Page 6 of Brazen Deceits

I snatch it back, giggling. So good. I might have a new favorite drink. If only I knew what to call it.

Walker takes stock of the room, and with no other customers in the immediate vicinity, he slinks back around the bar, pulls me off the stool, then climbs back up and pats his lap.

“Here? Now?” I ask, my drink rippling after I take a sip.

Walker holds out a hand, offering to help me up. Am I ready to sit on his lap? In public? Surrounded by a bunch of strangers?

I debate saying no for one minute, but I miss this. I grab onto him and together we get me settled across his lap, his arm tight around my waist.

He kisses my cheek before encasing my hand holding the martini glass, dragging the drink from my lips to his. He takes another sip, licking his lips, and I know he’s doing it just to make me watch, to make me squirm. And damn it, it’s working. “Mine,” I say, tugging on the glass.

“Always,” he whispers back.

The moment lasts forever, but the bark of nearby laughter shakes me out of it. I look out at the crowd of people, suddenly stiff and awkward, perched on Walker’s lap. He clearshis throat behind me, taking the martini glass from my hand and setting it on the bar.

“So, about the ID thing, youdoknow you live with one of the best ID forgers in the country, don’t you?”

I turn toward him. “How did I forget that? I thought you were all in on art stuff.”

Walker’s eyes glow, one side of his mouth twisted up in a grin. “Everyone’s in it for money, at least sometimes. I started with fake IDs. With RJ’s help, I moved national two years ago. To be honest, it’s a major contributor to our business account.”

“Wait, wait, hold up. You guys have a business account?”

“We have several. We’re incorporated as an LLC, but we have a ton of shell companies between all our endeavors, our business, and then ourselves. Trips set it up. It’s apparently really messy, and I guess that helps.” Walker shrugs, like he didn’t just lay out a money launderer’s wet dream in front of me. Shit. Like, I know these guys aren’t technically the most moral people, but this is super shady.

Walker’s phone buzzes in his pocket, so I slide off his lap, my mind still reeling. He swipes at something, and all the twinkle disappears from his face. He taps out a reply as I take another sip of my drink, eyeing the buffet. Maybe more food will make the level of premeditated crime my roommates commit more palatable. Miso soup sounds lovely, what with winter blowing in any day now.

I glance back at Walker, noting his clenched jaw, his knitted brows—he’s angry. Something just turned a sweet, thoughtful hedonist into someone ready to throw a punch.

Is it me? Did I do this? The panic spirals up, the urge to apologize flooding all normal thought from me. The words hover half out of my mouth before part of me calls bullshit. This isn’t my fault. It can’t be. Walker just got a text, and that’s what’s pissed him off. An apology won’t help, but a friend might be useful.

I force myself to take three deep breaths, watching Walker glare at his phone. It buzzes again, twice, before he looks back up.

“Are you okay?” I ask, touching his arm, the muscles there as tight as the ones in his jaw.

He shakes his head. “I’m taking you downstairs with me. I need you to watch and remember. Say nothing more than necessary. Your job is to tell me the things I’m missing.”

He takes my elbow, and we start toward the door, Jansen passing us on his way to cover the bar. What is going on?

“What kinds of things are you going to be missing?”

He stops, pulling me to face him. “I need someone observant, but not involved enough to get angry. I could bring Jansen or RJ, but you’ll throw him off. Watch for ticks, for signs of nerves, for any sign that he thinks he’s winning. Can you do that, Clara?”

I swallow. “I think so.”

“Then let’s go. It’s time to greet an uninvited guest.”

Chapter 3

RJ

Ihate working game nights. It’s all about rich people throwing around enough money for a year’s worth of rent on one night of fun, while people a few rungs down show up with the last of their savings and pray to make it big—only they never do. Boy do I know. Either way, it’s my job to figure out who is who.

The rich bastards, we’ll extend credit to them at absurd interest rates. The average Joe, though, if he runs out of money, he’s out. This keeps Trips from having to collect debt with a baseball bat, and I like to think it keeps some poor suckers from getting addicted to lady luck. I’m full of shit and I know it, though. The world is fucked up and unfair, and it’s not like it’s my job to fix it.

I glance up from the license Jansen slipped me a moment ago, my social media scraper doing its thing on my tablet. He said Clara came up, and I don’t know if I’m thrilled or terrified.

She’s been half alive for weeks, still smiling, still laughing, but never really existing here, in the moment, with us. I know she’s moved her runs to when I’m in class. And while I’m happy to give her space and time, I miss those runs, the quiet sharing of our lives, our interests and joys.

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