We’re almost to the exit when the door flies open. Trips is dragged through it, arms in cuffs, shoulders back, face relaxed, looking like it’s another day of class instead of the start of a long stint in prison.
Although if what Officer Reed said is true, this isn’t Trips’ first visit to jail. “Trips,” I call, knowing this is what the cops were waiting for, this manufactured meeting in the hall, but not really caring. I fucked up, and I need to find a way to fix this.
“Clara,” he grumbles. I glance back at Officer Reed, and he makes no movement to stop me, so I run up to my roommate, my hands shaking. Once I get close, Trips’ lets a lazy grin cross his face, his eyes staying hard. “Give me a hug, sweetheart,” he says, motioning me closer with a tilt of his chin.
My jaw drops. Sweetheart? Since when am I his sweetheart? He glares at me while his smile gets bigger. “I know we were keeping it quiet, but if your man ever needed a hug, now’s the time.”
Something clicks and I scurry in, wrapping my arms around Trips’ broad chest. “God, took you long enough,” Trips hisses in my ear. “Get my phone out of my back right pocket and get it out of here. Call my dad.”
I move my right arm down, like this hug just got steamy, my face hot against Trips’ chest.
“Seriously? No. Your other right,” Trips whispers, nuzzling my ear like he’s professing his undying love. I quickly switch hands, and Trips stumbles back, taking me with him as he slumps against the wall, giving me a chance to snag the phone and pull my arm to his front without anyone, hopefully, seeing.
I drop the phone in my purse, my now empty left hand pressed against Trips’ pounding heart. He flashes me that same hard smile before letting the cops drag him farther into the building.
I watch him go. Officer Reed steps closer, reading my face. “I didn’t realize you two were involved,” he says.
I shake my head, still in a daze. “It’s really new,” I say, which is true. It’s so new it started ten seconds ago, by my count. Fuck. I didn’t have time to tell Trips about my mistake—I was too caught up in lifting his damn phone.
I guess all I can do is hope that Trips knows how to deal with the cops. It seems like he’s had a lot of practice.
Chapter 41
Clara
Thebusridebackto the house flies by. The clouds hang dark and low—it’s going to rain any minute. I hurry down the street, a checklist built in my head:
Find the guys
Get RJ to unlock Trips’ phone
Get someone else to call Trips’ dad—preferably someone who actually knows the guy
Bake cookies with Walker so Trips has something yummy to look forward to when his dad gets him out of jail
I’m pulling out my phone to see if I have any messages when I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Not breathing, I wait for my phone to either let me know Bryce is here or for one of the guys to pop up from the porch. Neither happens.
I sneak forward, wary, when a red heart balloon darts up and dives back down in the gathering wind. My heart is racing, my ears ringing. I inch toward the stairs, every muscle primed to run.
Dozens of heart-shaped balloons of different sizes, vases overflowing with red roses, white teddy bears holding tiny pink hearts, piles and piles of misplaced love fill the entire front porch, vibrant and terrible.
I scan the street, gripping my phone, waiting for the warning buzz. I don’t see his car anywhere, just a large van down the street. When my phone stays silent, I inch closer. From the bottom of the stairs, I can see the tags on the vases, the little signs wrapped around the teddy bears’ necks, all proclaiming “I’m sorry” and “I love you.” Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
Why is Bryce doing this?
I kick a path to the front door, shoving the bric-a-brac aside with my shoe, and clear a space to stick my head into the house. In the distance, a grumble of thunder echoes.
“Hey! I’m home! Could someone come help with this?” I yell up the stairs.
No one answers.
I wiggle the rest of the way in, the house dark even though it’s only midafternoon.
The first floor is empty. Shivering, I want to check where Bryce is right now, but I don’t. There are more important things to worry about than my stalker, mainly, getting Trips out of jail. I can’t believe I was dumb enough to let slip a hint about the money. I need to fix it.
Upstairs, the hallway is dark and uninviting. I don’t turn on the light—the tickle on the back of my neck urges me to be cautious. I’m acting paranoid, but I don’t want anyone to know where I am in the house.
Knowing the way my day’s been going, it’s probably the cops and I’ve somehow just incriminated all my roommates purely by coming home.