Page 99 of Brazen Deceits

But after RJ promises Walker he could get the last of the supplies they need by Friday, the guys decide it’s worth the risk. They’ve got a lot riding on this job. This is the gig that will break them into the criminal major league—apparently this weekend was playing in the minors. Go figure.

All their talk about planning and supply allocations, it all just drifted around me while I tried to keep myself from drowning.

Luckily, both Walker and RJ noticed my inattention, so they voted I ride back with RJ in the van. And as much as I want to hold Walker’s hand, to cuddle with Jansen, to see where this new closeness with Trips is headed, I can’t. Not after today.

The other guys head out first, leaving RJ and I to bring down the last of his stuff. Once we’re down at the van, he cranks on the heat before we do anything else.

“How can I help?” I ask, surveying the assortment of wires and tech.

RJ drops his mittens in the front, slipping his hand in mine. “I think we should stow everything. If we get pulled over, I want the van to wear its secret identity.”

“The van has a secret identity?”

“Yup. She doubles as a fully tripped out vanlifer van. We’re living on the road, sugar.”

Wrapping my arms around him, he presses a kiss to the top of my head. I tilt back, and I get a second peck on the lips. “So how do we put on her Clark Kent glasses?”

His eyes light up, and he cracks open the built-in cabinet behind us, pulling out an assortment of velvety bags. “We bag things up and bungee them to the rings on the floor over here. This whole panel comes out and flips. On the other side is a mattress. The desk folds down. I had to raise the floor to make it work, but then all our contraband is invisible. I’ll stow the decals from the outside here, too.”

Taking in the collection of boxes on the desk, I realize I don’t know what any of it is. “Some of this is illegal?”

RJ shrugs, unplugging his tech. “Only a couple of things. The rest of it is just very suspicious. Do you think you could start unhooking the parabolic mics and the cell booster?” He motions at a bunch of stuff lining the ceiling of the van that I legitimately hadn’t noticed before.

Pulling everything down, I find that the shelves fold over the foam fabric-covered holes in the corners of the vehicle. So clever. “Did you do this yourself?”

RJ winds up some cords, locking them with Velcro tabs. My own cords also have been pre-Velcroed. This is all so well thought-out.

RJ adds his bundle to a pile on the side of the desk. “Walker and I have been working on designs for over a year. Jansen and Trips helped us build it out. But yeah. I’m the only one who knows what needs to be in here, so I had to do a lot of it myself.”

Finishing with all the ceiling stuff, RJ hands me some fairy lights to string up, further covering the little shelves, which have hidden hooks to hold up the lights once the shelves are flush against the wall.

The pile of cords is impressive: white, blue, and gray bundles, all neatly wrapped. RJ adds the last wires to the pile. “Can you stow these? There’s a secret compartment under the pillows in the bench.”

Sure enough, there’s a perfectly sized stow-away under there with a few spare blue cords. Feeling the need to gain some control, I slide them around, organizing them, first white, then gray, and lastly blue. Do they need to be organized by color? Nope. Did I still do it? Yup. Do I feel a little better after doing that? Yes, yes, I do.

RJ lowers the desk and slips the tech into their bags, banding them to the rings with tight bungees. Then he hops out the back with what looks like a roll of paper, returning moments later with the decals pressed to the white backing. Heslips them into the bungees and positions himself between the two front seats. “Ready to flip?” he asks.

I go to the other side, lifting a small handle, and we hoist the heavy block of wood, my side sagging as we manhandle it around into place.

RJ hands me one side of some bedsheets, and we make the bed together, an oddly intimate activity, my heart stuttering with every tug. He tosses me some pillows before pulling out a panini maker and a goofy-looking coffee maker, setting them on top of the bench. Dragging in the generator from the back, he locks it down with a bungee next to his similarly strapped-down chair, and we’re ready to go.

I sprawl across the mattress, watching him finish up the van’s makeover from super-villain secret lair to hippie paradise, as some of the tension I’ve been holding oozes out. “It looks good,” I say. RJ lies down beside me, stretching on the mattress, his arms under the driver’s seat, his feet still on the floor. “I’m not sure you fit in here,” I tease.

Rolling onto his side, he tugs me a little closer so our noses touch. “I’ll make it work.”

We lay there, breathing each other’s breath, and slowly, slowly, I feel my chaos unravel. I scoot so I can press my face to his chest, shuddering breaths full of his citrus scent, and his arms hold me close. His fingers drag through my hair, down my back, again and again, soothing me, helping me down from the beast of emotion this day has wrought.

It’s not a two-hour run. It’s not me tapping to five 1,000 times. It’s not an hour-long shower with elaborate washing rituals. It’s better.

After another shuddering breath, RJ shifts closer. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed,” he whispers, his hand tangled in my curls.

“There were guns, RJ. Guns. And I just ran in there.”

“You ran in there to save Jansen, Clara. That’s a good thing.”

I swallow, looking up at him. “Do you know what the O’Malleys do?”

He shakes his head.

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