Page 75 of Brazen Criminals

“Fine,” she says, rolling off the mattress and onto the floor. It kills me I didn’t get her a fucking bed at the thrift store. No one should have to sleep on the floor.

Grabbing her water bottle from her bag, I head to the kitchen to fill it up for her. I snag an apple Walker got and a packet of nuts, shoving them into her backpack while she’s in the bathroom. Goddamn girl was going to starve rather than ask for some fucking food. I’ll have to thank Walker for buying some of Clara’s favorites.

After a second, I pull out her wallet, tucking an extra twenty into the wad she has in there—I have a feeling she’ll know she didn’t earn it, but I don’t think she’ll figure out it’s from me.

I zip up the bag as she comes back into the room, her hair up in a knot at the top of her head, ass-hugging jeans and a clean shirt covering her up. She eyes the sling, twisting her lips before she pulls it on.

I pick up her backpack. “I’ve got your stuff. Water, snacks, computer—am I missing anything?”

Clara puts her good hand on her hip, tilting her head as she looks me up and down. I shift from foot to foot—it makes me feel like I fucking left my fly down or something. I check covertly as I hoist her bag over my shoulder—I’m good, it’s up.

“Why are you being so nice?” she asks.

“Because I fucking want to,” I say, walking past her to the hallway. Damn woman makes me want to help, when I know I’m as good as a death sentence for anyone close to me.

Fuck. I need to get her out of my system—somehow. All the fuckers I live with have a thing for her. There’s no need for me to join them. I’ve got an empire to build. Then I won’t need any more of my father’s “favors.”

Leaving without checking to see if Clara is coming, I start up the engine of my truck just as she climbs in. My fingers itch, wanting to help her up, but she’s healing and doesn’t need me. This is a good thing. I shouldn’t be touching her.

I head out of the alley faster than I need to, barreling toward West Bank. Clara digs through her bag, and apparently finds nothing wrong with what I packed, because instead of snipping at me, she just watches me drive.

“What?” I ask, trying not to shift around in my seat. I haven’t had a tell in six years—why the hell am I fidgety when she looks at me?

“You said you had a favor to ask.”

I clench the steering wheel. “We’ll talk over breakfast.”

She sighs, digging through her bag. She pulls out the wallet and counts the cash there. A small gasp escapes, then she counts again. She shakes her head. “You said you wanted rent before the end of the month, right?”

Did I say that? It sounds like some dumb shit I said. “Sure.”

She holds out the stack of cash, my twenty included. It’s literally everything in her wallet except for some change. Shit.

Slamming my hand against the steering wheel once, I make Clara jump, but she doesn’t back down, holding out the money, waiting.

I sigh, grab the bundle, and tuck it into my pocket. I hate her pride right now. She could do with a little less, for sure.

We make it into the garage, and I find a mostly empty floor, hoping no one will park too close. I get out before Clara, running my hand through my hair, wondering how I’m going to make it through the three classes I have today when I’m this wound up already. Add this afternoon’s trial, and I’m going to need a heavy bag in the fucking finance lab to make it through.

Leading us to a cool little twenty-four-hour cafe on this side of campus, I jam my hands into my pockets just to keep them from doing something dumb. Like grabbing her hand. “I’m buying,” I say, after ordering a full breakfast, hoping it comes fast. There are only thirty minutes before my first class, and I hate being late.

She orders pancakes and bacon with a fruit cup, and some fancy frou-frou coffee that the barista recommends. We hover at the end of the bar. I probably should say something, but really, why bother? We both need food more than we need conversation.

The food shows up at the end of the counter with our drinks, and I lead us to a booth in the back corner. My eggs are gone before I feel human enough to talk. “You’ll have a lawyer this afternoon,” I start.

“I guessed as much,” she says, nibbling on the end of one of her slices of bacon. “What do I owe you?”

I huff, annoyed. “Nothing.” She doesn’t owe me a damn thing—I owe my father a “favor,” but it’s not like those things pass forward. I pull a slip of paper out of my back pocket and slide it to her. “Call this when we’re done with breakfast. She wants to talk now that she has the texts and voicemails and stuff. Her name is Veronica, and she’s supposed to be one of the best.”

Clara nods, a chunk of hair falling out of her bun. It’s on the side with her bad arm, and as she goes to tuck it behind her ear, she winces. Before I can think about it, I lean forward and tuck it back for her.

The air hums this close to her, our eyes locked, and I want to lean closer. Fuck. I’m not going to blame Walker and Jansen for their not-so-subtle advances—she’s like a fucking magnet. I catch a flower scent from her hair, the salt of the bacon on her breath, and damn, I want to lean in, to figure out what the fuss is about.

Clara swallows, her eyes breaking from mine, and I slump back down into my seat. Bad idea, jackass. She’s not one of us. And even if she were, there’s no fucking way—my mess is my own, and no one else needs to bathe in it.

I finish up my toast and start on my hash browns. Clara stops eating, staring out at the restaurant. “What?” I ask.

She looks down at her plate, and I just know her fingers are drumming her damn thigh again. “I want to help.”

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