9. Clara
Chapter 9
Clara
W alker has a carafe of coffee ready for everyone, boxes of cereal and cups scattered across the coffee table. It must be too early or too urgent for a real breakfast. A kettle whistles from the kitchen and Jansen s thanks at Walker before disappearing into the back, returning a few moments later with a pot of tea, a cup, and a trivet. If it weren’t so adorable, I might make fun of him, but he’s obviously thrilled as he sniffs the pale brew, so I leave him be.
Trips is in his usual chair, a sleepy RJ taking up the other one. A smile inches across my face as I take in his adorably sleep-squashed hair and bleary gaze as his amber-brown eyes crinkle back at me. I hope I didn’t take too long to feel like myself again. I like him too much to give up before we even started.
Because I’m a glutton, I like all my guys, and I’ve decided not to think too hard about it. If it works, it works .
If it doesn’t, well, then I’ll figure that out later. Sort of like the hum of arousal that is currently centered on my clit—later is my word of the day.
Walker hands me a cup of coffee, a dash of cream added, then passes Trips a twenty. I grin as I sit cross-legged in the middle of the couch, excited for my first big crime meeting. Is that what you would call it? A planning session? A criminal conclave? Huh. I’ll have to ask Jansen or Walker about the right terminology.
I sip the coffee as Walker settles on my left, Jansen on my right. Trips finishes fixing up his mug, his face grim. RJ doesn’t have anything to drink, but he’s scooping handfuls of Honey Nut Cheerios as he picks up his tablet. Once we’re all settled, Trips clears his throat, resting his elbows on his knees. “So Walker met the fence last night.”
RJ leans forward. “Do I need to do a sweep of the room?”
Walker shakes his head. “She was on the porch, in the front hall, and up in my room. I don’t think she tagged anything, but if you want to do a sweep for bugs out there later, it couldn’t hurt.”
Trips locks onto me, the blue in his eyes faded this morning. “Clara?”
Weird. I’m supposed to verify what Walker says? “I didn’t see her plant anything, but I missed the cop leaving a bug in the kitchen last month, so I’m not sure I’m the best source,” I say.
Trips nods. Like that’s confirmation enough.
And now I’m nervous. Trips has never included me before, not like this. He’s worked with me, around me, but not included me. Taking in the room, no one else looks surprised by this change. Walker’s still acting elusive, but that’s it.
Setting the mug of coffee down on a coaster, I pull my arm inside of the sleeve of my shirt, my fingers hidden as I drum them against my thigh. I need more subtle tells—if the guys notice, they’ll all know how weirded out I am right now.
Trips turns to RJ. “Do the sweep after this, but I don’t think we have to worry for now.”
RJ slouches back into his chair, eyes still half open. How would I have woken him up this morning? We’re not there yet, but damn, is my libido ready to run with all the possibilities. Trips interrupts my sexy daydreaming. “Walker, tell us about the fence.”
Walker leans back on the couch, his coffee in one hand. “NightAntiques is a woman, maybe a few years older than us. She said her name was Jasmine, but who knows if that’s an alias. She’s ticked we messed up that job right before school started.” He shoots a glance at me, being purposefully cryptic. “So she’s threatening to take away the Rubens job. She’s set up a trial for Thanksgiving weekend, where we have to battle two other teams for the honor of stealing from the Art Institute of Chicago in December.”
RJ sits forward. “That’s ludicrous. I’ve been sniffing for two months, and I’ve only just finished the full map of their security measures. How would another team even get in?”
Walker takes a sip of his coffee, his face sour. “Smash and grab.”
The room is silent, this announcement apparently akin to finding your car keyed when you’ve parked it in your garage—both devastating and incomprehensible .
“What the fuck?” Jansen whispers next to me, staring into his cup of tea for answers.
Walker sets down his coffee. “Yeah. It’s a dumb route to take, and until last night, I thought NightAntiques, er, Jasmine, was a top-notch fence.” He shrugs, staring at his feet.
I risk cutting in. “Can someone explain to me why this is such a big deal?”
RJ rubs the back of his neck, taking on the explanation. “The goal of a fence is to connect stolen things to rich people who want them. The best fences will commission a theft for a client. Art, in particular, is very hard to move. Art’s all one of a kind, so you can’t just take the Mona Lisa off the wall of the Louvre and hang it up in your dining room—people will know you’re the one who took it. And you can’t steal famous pieces and expect someone to buy them, because hot thefts come with a lot of police pressure for both the fence and the buyer. So art theft is a high-stakes game, with a lot of risk.”
