Page 44 of Brazen Criminals

RJ’s brows drop and his nostrils flare. “You obviously love to dance, and you haven’t done it in over a year?”

I shrink back. “I didn’t realize it’d been that long.” I meet his eyes, and for once, I don’t look away first. My heart sputters, and I need to scream, or run, or cry, or something, because I feel too much. I feel too much for too many people and it’s good and bad and wonderful all at once. After an eternal second, RJ takes a big breath, a soft smile replacing his anger. “I’m glad you’re dancing now,” he says.

Trips and Jansen find us out back and pass water bottles around. I guzzle mine, grateful for the cooling slosh in my belly. I look around at this group of people, teasing, joking, sweaty, and a little exhausted. Belonging is a cozy blanket, and mine is fresh soft fleece. I go to take another drink of water before remembering mine is gone. Jansen notices and gives me what’s left of his. “I’ve got you,” he says.

I’m just taking a drink when the bottle flies out of my hand. Time slows as I watch it hit the grass and roll, the last of the water dribbling into the grass.

A hand grasps my bicep, dragging me away from everyone. Bryce’s voice whispers in my ear, “Don’t trust them. Don’t touch a thing they give you, Clara. You don’t know what they’ve done. They’re sneaky, but I’ve got you. I’ll fix you, don’t worry, baby. Everything will be perfect again.”

I whip around, struggling against his hold. “What the hell, Bryce? How are you even here?” I try to tug myself from his grip, but it tightens, his fingers digging in, sending pain spiking up my arm.

“They’re trying to keep you from me. They’re changing you. But don’t worry, it’ll be okay.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Jim sent me the pictures, Clara.” Bryce’s face is stern, like he’s disciplining a puppy. “You were all over them. You know you can’t handle your liquor. When we get home and you sober up, you’ll see how embarrassing it was. But I’m here, Clara. I love you, baby.”

I can feel a crowd forming, and the guys are a protective semi-circle between onlookers and my fight, but tension ripples behind me. I don’t know how long I have before they jump in to help. “Bryce. We broke up. I can touch whoever I want. Now let go.”

I yank my arm away, but his fingernails dig in, his other hand clasping lower as he drags me toward the fence. A sting follows his nails cutting into my skin, his hand clamped so tightly I’ll have finger-shaped bruises up and down my arm tomorrow. I yelp and stumble as my low heel catches on a tree root, and the shift in my center of gravity causes Bryce to twist my arm up behind my back as he continues to plow forward.

“Wait, stop,” I gasp, but he keeps moving, and I fall to my knees, wrenching my shoulder, my arm still locked in his grasp. A startled scream escapes as a terriblepopsounds from my shoulder, followed by a bright burst of excruciating pain.

The sound of someone cracking their knuckles, but louder, comes from behind me and I’m free, face-first on the ground. I scramble backwards, my good arm supporting me as my left arm tucks protectively against my chest.

A strangled groan distracts me from my escape, and I turn. Trips has Bryce’s splinted wrist in his grasp, but my ex’s fingers dangle like grotesque noodles from his palm. Icy calm claims Trips’ face as he gazes at the mangled hand, at Bryce’s tear-covered face. His head cocks before his fists sweep out, pummeling Bryce from all sides. All I can think is how each strike sounds like a textbook dropped perfectly flat on a smooth stone floor, but the blood and fists and screaming and Trips’ soft growl mix like a surrealist painting with the parallel I have in my head.

Someone pulls me to my feet, and I stumble forward. There’s movement to stop me, but I push past, and the barrier lets me go. People call my name, but it doesn’t register. Some part of me knows that I have to stop this.

I don’t want Bryce dead, and I don’t want Trips to kill him. And right now, it looks like that is a real possibility.

Inching around Trips, I try to catch his eye. Bryce is on the ground, curled up, trying to protect his organs as Trips destroys with the ferocity of a sudden summer storm, all black clouds and rolling thunder.

“Trips,” I say, my good hand out. “Trips, you can stop now.”

He pauses, glancing my way, his eyes hollow, his fire missing, an emptiness echoing in a hearth that should roar with flames. “Trips, it’s time to stop. I’m safe. You can stop.” I circle around him until I’m between the two of them. He doesn’t move, his breath coming in fast pants, sweat trickling down his face. “Come on, Trips. Let’s go home. I want you to take me home.” I turn up my palm, waiting for him to take it.

“He fucking hurt you,” he rumbles, the storm still inside his chest.

I nod. “But I’m okay now. Please, Trips. It’s time to stop. Take me home.” His breath evens out, and I creep closer, careful not to step on Bryce. “Let’s go.”

I slowly twine my fingers with his. He scowls at our hands wrapped together, but he lets me tug him away from Bryce’s weeping, huddled mass. I want to apologize, but now that I have Trips’ attention, I don’t want him to notice Bryce again. Striding toward the gate, Trips trails after me. One last glance back shows me Jansen is right behind me with Emma. Cell phones glint high over Walker and RJ’s heads—clearly the fight was caught on tape. I shudder.

Walker yells at the crowd as we push into the alleyway. “Phones. You give ’em up, we wipe the video and backups, and you get them back. You don’t hand them over, wewillmake you. And before you feel pity for that whining puddle over there, he just fucked up his ex-girlfriend for hanging out with friends. So phones first, ambulance second. And in case you’re curious, you didn’t see a goddamn thing.” The easy charm I expect is absent; this Walker demands compliance, and I shiver, glad I can’t see his face.

The walk back to the house is silent, but each step brings Trips back.

After a few blocks, Emma shares a look with Jansen, slips over to me and kisses my cheek, before turning down a different street. I worry for a second, but Jansen nods and I know they decided together, and that comforts me.

Jansen watches Trips the whole walk, a snake charmer guarding an angry viper, wary of an attack. A block away from home, Trips pulls away from me, his face haunted. At the front door, he stops me. He won’t meet my eyes, but he steps in front of me so I can’t just walk in. “How’s your arm?”

I go to lift it and gasp. Trips’ lips press together. “Jansen? Her shoulder’s dislocated. Fix it,” he says, then spins and marches up the stairs. His door slams, echoing down the stairwell.

The sound makes me jump. The sudden movement seems to kick-start my system, and there on the front porch, uncontrollable shivers cascade into me. I’m freezing from the inside out. The shaking jars my arm, and I gasp out a sob, tears rolling down my cheeks in the hazy dark.

Catching sight of the blood on my right hand, the hand I used to pull Trips back, I know, just know, that it’s Bryce’s blood mixed with Trips’ from his broken knuckles, and I gag, the pain and disgust mixing.

Jansen hauls me to the edge of the porch, and I heave, the pain spiking. I whimper as I vomit again, water and bile and the sweetness of rum and Coke coating my tongue. Jansen gently wraps my hair around his fist, holding it back, as I gag again and again. My stomach is empty, but the pain and disgust are fresh each moment. I flop onto my good side, too exhausted to keep myself up, too tired to keep doing what my body demands.

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