Page 38 of Brazen Deceits

I have both of their phones in my pockets—they took burners for safety, and fully scannable IDs under fake names. We’re not taking any chances.

Once they’re out of sight, Clara turns back to the house, catching me staring at her from the porch like a goddamned scorned lover. She throws her shoulders back when she sees me, her stance combative, and my blood immediately reverses course from my brain to my dick. Because I like her on edge. I want her to fight me. Part of me knows that if she can take me, if she can win, then maybe she belongs. And a growing piece of me, probably bullied by the mini-brain currently hovering at half-mast in my pants, wants her to belong.

I shove that series of revelations deep, locking them in a box of things too dangerous to want, then motion her to come to me. She rolls her eyes, having already been on her way up the walkway, and I smother a laugh.

“You beckoned?” she says, one hand on her hip, and for once this afternoon, I’m glad for her loose coat, its bulk keeping my mind on business.

I hand her one of the phones. “I’m going to need you to keep this with you until they get back. Not all the time, maybe sixty percent of the time. Can you do that?”

She looks at the phone, then slips it into her coat pocket. “This is Jansen’s. You have RJ’s then? We’re making it look like they’re still here around campus, right?”

I force a smile away. Why is she so fucking clever? “Yup.”

“Should I make calls or anything? Text?”

“I’ll send two or three texts this weekend. Just respond. Jansen doesn’t do much on his phone. He’d rather go find someone than call them.”

“I’ve noticed,” she says, a secret smile curving over her lips. Damn it. Why do I want to lick the damn thing from her face? And why do I feel like knocking out Jansen’s front teeth? Not safe, Trips.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly stuck on the idea of kissing the grin off her face, making that dopey look mine instead of Jansen’s.

Only, I’m a one-night-stand kind of guy. Nobody needs to get knee-deep in my shit. And I sure as hell don’t need to be tangled up in anyone else’s. My body moves faster than my resolve, though, my hand lurching out to cradle her face, her skin silk under my palm. Her dark eyes meet mine, fire lighting them from inside as she waits to see what I’m going to do.

And I don’t fucking know.

My thumb strokes her cheek, already addicted to the velvet of her skin, and I can’t move, can’t talk, can’t think.

An eternity of a second later, Clara steps back, away from the confusing circle of my half-assed embrace. “Are we done here?” she asks.

“For now,” I growl, stomping down the steps, getting myself out of her hypnotic orbit, rushing down the street toward campus.

It’s not until I’m a few blocks away that I realize two things. First off, I’m not wearing my coat, and it’s fucking brisk out here.

And second, that I, Archibald Clarence Westerhouse the Third, just fucking ran away.

If that isn’t trouble, I don’t know what is.

Chapter 19

Clara

By Sunday morning, I’m sick of the quiet. I still haven’t seen Walker and now Trips is avoiding me too. Real slick there, Clara. Let’s just upset the whole damn house, why don’t we?

I’m scrubbing the counter at the coffee shop when my back pocket buzzes. I drop the rag back into the sani-bucket and pull out the offending device. Jansen’s phone. He’s gotten exactly one text this weekend, from Evie, his sister, so phone duty has been easy. I left it unread and hoped she wouldn’t get too mad.

This is a message from Trips. The preview text says CODE: 8925.

Curious, I type in the numbers, and it unlocks Jansen’s phone. Clicking into the message, nothing else is there. I type out a response.

Everything OK?

I wait, glancing up when someone drops their dirty plates into the bin by the door. I almost shove the device back into my pocket, but a new message shows up before I can decide.

Just checking

Seriously, Trips? Like I would totally ignore his instructions and do something that risks Jansen or RJ’s safety? What kind of fool does he think I am? Annoyed, I shoot him a message.

Can you see your feet?

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