Page 111 of Brazen Deceits

A total bust.

Fuck.

The buzz I’d planned to ride for days from this trip skitters to a complete stop, and I could almost vomit from the sudden loss. Shaky, I rest my head against the steering wheel.

Forcing myself to breathe through the emptiness, I pray for some spark to start me up again. “You’re not going to drop.Things are good. You’re good, Jansen. You’re fine. You’re just fine.”

Swallowing down bile, I stare at the soft flakes of snow glittering under the lights, another storm rolling in.

And Clara’s still going to be cold in her cute little capelet.

It’d seemed like such a great idea to come and get her winter stuff as a surprise. Trips kept fever panicking over her lack of coat and boots, and it’d seemed like fate. I needed a buzz, and he’d brought me a job. “Boots, she needs boots,” he’d kept saying, fingers digging into my forearms as I’d tried to get him to drink some water so he doesn’t end up in the hospital.

I slam my fist down on the steering wheel. “Damn it.”

All that, and she still needs a coat and boots.

The edge of an idea catches my attention.

She still needs a coat. I can get her a coat. A nice new one. And some boots.

Digging through my wallet, I find a couple hundred bucks that I took as payment for dealing with feverish Trips. He won’t miss it. And if he does, well, I can pay him back.

A plan builds in my hazy, buzzless brain. Go “buy” Clara a nice new coat and a set of boots. Because who cares if it’s 2 a.m.?

It’s not like a store is ever closed to me.

Cranking up a fun bluegrass jam to hum along to, I head to the nearest mall. There’s still a mission to salvage. And of course, some fun to be had.

It’s going to be a great night after all.

Chapter 47

Clara

“You want me to do what?” I ask, the apron Walker loaned me no longer sporting a Monet reproduction, but a bunch of muddy flowers, the clay I was supposed to wet ending up splashier than I thought it would be.

He wipes his own hands on his still immaculate Degas apron. “It’s too wet.”

“I noticed,” I say, spreading my hands wide. “The last time I touched clay I was twelve. I’m doing the best I can, Walker.”

I’m surprised when my sass earns me a grin. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated. It’s a pity it never happens.”

“Keep me as your assistant, and you won’t think this face is cute for long.”

He leans over, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Never that. But wedohave a clay situation.”

“Yup. Why are we working with clay if you’re making a drawing? I don’t get it.”

“I need the right pigment chalks. Black, red, and white. So we’re making chalk. Lots of chalk with different amounts of pigment so I can get the exact right colors.”

Surveying my mess, he urges me to go wash up at the sink. “How are your grinding skills?”

I snort, twisting to look at him. He’s staring at the dripping clay, and I decide to go for it. “I mean, you’d be a better judge of that than I would, but I think I’m pretty excellent, if I don’t say so myself.”

He looks up, confusion written on his face. I help him out with an excellent hip thrust dance, and he bursts out laughing. “Seriously?” he chokes out, watching my increasingly ridiculous dance moves. I inch up to him, butt in the lead, planning on demonstrating exactly how good I am, but he stops me. “No. You’re covered in what amounts to mud. Go grind something else. Like that rock over there in the mortar.”

“Ooo, mortar and pestle? I get to channel my inner witch?” I trot to the other side of the kitchen island, clay-covered dance moves forgotten.

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