Page 11 of Brazen Criminals

He sets down the water glass, his expression jagged ice. “I’ll give you some time to cool off,” he says, grabbing his keys and stalking out. The door closes just short of a slam.

As soon as he’s gone, I slump down to the floor behind the kitchen island. The sobs catch me off guard, but I let them come. I’d been so excited this morning, my clothes in the closet next to Bryce’s. It was so perfect. So right. And now I’m packing it all back up. I’m furious and Bryce is gone.

I sob for a few minutes before I force myself to take deep breaths. Once I’m feeling better, I stand up and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I finish packing the dishes, adding them to the pile of my things in the entryway. Then it dawns on me: without Bryce, I don’t have a way to get my stuff to my new place—he just took the car.

With a groan, I pull on my backpack, stuffed full of my technology, then pile two paper bags and a box into my arms. There are a few granola bars in the kitchen, so I toss them into my purse. This move is now happening via bus.

Fuck this day.

I head out, locking the door behind me. Here’s hoping the bus isn’t too full to fit me and my first load of shit. Thanks, Bryce.

Chapter 5

Jansen

Iwipethesweatfrom my forehead, pulling my hair up into a knot at the top of my head. Carrying a keg solo to the attic was a lot harder than I thought it would be. It definitely requires different muscles from climbing or tai chi. Usually I’d get some help, but everyone disappeared after we met our new roommate. We may have just royally fucked up, and now everyone has gone to ground.

A roommate was a good thought. Someone else, someone on the straight that will make our house less of a target for the police. Because really, what are the chances that four entirely different types of criminals are all living together, let alone four criminals with some other random person who isn’t bending the rules?

An additional layer of security, another way to keep us on the fringe of notice while we all up our game. Two more years on campus—we’re all on the five-year plan—then we have to support ourselves without a hint of criminality. Two more years to create some sort of shell to mask what we all actually do. Two more years of looking like normal college kids, slow to get their credits, poor, scraping by.

I flop down in my meditation space at the front of the house. I need some calm. If the twists in my stomach get any worse, I’m going to do something dumb. I already got away with something stupid today. No need to push my luck. So, being the nice guy I am, I returned RJ’s drone and Walker’s laminate. Trips is acting like an ass, though, so I hid his black book under his mattress—let him freak out when I say I don’t have it.

Maybe I should teach him to meditate too.

Crossing my legs, I light the concentration candle on the small table, watching the flame while my thoughts collect, then pushing them aside as the light dances from yellow to blue and back.

I’m almost in the zone, my breath humming around me, when there’s a knock on the door. Not enough time; the buzzing is still in my gut, urging me to take risks, to jump, to climb, to yell and run. I take three more breaths, bringing myself back to the surface, then stand to open the door.

Clara is waiting there with two paper bags, a box, and a backpack. Sweat drips down the side of her cheek, her brown pigtails damp around her face. “Hey,” she says, “I think I might need a key.”

I hold the door open as she walks through, heading to the back of the house. “I can find Trips and get you one. Where did you park? I can go grab some more of your stuff.”

She pushes through the door to the kitchen. “I took the bus. I don’t have a car,” she says, before disappearing into the back of the house.

I follow. “You don’t have a car?”

Clara shrugs, dumping her stuff on the floor. “Nope. So I still have a few more loads to grab.” She turns back, the end of one pigtail laying over her shoulder, her brown eyes not meeting mine.

“Come on,” I say, “we can take my car. Then you only have one more trip.”

She shakes her head, the pigtail dragging back over her shoulder and onto her back. “You don’t have to do that.”

I grab her wrist without thinking. “We’ll do it together. Many hands make light work, or some shit like that, right?” I say.

She rolls her eyes with a grin, and an electric buzz shoots up my arm from where I’m touching her. I don’t know if I want to let go or hold on forever. The twisting in my gut spikes.

Don’t do anything stupid, Jansen. She has a boyfriend.

I tug her to the back door and out to my beat-up four-door sedan, not ready to let go yet. I open her door and she steps in, slipping her wrist from my hand as she sits.

She still won’t meet my eyes. Is she embarrassed? Angry? Annoyed? I shouldn’t have grabbed her like that. At least she’s smiling, though. That’s got to be an improvement.

I close the door for her. As I go around to my side, one of the idiots next door hauls themselves into the bed of a big blue truck parked in the alley.

“Ben, where the fuck is the good keg?” he hollers.

“I told you, it’s in the back of my truck,” another yells back.

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