ones—most of them in this room—and I won’t fuck this up for him.

But then he looks down, and my breath vanishes as I read what his gaze proclaims, even as his fierce mask stays locked in place.

Possession, so clear my heart stutters. Fear, leaching out, bleeding into the space between us. And resignation, like a man waiting at the gallows.

I hold the message in his eyes, absorbing the weight of what stands between us. There’s nothing else I can do, not in a crowded room of gossips and danger. We breathe through the emotions together, our steps in sync as we spin through the crowd, both of us trusting Trips’ reputation to maintain our solitude.

When he finally looks away, I’m panting, my heart skipping in my chest like I’ve just sprinted the 400-meter hurdles.

With a press of his palm against my spine, his pinky slips under the edge of the dress, sneaking under the waistband of the shapewear I shimmied into earlier, resting there for three breaths before he withdraws the intimacy. Before I can question it, he leads me off the floor and across to his father. Mr. Westerhouse leaves the ballroom, expecting we’ll follow, and the rigidity creeps back into Trips’ frame at the apparent summons.

We trail him, neither of us saying a thing or even risking a shared look. Too much truth vibrates between us right now, and we’re about to have a private meeting with a vulture disguised as a friendly older man. No weaknesses. No cracks. No fucking feelings.

We wind through a hallway nearly the length of the house before stepping into an office. It’s decorated in the dark woods and leathers of a Victorian gentlemen’s club, but faces a fully modern wall of glass, looking out over the rolling hill down to the lake, the epic outdoor pool that must go with the pool house barely visible on the right.

Archibald Clarence Westerhouse, the second esquire, settles himself into a chair behind a large desk on the right of the room, allowing him to see both the door and the back of the house, then motions to the two seats across from him. Like a principal’s office.

As Trips and I each take a seat, I finally have a moment to inspect the specter that’s been chasing us for months. Trips has his father’s coloring and features, but despite their similarities, their eyes are miles different. Trips’ eyes have more shades of emotion than the superfluous number of hollow calculations in his father’s, the vulture’s gaze crystalline as he takes my measure as well.

He’s smaller than I thought he would be. Still tall, but slim and graceful where Trips is pure power. His pale skin has a slight yellow tinge that makes my stomach roll inexplicably. His hands are heavy, though, rings glinting on multiple fingers.

My imagination can see him raising those hands to Trips, the way the rings would have cut his childish skin, and I struggle to swallow, rage coating my insides. But I try to keep it from my face .

I must show an appropriate reaction because he finally turns away from me and addresses Trips. “She’ll do.”

“She’ll do for what?” He pauses, then at a twitch of his father’s lips, he adds, “Sir.”

Instead of answering, his father bends to the side of his desk, the beep of an electronic lock loud in the quiet room, before pulling out a folder, laying it flat on the desk with a glance at me, pocketing something else without me seeing what it was. The drawer safe closes with another beep.

He flips open the folder, riffling through the papers, picking one to read, pulling glasses from the tray in front of him. “Clara Grace McElroy, twenty years old, salutatorian at a questionable high school, currently maintaining a perfect GPA at the University of Minnesota, contrary to expectations of a girl from that neighborhood. Former track and cross-country runner, slated for a D1 university before an injury destroyed that dream. A criminal justice major, accounting minor, planning to go into law enforcement, which we can use to our advantage. Passably pretty, healthy, comes from long-lived stock, mostly white, and unconnected. Luckily, everybody loves an underdog story. As I said, she’ll do.”

Trips’ fingers dig into the arms of the chair, but he doesn’t repeat his question, and taking my clues from him, I hold my tongue as well.

His father proceeds to pull a series of photos from the folder, laying them across the desk for us to see.

First, a shot from a security camera across the street and down a bit from the Art Institute of Chicago, Trips and I starting our run at the building .

Next, a camera we didn’t even think to look for, showing an image I’d rather forget, the dirty alley in stark black and white, my eerily blank face barely visible behind the brute pressing me against the brick wall.

It’s followed by another image from the first camera, Trips a fuzzy blob in the distance, but the dark lump of a gun still discernible.

He pauses, gauging our reactions before laying a new series of photos over the first three.

A shot of Jansen and me behind the garage of the first house he took me to steal from. With our winter gear, we could be anyone, but somehow, this vulture found it, knew it was us.

Another, caught from a camera at the gate of the second house we hit, my manic euphoria visible even there, Jansen’s face bright with joy, both of us shrouded in shadows. Impossible to identify, but the two of us all the same.

This one, in our fucking attic, Walker and me in those gorgeous masks, a glass of wine in his hand as he sets it on the bar, the masquerade in full swing around us.

Last, Officer Reed at the front of the house, Trips, Walker, and RJ surrounding me. Exchanging that day’s Bryce photos between us and the cop, it looks significantly sketchier than it actually was.

