Page 139 of Brazen Deceits

Walker cooked up an epic feast for the three of us last night, so at least Clara has leftovers. I watched him feeding bits of it to her as he worked, and part of me wanted to sneak in a kiss, but I can read the room. They’re all shiny and shit with each other, and they keep saying “I love you,” even when I’m fucking right there. I’m not going to fuck that up for them.

But this morning, when Walker crawled out of her bed to go home and asked me to go lie with her, so she wouldn’t be alone? I fucking jumped on that because I’m a selfish bastard who wants her, too. I’m also the stupid bastard who has noidea how to fix what I let get broken by being just a little too slow, a little too weak.

Clara can’t sleep alone anymore.

So I held her, that fucking floral scent making me so hard I was lightheaded. For two hours, she twisted and mumbled, little whimpers making my heart clench as I stroked her head, her arms, her back, waiting for her to settle again.

I hated driving away from her. It’s one night. Just one night. But that’s one night of her alone, in the house.

One night where neither of us is going to sleep.

Trevor greets me in the mudroom, his politician’s grin plastered to his face. “Archie! I’m glad you made it!”

I roll my eyes as he tries to pull some brotherly backslap shit with me. You’d think after thirteen years of me dodging it, he’d get the picture, but apparently not.

“Hey, I want to show you something before you greet the guests,” he says, eyes bright.

There’s no way out of it. He’s father’s golden boy. If he makes us late, no one will give a damn. “Sure.”

Trevor leads me through the kitchens and up to the second-floor public rooms, chattering away about his campaign strategy for next year’s election and his fiancée’s opinion on what color scheme they should use for the wedding so that the images will work for future ad spots.

Apparently, they deemed white and silver appropriately patriotic.

Fuck my life.

He makes a beeline for the art gallery, and my stomach drops.

No way. No fucking way.

“So you know how Olivia has a thing for cats, right?” he asks.

No. That can’t be what this is about. It has to be something else. “Sure,” I say, not knowing or caring about his fiancée’s cat infatuation.

“Well, I got her a surprise engagement gift. It was going to be a wedding gift, but I got impatient. I’m going to give it to her at the party. You’re coming, right? The Friday after New Year’s?”

I , afraid to take another step. Because of course. Of course my family is the leak. My circle was always the most likely gap in our security. They’re deep enough into the criminal underbelly to tank my cover like a shit investor call tanking a stock.

Trevor strolls into the gallery, an internal space on the second floor with no windows, perfect climate control, and serious security. “Have you ever heard of Peter Paul Rubens? He’s like, a super famous Renaissance artist.”

“Baroque.”

Trevor glares at me. Because no one corrects the golden boy. He doesn’t take it well.

Taking my silence as evidence I’ve been properly cowed, he plows forward, heading to the far corner of the space. “Anyway, he drew super realistic stuff, and I found an original sketch of some cats for Olivia. She is going to love it!”

And there, on the wall of my father’s gallery, is the Rubens.

“Did Father help you track it down?” I ask, my hands jammed into my slacks so I don’t do something stupid, like rip the damn thing off the wall and fling it at my ignorant half-brother’s head.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

My father’s chill tones echo through the gallery, and the urge to shrink into myself looms. But I fight it, just like I always fight it.

It’s not like he can take me down with a single backhand anymore.

I glance at him, hating, as always, the feeling that I’m looking in a mirror, only forty years in the future. Same auburn hair, salt and pepper now, same blue eyes, same fucking bone structure. I got my size from my mom’s side, but my face? My damn calculating, bitter brain? My barely harnessed anger? That’s all my father’s doing.

“How kind of you,” I say, tracking his steps toward us.

---