Page 49 of Brazen Deceits

“But not before Friday.”

He tilts his head. “Oh, yeah—you and Walker are going to Chicago this weekend.” I roll onto my back, staring atthe ceiling. His lips brush against my cheek. “It’ll work out. Walker, he can get stuck in his head.”

“Am I supposed to give him more time? Because we’re coming up on two weeks here.”

“Nope. Make him talk to you. Get the real, dumb shit out of his head and into the air. He has to hear himself being an idiot before he knows he’s being an idiot.”

I let out a sad little laugh. “Got it. Force him to tell me how dumb he’s being.”

“Hey, you’re the one who decided you wanted four boyfriends instead of one. No one ever said this would be easy.”

I turn, peering up at Jansen. “Are you saying you’re my boyfriend?”

“Beautiful, I’ve been yours from day one.”

I bite my lip, trying to keep my grin contained. “You never asked me, you know.”

Jansen immediately kneels next to the bed, taking my hand in his. “Clara McElroy, would you do me the great honor of being my girlfriend?”

I burst out laughing, flinging myself from the bed and into his lap. “Gladly. I will definitely be your girlfriend, Jansen Pierce.” And I kiss him with all the ooey-gooey goodness flooding through me.

If he left a little later than intended, well, it was worth it.

Chapter 22

Walker

Ishut off the shower, the steam thick in the small space. Usually the water is soothing, giving me time to think. Today, I come out of it chilled and empty despite turning the temperature to max.

I’ve been hollow all week, after I got over a few days of being pissed. Why am I still hiding? Because I’m still angry, and honestly, nobody seems to care. Not that I’ve given anyone much of a chance to tell me otherwise, but it’s not like I’ve moved to France. They could find me in my art studio. They could call or text or really do anything.

The only person who’s been trying to find me is Clara, but she’s not working too hard at it. I want to see her, but also, I don’t want to. I don’t need another reminder of how I’m failing her. Of how I’m not good enough, of how I’m not enough for her.

I towel off, glancing at myback in the mirror.

Her scratches have almost completely healed, the scabs nearly gone.

I run my fingers over the few dark slashes, careful not to knock them off.

Every day, the marks fade, and that night seems more like a dream, followed by a nightmare. I’d go back to that dream in an instant, and I have, I’ve replayed the whole damn night in my head over and over, every sigh, every cry, every beautiful minute locked on repeat whenever I let my mind wander.

When I go to the studio, even there I can’t escape it. Every damn drawing, every painting, they all turn into her. They’re the curve of her hip, the crease of her smile, the topaz ring that brightens the middle of her eye, they’re all there, in every piece I start, in every piece I can’t finish.

I turn away from the mirror, pushing it all away, but instead of vanishing, the nightmare that happened next plays in my mind.

The way her face froze as my words tore into her. The tears in her eyes that she willed to stay. The emptiness when I left and she didn’t follow. Because I’m not enough. I’m not worth it.

Tying my towel around my waist, I force myself to get on with the day. I’m most of the way to my room when footsteps patter down the hall. I walk faster—I’m not in the mood, not at all.

“Hey, man,” RJ calls, forcing me to pause and turn around. He has his towel in his arm, obviously on his way to go take a shower.

“Hey,” I say, inching toward my door.

RJ rubs the back of his neck, and I will myself not to fidget, waiting for him to get to whatever he needs to say. “I just wanted to ask, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, man,” I say, waving away his question with a grin.

“You don’t seem fine. You seem like you’re lit dynamite on a long fuse.”

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