Page 55 of Brazen Deceits

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t look back.

Can’t he see that we’re bleeding, covered in microscopic cuts, oozing aches that stretch and tear? That every time he touches me for pretend, every inch of my skin lights up, thinking it’s real? That with each step he takes away from me, the pain grows, already unbearable?

He opens a drawer, folding his newly thrifted clothes and putting them away.

Can’t he see me?

Chapter 24

Clara

We flounce into a sleek restaurant, me hanging on Walker’s arm like a strangling vine, my cheek pressed to his bicep. Instead of a coat, I found a super sweet wool capelet that will totally be a part of my real-life wardrobe when we get home. The wind tunneling between the buildings cuts through the thin sleeves of my blouse, leaving my arms chilly, but the rest of me is warm. Pair this thing with a sweater? It will be amazing.

Glancing around the restaurant, I spy a wood-burning fireplace and subdivided cozy spaces with only a few tables in each section. Walker made the reservations while I stewed on the couch, but this place? I’m not sure either muse or I would feel comfortable here. My stomach grumbles over the scent wafting from the kitchen. Being outclassed never smelled so good.

“Hey, what’s going on in there?” Walker asks, tapping my forehead, having already told the hostess we’re here.

I shake my head. “Just a bunch of hamsters running their little hearts out,” I joke, trying not to tap my leg.

“Wait. Goddamn it,” he growls, glancing away from me.

“What?” I ask, suddenly worried that the mob pegged us as dangerous and is coming in, guns blazing. Does this make sense? Nope. Does my amped-up adrenal system care? Not one bit.

I peer out the door, my fingers digging into Walker’s arm as he drags me back out into the cold. “What is it?” I ask, still scanning the sidewalk.

“You still don’t have a fake, do you?”

I pull my eyes from a suspicious-looking Taurus. “Wait, what?”

He braces my shoulders. “You’re not twenty-one, right? I didn’t miss your birthday?”

“No, my birthday’s in June. You’re worried because I don’t have a fake ID? Was I supposed to have one?”

Walker closes his eyes, suddenly tense. “You can’t drink this weekend.”

“No. Is it that important?”

Walker sighs, pulling me in for a hug. I wrap my arms around him, totally confused. Why is me not drinking making him so upset? I’ll take the hug, gladly, but it’s a hug made of tense muscles and regret.

He glances at the restaurant, then presses a hand on my shoulder. “Wait here.”

I watch, flabbergasted, as he dashes back into the restaurant, leaving me hovering on the sidewalk by myself. A fewpeople rush past, focused on their own life, as I stick my hands in my capelet’s pockets, waiting for whatever Walker is doing to be done.

Is this what his muse would do? Probably not. But right now, I’m just Clara, out in the cold, once again thrown onto my heels while I try to keep up with Walker’s mood swings.

I’m leaning against the building, pretending like I normally chill on sidewalks in unknown metropolitan areas, when Walker bursts out. “I’m over here,” I call, as he scans the sidewalk looking for me.

“Good. We have about fifteen minutes.”

With that enlightening explanation, Walker snatches up my hand and drags me down the street, his phone out as he navigates somewhere.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.

He stops in the middle of the street, and a car lays on the horn. “Shit,” he says, tugging me across to the other side, still not looking at me. “Basically, I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry for what, exactly?” I ask, eager to clear the air between us, to get back to where we were.

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