Trips drags his hand through his auburn waves. “That’s where we come in. Walker makes a fake, we switch it for the genuine piece, and no one even realizes it’s stolen, at least for long enough to kill a police investigation. Then the rich fucker who commissioned the theft can have the real deal, say it’s a reproduction, and be smugly thrilled that he’s put one over on everyone.”
Jansen sets his teacup down on the table, turning to sit cross-legged facing me. “A smash and grab is different. It’s quick and effective. It’s perfect for stealing things like laptops and phones. You smash into a store, grab all you can carry, and dash out. The items are indistinguishable from each other, and their value is in the number you can move, so the more you get, and the faster you get them, the better. But with art?”
“It’s a shit show,” Walker says. “Everyone knows the art’s gone. It makes it to the national news, the FBI gets involved, and before too long, they catch the person who snagged the art. There are too many cameras in the world to disappear after a job like that. Smash and grab is the dumbest way to steal art. No one gets what they want.”
I reach for my coffee, my hand still wrapped in my sleeve. “That makes a lot more sense, then,” I say, thinking back to the conversation from last night.
Trips crosses his ankle over his knee, cradling his coffee in his big hand. He motions at me with the cup. “Your turn. Tell us everything you saw or noticed, no matter how dumb or unimportant it seems.”
I glance at Walker. He’s back to staring at his feet. “Walker already told you what happened with Jasmine.”
Trips just stares at me, waiting. Walker sighs, taking another sip of coffee, not looking at me or Trips. I really need to talk to Walker. This is not like him.
Either way, Trips is still waiting for my recap, so I’ll just have to save that for later. “Okay. I guess I can do that. What kind of stuff do you want me to tell you about?”
Trips shrugs. “Tell us about Jasmine, how she seemed, what she wore, assumptions you made. Shit like that.”
Sneaking another peek at Walker, I catch his eye. He lifts his chin, urging me ahead. “I can do that.” Pulling up the mental list I made last night, I drum my fingers on my thigh, one two three four five as I collect my thoughts. “I think she gave us her real first name. I don’t know why, but it felt genuine, familiar to her when she used it. She’s rich, not new rich, so I think she grew up with family money. She hates the cold and probably disappears during winter. Also, she seemed, I don’t know, European? Not like her accent or anything, but I think it was the way she moved. Maybe that’s where I got the rich vibes? I don’t know.” I pause, looking around the room, trying to see if I’m doing this right. The closest I’ve come to giving this kind of rundown was analyzing my ex for Trips, but that was a paper, not a presentation, and as far as I know, only Trips read it.
Everyone is watching me, waiting for what I’m going to say next.
Okay then.
I guess I’ll just keep going. “It also felt like she didn’t want to be here. I think someone was making her come to us. She was anxious but trying to hide it.”
Sipping my coffee, I try to figure out how to word the next part. Blunt seems best. “She’s also super-hot and knows it. She was planning on using it, but I think I threw her for a loop. And even though I didn’t say a single word, she included me in the conversation. I would have expected to be ignored, to be seen as arm candy, but I wasn’t. She assumed I was part of the team. I don’t know what kind of information you guys gave her about yourselves, but yeah. She thought I was one of you.” I add one last observation. “Oh, and she was super excited to tell Walker that her hacker is better than ours. Sorry, RJ,” I say, glancing at him.
His face is grim. “I was up thinking about that last night. I can’t totally remove us from the internet or tag us as being at some other university. We are who we are, where we are, at least for now. The average police department wouldn’t find us because they wouldn’t know where to look. NightAntiques knows enough about us to point a hacker in the right direction. They would have to be good, but not hacking-the-Pentagon good.”
“Huh. Then that might have been another way for her to feel in control, like hovering over us, or making you escort her to the door, Walker,” I say. “I think that’s what was up with her freakishly perfect hair, nails, and makeup. It was all about control. She wants it, and right now, she can’t have it.”
The guys are still watching me, and I pull at the hem of my shirt, not sure if the looks are a good thing or not.
Jansen reaches over and tugs on one of my curls. “Good eye, Clara,” he says, eyes twinkling, his tea cradled in his other hand.
I smile at him as Walker gives my knee a squeeze. Looking over, he’s still entranced by his feet. If I hadn’t felt Walker’s assurance, I would’ve assumed he’s mad at me.
