Page 51 of Brazen Deceits

I take it this is from experience?

Ask him about the time we went to Duluth.

Huh. That’s an idea. “So,” I say, coaxing him into talking.Please let this work.

“So,” he says, staring at the road.

“So I’m chatting with Jansen, and he wants me to ask you about a trip you two took to Duluth?”

Walker sighs, rolling his eyes. “The idiot dumped a Big Gulp of sweet tea on my head when I threatened to leave him on the side of the road if he didn’t sit still. I had to have my car deep cleaned after the damn stuff started a mold bloom in my seat. He still owes me for that, too, by the way. I would like my $278 back, thank you very much.”

I giggle, thinking about the two of them stuck in a car, bickering, but still loving each other. And I realize that’s the key to these guys. As different as they all are, as unique and crazy, they all love each other. And I want in on it.

Maybe Iamselfish.

“Have you guys gone on a lot of road trips together?”

“No. It’s usually RJ and Jansen who do surveillance. I only go when they need a forgettable face. Trips goes if they need his name, his angry rich guy vibes, or his right hook.” He shrugs. “So not a lot of road tripping for me.”

“Do you like doing that kind of thing?”

“What kind of thing?”

“Pretending to be one thing while being another? Didn’t you call yourself the smiling snake?”

His face falls, and I know, I just know, I’ve somehow made everything worse. The angst is palpable.

He downs the last of his kombucha, leaving a tiny amount of culture in the bottle, before answering. “Clara, I’m always pretending.”

“Always?”

He looks at me, holding my gaze. “Always.”

His lips twist into a smile that’s made of broken glass and gasoline. He winks, then turns back to the road.

I can physically feel my heart break. I know he’s lying. I know that’s total bullshit, but this Walker, this cold, mechanical shell beside me? How do I even talk to him, work with him, care for him, when he’s lying to us both?

Biting my lip, I hold in the tears, my right hand tapping on my leg, calming me, centering me, giving me the outlet I need so I don’t fall apart two hours outside of Chicago stuck with a man desperate to push me away.

“Okay,” I say.

I hear a choking sound before he sneaks a glance at me. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. In that case, who are you pretending to be this weekend? I need to make sure I’m the right pretend girlfriend for that guy.”

Walker’s silent for a full minute. Maybe this was the wrong tact? He swallows twice before he opens his mouth again. “I’ll be playing the part of the avid art student. We’ll hit up a bunch of museums, make sure we only eat organic, free-range food, and drink the fanciest craft cocktails. I want to be the worst parody of an artist I can. Speaking of which, we should probably stop at a thrift store in the suburbs and put together outfits that don’t quite fit but have lots of patterns and colors.”

“So I’m an artist too?”

He smiles, a hint of actual Walker showing in his eyes. “No, you’ll be my muse.”

I recline my seat, curling to face him, propping my head up on my fist. “What exactly does a muse do?”

A grin, a real one, crosses his face. “You’re a beautiful free spirit that encourages my struggling artist to experience life out from behind the canvas.”

“But? I feel like there’s a but here.”

He chuckles. “But poor struggling artist only uses real life to create more art, never fully joining the living.”

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