His mouth twists, a malicious smirk, as he tilts his head before starting a new series of photos. First, one of RJ and me, wrapped around each other on the front porch. A photo that RJ would never want to exist, let alone to live in a safe owned by the evil before me .

Next, Jansen and me, dashing through the backyard, hand in hand, heads back in laughter. Innocent, light, honest.

Another. Walker, braced above me at the climbing gym, the photo close enough, clear enough, to read the tension there. The heat.

He pauses, victory in his eyes, even if I have no idea what he’s won besides stealing more of my security. More of my privacy.

I shiver, knowing it wasn’t just Bryce making me feel like I was being watched these last few weeks. It was a stranger at the behest of this monster before me, another loss of my safety, of my privacy, at the hand of a man who wants to shame me, to control me, to threaten me.

With finality, he tosses down the last of his photos, displaying that same dingy alley in Chicago, but this shot has Trips holding me, kissing me, bringing me back to the present the only way we could think to do it. Desperate, even in the harsh light of an analog security still.

We sit in silence.

A clock on the wall ticks, the sound louder than any of our breathing, but barely louder than the pounding in my chest.

The puppet master speaks. “I can find more. I’m sure of it. Was that you this summer at the Guthrie, Archie? Shawn Gleason might not be part of my circle, but even I heard about the unlikely theft of his GTS. Only that wasn’t your target, was it? It had to be something bigger, more valuable. If only those little boys this young woman beside you was watching had been better controlled, I might never have pieced it together. A mission foiled by a poorly timed fire alarm pulled by a child. Poor failed mastermind Archie. ”

He shakes his head, feigned disappointment dripping from his gaze. “Stick with your fists in the future. They’re your strength. And I’d also recommend a nanny for the future.” He laughs, a mirthless sound, before turning his gaze to me. “A competent nanny, I should clarify.”

Confused, I glance at Trips, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s frozen, staring at his father like the man is hauling a corpse out of the slim manila folder.

How does Trips’ dad know about the hellions I nannied for this summer? About the chaos they caused pulling the fire alarm during a tour of the Guthrie theater at the tail end of August? Why would that matter?

I know the guys failed at some gig this summer. There’s no way my lack of control over my charges could have been the cause, could it?

And why would Trips need a nanny?

The second the thought pops into my head, my hands shake. Trips’ father notices, and he gives us a toothy grin. “I see you’ve figured it out. You’ll be so much easier to deal with than Trevor and that child. Yes. You’ve guessed correctly. Welcome to the family, Clara Grace McElroy.”

He pulls a box from his pocket, popping it open in front of me.

A diamond the size of my pinky nail glints at me, the cut clean and feminine, the band covered in more sparkles than I’ve seen on anything other than an eight-year-old’s Easter dress.

Trips and I stay as still as the icicles outside. His father’s smile grows, the show of teeth a threat. “Before you get to celebrating your glorious union, know that you’re mine. Both of you. No more side gigs. No more stealing from my neighbors. No more poker nights and forgeries. No meetings with the police. No moves without my say so.” He leans back, resting his thick hands across his trim waist, the illusion of a man sated by a good meal. “Oh, and Clara, no other boys. Anything you produce had better be a Westerhouse by blood.”

“Produce?” The question escapes before I can reel it in.

“Yes. Produce. You two will be publicly engaged, your wedding set over your spring break. And I expect an heir before the end of the year. A grandson to be my true legacy. These two boys of mine are duds.”

My nails are so deep into the arms of the chair, it takes Trips a moment to dislodge them before yanking me to my feet, our rush from the room only stalled by yet another statement from the beast behind us.

“I can be both a carrot and a stick, so make your next move carefully. Clara, you’ll be happy to know I purchased the home your parents rent. I’m sure a rent reduction might help those poor, ill-educated parents of yours. And if you cooperate, I will even gift you the same prenuptial agreement that Olivia’s father has been negotiating for her, minus the clause forbidding pregnancy while still in school. You’ll learn that I can be a reasonable man. You’ll have so much money, your poverty-laden brain won’t be able to comprehend it. And a name that will open doors you can’t imagine. Best of all, you’ll have the power you so obviously seek. So once again, take care going forward. The risks of a poor choice greatly outweigh the rewards.”

Swallowing, frozen halfway to the door, Trips’ hand sweaty in mine, his eyes dark with suppressed fury, I gasp for breath, not sure what to do, how to fix whatever the hell just happened.

“And Archibald?” Trips flinches, unable to bury his trained terror before turning back to his father. The ring box sails through the room, right at my face, but Trips snatches it out of the air before it crashes into me. “Make it real. Tomorrow. Brunch. No debates.”