RJ has his tablet out, working with the information I gleaned. Trips just stares at me, not saying anything, but I think he’s impressed. Maybe.
The stare down reinforces my need to kick his butt on our business law midterm Monday. Maybe then I’ll get a grudging smile or something. I doubt that would get me another “good job” from him, but I’ll yank every ounce of respect from him in whatever way I am able. Because he’s mine, too. I’m turning into a greedy bitch for my merry band of thieves.
I break eye contact, and Trips shifts his weight. “Walker, when will we know more about this bullshit trial we have to go through?” he asks .
Walker sinks into his corner of the couch, somehow farther away than he was a moment ago. “She said she’d send details this morning.”
Taking another gulp of his coffee, Trips glares at the space between Walker and me. RJ sets down his tablet and slides it toward us, a hint of a grin on his face. “Is this her?”
There she is, mock glaring at the camera, wearing what has to be the creamiest, silkiest shirt I’ve ever seen. The woman has taste and the money to make it a reality. “Yup,” I say as Walker nods.
RJ snags the tablet back, swipes a few more times, then looks up. “Okay. Her full name is Jasmine Cadieux. Twenty-five years old, originally from Chicago. Her family is crazy wealthy. She went to a boarding school in Switzerland for high school, attended King’s College London for university, and likes to spend her winters on the French Riviera. She’s not all over socials, but she posts just enough to look like an ordinary rich girl, which is the same plan we have. Basically, she’s about what I would have imagined for a top-of-the-line fence.”
Jansen sets down his cup. “Then why the smash and grab? That’s classless, and based on what you just read, Jasmine is all class.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think this is her choice.”
Walker catches my hand as it goes to tug on my shirt again. “What specifically did you see?”
I wish I had a logical answer. Closing my eyes, I try to remember when I picked up on it. “I think it was when she dropped the smash and grab option. Her nostrils flared and her lips got all tight, and she flicked her braid. It looked like she was mad but trying to hide it.” I open my eyes and find all four guys staring at me. Again.
Walker’s phone buzzes. I glance at the time as he pulls it out of his pocket—exactly 9:00 a.m.
Some communication I don’t understand passes between the guys, and RJ hands over his tablet without asking. Walker types something into a weird browser before a bunch of files pop up. “We’ve got our tryout info,” he says, opening a few documents and glancing through them before all the guys’ phones ping, the same details now on each of their devices.
They fall silent, pulled into reading the assignment. Would you call it an assignment? A gig? A mission brief? I really need to get this lingo figured out.
Either way, Walker didn’t forward it to me, so I get to watch them stare at their phones. I’m not going to lie; it hurts being excluded. I hope it’s not a sign that he’s freaking out about last night.
This is all so new. Prior to this fall, the only laws I’d broken involved underage drinking and speeding. Oh! And I smoked pot once. My relationships weren’t any more adventurous—a high school boyfriend that lasted six months, and then Bryce. Unfortunately, if there were an ad campaign for “good girl,” I’d be right there front and center. Or at least, I would have been a few months ago.
Now? I mean, I blackmailed my stalker ex to get Trips out of jail, then sent that pedo, secret-sex-tape-selling jerk to prison by manipulating a legal wiretap. I’m also sleeping with one, and if Jansen’s promise holds true, soon two, of my roommates. Oh, and I have serious crushes on the other two as well, which is about three guys more than a good girl ought to be involved with. But I’m still not a huge pot fan, so I guess that hasn’t changed.
I sit waiting, drumming my fingers on my thigh again, my hand still hidden in my sleeve. I want to know what they know, but no one is including me. Should I ask? Am I even supposed to be here? Will they kick me out when they realize I’m still sitting on the couch?
Jansen answers that last thought by tugging me so I’m bracketed between his legs, my head tucked next to his. He sets down his tea and takes my cup, both settled on coasters, before moving his phone in front of us both, his other arm wrapped around my side and fiddling with my hair. After a long second, Walker pulls my feet into his lap, but he’s practically vibrating with bottled energy.
The first thing on the to-do list after this criminal conclave (which is totally the best name) will be to sit down and have a talk with Walker. I need to figure out what’s wrong.
And if he thinks that last night was a mistake?
My breath stutters with that thought. It can’t be that. Because if it is? I don’t know if my bruised heart could survive yet another blow.