Page 7 of Brazen Deceits

If I’m being honest with myself, I just miss her. I miss her honesty, her teasing, the way she has to stop and redo her ponytail if even one curl escapes.

So knowing she’s in this room and not being able to see her, yeah, I’m a little antsy about it.

I’m camped in what Trips calls the “second lounge.” Standing up to stretch, I scan the crowd for any familiar sable curls, but I’m out of luck. She’s probably at the bar with Walker.

My tablet jingles, so I scoop it up. An alert tells me that Harrison Grant, aka Aiden Johnson, is good for about $20,000 of credit, based on the cars his parents drive and the volume of candid shots of him in unbranded, but ungodly expensive, clothes. I shoot a text to Trips, then decide I need a drink. I mean, none of us get drunk while we’re working, but there’s Mountain Dew at the bar. A Mountain Dew with a Clara smile sounds right about now.

I’m halfway through the crowd when my phone buzzes. I pull it out, surprised to see a text from Walker. He’s basically hired help tonight, so there’s no reason he’d be messaging me.

SOS. NightAntiques @ front porch. OTW to intercept.

Wait, what? How? I thought I had our digital footprint squeaky clean. Walker’s fence should have no way to track us via messages. My phone buzzes again. It’s Trips this time.

Jansen to bar. Walker, fix it.

There’s Trips being helpful as always. I catch sight of Jansen heading my way, so I slip him the ID he lifted—he’ll get it back where it belongs.

We share a look. Walker’s fence could derail our whole plan. Three years of building a company, of honing our skills, and it all might be gone before tomorrow. I don’t want to run. None of us do. But that might be the only option.

I’m close enough to the door to see Walker navigating through the mess of people, Clara on his arm.

I’m glad he has backup.

They disappear downstairs together, leaving an ache in my chest. They’d better be okay. Clara finally came out of her isolation. What if this scares her back in? Or worse, what if we have to run? Would she run with us? Would we even ask?

Chapter 4

Walker

Icannot believe that my freaking fence just messaged me from the front porch, asking for a meet. The whole point of the internet, of bouncing our IP address halfway around the world, is so we both stay safe and anonymous. But now NightAntiques has blown the whole thing wide open. How does he even know where we live? How is he even in the country, let alone the state?

I mean, I guessed he was in the Midwest—the info and jobs from him were centered in the land of corn and cheese. But here? On our doorstep? On a Saturday night while Trips is hosting a game? Too many coincidences.

I shot a message to the guys so they know what’s up, but they have their own jobs to do upstairs. Only I’m redundant. I free up Jansen to do more lifts, but he’ll be just as effective behind the bar as I am, and a challenge has always helped him keep hiscompulsions in check.

Clara’s letting me hold her hand, and it feels good, right, centering. I have a long fuse, but when I reach the end, it’s explosive.

Without her here? I’m sure I’d be itching for a fight right about now. With her? I might not start yelling. Yelling is never a good way to deal with criminals. There are too many guns, and the stakes are too high.

Be reasonable, Walker, be calm, be in control of yourself and your reactions.I force out another breath, pulling on a bored face, forcing my shoulders to relax, arrogance bubbling in my chest to mask my anger, my fear. I flick on the lights for the front hall and the front porch, and with one last breath, I open the door, Clara’s hand soft and warm in my own.

Framed in the half light of the front porch, a woman leans against the railing, swiping through her phone. Once the door creaks open, she turns, a tight braid of red hair whipping around to follow her, freckles visible even in the half light.

Huh. So this is NightAntiques.

“DaVinciDeux?” she asks, using the continental pronunciation.

I nod, uncertain what tact to take. Where before I was waffling between throwing a punch and playing up my arrogance, now I’m not sure either tact will suit this development. The press of my palm to Clara’s reminds me she’s still there, that she’s paying attention, that she’s got my back.

“I’d rather not chat on the front porch,” NightAntiques says, sauntering up to the door. “I’d also like to talk without…a guest, if possible.”

“Come inside, but I won’t speak alone with a stranger. I figured Clara here would make you less nervous than one ofthe guys on my team,” I say, pretending like I have a plan, like I knew she was a woman all along.

NightAntiques dips her chin before she follows us in, a thick puffy coat covering her to mid-calf. It’s not quite November yet, so either she’s a transplant or she goes south when real winter hits. I debate taking her to the living room, but there’s no way to secure that space. Instead, I start back upstairs, heading for my bedroom, my hand anchored to Clara’s.

None of us says anything until we’re closed up with the door locked behind us. NightAntiques examines the space, sizing up my half-finished canvases, before stripping off her coat and claiming my drafting chair. I lead Clara to my loveseat, and we both settle in, waiting.

NightAntiques pulls her braid over her shoulder before crossing one leg over the other. I realize with the height difference in our chairs, it’s as if she’s on a throne and we’re commoners requesting an audience with the queen.

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