Page 26 of Brazen Deceits

Clara

Throwing my purse at my bed after work, I muffle a shriek. I am completely ready for today to be done. If one more person complains about something, tells me what to do, or yells at me, I will throw punches. Stupid work being stupid.

I yank off my clothes, chucking them into my hamper, before wrestling myself into the coziest sweatshirt I can find and some pajama shorts. The wood floor is frigid against my feet, so I pull on fluffy socks before flopping down on my mattress. My hair falls out of its messy bun, sticking to my face. The strands smell like coffee and chocolate. I’m not going to take a second shower today, so I guess I’m just going to smell like a mocha for the rest of the night.

My phone buzzes beside me, and I’m almost too mad to even see who’s calling. On the second ring, I drag it in front of my face. “Dad” flashes across the screen. I let out a huff, bothglad it’s not my mom, and ticked that she still isn’t talking to me.

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

“Heya, Clara-girl. How are you doing, mija? All recovered from the race?”

I wiggle up the mattress until my head is on my pillow. “All healed up. How are you?”

“You know, same old, same old. Your mom just wanted us to coordinate when I should pick you up for Thanksgiving. I have to get my dates in before they post the November schedule at the store.”

“So she shunted me onto your plate and still won’t talk to me?”

His sigh is deep. “You know your mom. She just wants what’s best for you, Clara-girl.”

“No. She wants what shethinksis best for me, regardless of what I want. But whatever. I’m not putting you in the middle, not like she does. I’m free anytime the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, so as long as you aren’t pulling a double shift, I’ll be ready.”

The silence on the other end has me tapping my fingers against my thigh, waiting for the inevitable defense my dad is going to wage on behalf of my mom. And I’m so sick of hearing it.

“Clara, your mom isn’t perfect, but she loves hard. Sometimes, maybe it doesn’t look like it, but she loves you.”

“Not as much as she loves using me as her perfect little accessory.”

“Clara! I won’t listen to you talk about your mother that way.”

I squeeze my eyes tight, wishing for just an inch more patience. But I have none. I’m all tapped out. “Listen, Dad. I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight. Text me when you get your schedule.”

It’s easy to imagine him standing there, scratching the back of his head while he decides if he’s going to fight with me. But schoolwork wins. It always does with him. “Okay. Love you, mija.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

I chuck my phone across the mattress, trying to rub the anger off my face with my palms. I can’t take any more. I just can’t.

The sounds of the guys moving around the house—Walker making dinner, Jansen teasing him, the occasional scuffle and scrape from the other two upstairs—the rhythm of their everyday moments eases some of my frustration.

Once I no longer feel like screaming into my pillow, I haul out my business law notes for one last review before tomorrow. I squeezed in some studying during the first few hours of my shift, after reading through the—assignment? Specs? The parameters of what Jasmine wants the guys to do over Thanksgiving.

I wish I’d done my studying in the opposite order. Work got too crazy to do anything besides force a smile and make it through, and even after reading the darn criminal document, I still have no idea what I’m looking at. At least I would have been ready for my midterm tomorrow if I’d switched it around.

I force myself to sit up, my notes in my lap, and I dive back into studying, losing track of time. A knock on my door jolts me out of my head. “Come in,” I call.

Walker strolls in, his hands in his pockets, the smell of roasting meat and veggies trailing him. “Hey,” he says, dropping onto the mattress next to me.

“Hi,” I say, closing my notebook and setting it on the floor. I watch Walker, trying to gauge where he’s at. Does he regret last night? Please don’t let it be that—last night was magic for me.

Shifting so I’m facing him, I wait. He came in for a reason, and it had better be something like “Do you like stewed onions,” and not “Let’s just be friends.”

I don’t think I could go back to being just friends with Walker. I’d try, if that was what he really wanted, but it would be torture every time I saw him. And I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him with someone else. Double standard? Yup. But I never assumed humans were anything but messy, fucked-up creatures. And as much as I want to deny it, I’m a messy, fucked-up human, too.

He runs his hand through his hair, the black strands folding into ridges and valleys, reminding me of my own fingers digging ridges into the cool strands, my heart skipping a beat at the memory.

He doesn’t reach for me, though, and he isn’t looking at me, so my heart rate spikes for an entirely different reason. I’ve messed this up. Somehow, I ruined a good thing before it even really was a good thing. Maybe I shouldn’t have scratched him? That was probably too much. Shit.

“So are you coming to the meeting tonight?” he finally asks, staring at his slippered feet.

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