Page 89 of Brazen Deceits

The silence is long. “You know I want to tell you, right? So badly. I want to share every damn detail. But I don’t know where the lines are yet, Emma.”

She’s quiet for so long, I think the call’s dropped, but then she clears her throat. “I need you to promise me something, Clara.”

I can’t even say “of course” without risking the guys. God, I hate this. “What?”

“Fuck. Okay, I want you to promise me that if this all goes to shit, you save yourself. Don’t be a martyr. These guys are great and all, but they aren’t worth your future, Clara. And they’re for sure not worth your life.”

Walker’s “forever” echoes in my mind. A promise of us, together. And I want that. What would I give for the promise? What have I already given?

“I don’t think my life is even on the line here, Emma,” I say, buying time.

“Clara, I just want you safe. I need my best friend. I was here first and I’m claiming eminent domain. You’re mine, and if everything goes ass up, I need to know you’re coming back to me.”

I smile, imagining Emma ready to fight death itself for my friendship. At least I’ve built one good thing for myself over the last few years. This friendship? It’s for the long haul. She’s got that right. “You know, you always said you’d be with me in jail,” I tease.

“And that’s still the deal. I am not your bail call. I’m your partner in crime.”

I laugh. “You’ll always be my partner in crime, no matter what, Emma.”

“Good. I guess that’s all I can really force from you, isn’t it?”

I stretch my legs out. “If you came up with some intense torture techniques, you might get more. Maybe ice cream torture? I’m sure that’s a thing, right?”

She laughs. “I would totally take your ass down in ice cream torture. That ass is mine.”

“I don’t know about that,” I tease.

Her cackle is exactly what I’d hoped to hear. “God, you sound happier. I take it you fixed things up with Walker? You’re what, up to two official boyfriends?”

“Um, yeah, I guess I am. And I decided I don’t care what the world thinks. This is my life. And I’m not choosing. I’m a greedy bitch and I’m owning it.”

Her squeal has me pulling the phone from my ear. “Yes! Oh my God! This is the girl I met freshman year! Fuck the haters! Own it!”

I’m laughing so hard I snort. Emma’s laughter doubles, and it’s just me and my bestie, laughing at the world for having a stick up its ass.

Chapter 38

Clara

The van, as it turns out, is a stuffy, boring place. It’s extra stuffy when you’re sharing it with four oversized men, anxiously watching a handful of monitors, waiting to see what trouble is coming for us. And extra boring, as we had to leave our cell phones back at the hotel so we can’t be tracked.

We parked down the street from the Lincoln Park mansion all day yesterday, hoping to catch sight of the unknown team, but we didn’t get lucky.

We got here before eight this morning, so we’re still hours from the start of our own run at the house, but we’re all here, waiting, hoping for something to happen.

The team Trips and Jansen found in St. Louis messaged via one of RJ’s super secure internet routes a few minutes ago, letting us know that they’d told Jasmine they were dropping out. That leaves one other team in this battle royale.

“I have a couple of questions,” I say, curled up on a built-in bench on the other side of the van, an extra-large caramel latte for liquid comfort in my hand.

Jansen spins, his black joggers and zip-up jacket the right combo between “out for a run” and “breaking in and robbing you blind.” He slides onto the bench next to me, pulling me into his arms, his nose burrowed into my hair. “Ask away, beautiful.”

I melt into his hold, the thrum of his impatient energy matching my anxiety, creating a hyped-up feedback loop that inexplicably relaxes me. “First one, why don’t you guys have like, guns or something?”

This catches Trips’ attention, and he strides in front of Jansen and me, leaning against the only empty wall in the van. “If there are guns, you’ve already lost. Nothing looks more suspicious than an armed person where they don’t belong.”

“But wouldn’t it be safer?”

Jansen nips my ear, and I melt against him. “Someone is in your house. They appear to be drunk and think it’s their house. You try to get them out your front door without calling the police, because really, they’re just a confused drunk, but then you find a gun strapped to their hip. Do you believe they’re a drunk fool now? Or do you call the cops and let them sort it out?”

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