44. Clara
Chapter 44
Clara
T rips shakes me awake the next morning from where I’m pressed between Walker and Jansen in my bed.
“Nice night, Crash?” he asks, a smirk obvious in the half light.
I wiggle my way out from the two of them, and inexplicably, Trips lifts me from the pile of limbs. I guess that’s one neat thing about my lack of bedframe—easy lifting.
My throat is scratchy when I go to answer. “It wasn’t that type of night.”
Trips just raises an eyebrow. “Too tired after RJ?”
I shove him out of my way, grabbing some clothes as I head to the bathroom to change. Trips trails me.
“RJ and I stowed all your criminal crap, I’ll have you know, then inched across Wisconsin in a freaking snowstorm, so there wasn’t much time or energy for shenanigans.”
Trips snorts. “Shenanigans? Is that what we’re calling a good fuck now?”
I flip him off, slamming the bathroom door in his face. It is way too early for this shit. The sun isn’t even all the way up yet. I shouldn’t have to explain my lack of sex life to this dipshit.
I go through the motions, dragging on some fleece-lined leggings with my barely salvaged yellow sweater dress from Thanksgiving, opting for a lazy side braid. Then, feeling fancy, I pop on some mascara and lip gloss.
Sneaking back into my room to collect my socks, booties, and backpack, Walker’s eyes slit open. “Good morning, princess.”
I crawl across the mattress, locking him in a hug with me as the big spoon for once. “Good morning. Go back to sleep. Get some of that good stuff and share it with me later.”
He chuckles. “I don’t think it works like that.”
“Darn.” I plop a glossy kiss on his cheek. He twists, pressing another kiss to my lips before I slip out of the bed, snagging my phone on the way to the door.
I find Trips leaning against the wall in the hallway, my travel mug in one hand, a banana and granola bar in the other. I take them all, shoving the snacks into my bag. “How many minutes?” I ask.
He tilts his head, then laughs. “At least sixty. I got you up extra early this morning. I want to talk.”
“What? You jerk!”
He hands me my capelet from where it was lying across his arm. “I’ll buy you breakfast. Does that fix it? ”
I glare. “Just this once. Don’t make a habit of this nonsense, Archibald.”
He shakes his head, snagging my arm and half dragging me out into the snow.
Because there is snow.
Everywhere.
“Oh my. Do you think the roads have been plowed?”
He stands next to me on the back porch, neither of us wanting to wade through what looks to be at least eight inches of snow. “Probably not all of them.”
“Do you think they will cancel class?”
We both dig for our phones, checking. “I don’t have anything yet,” I say.
“Me neither. And the snow is supposed to stop by noon.”
I sigh. “I should have remembered to bring back my snow boots over break.”
Trips squats down, his shoulder bag yanked to his front. “Hop on.”
I snort. “Piggyback?”
“You don’t have snow boots, and I’m going to guess the only other closed-toe shoes you have are your running shoes. So hop on.”
Snaking my arms out of my backpack, I hand him my bag as a counterbalance, my coffee staying exactly where it belongs. In my hand. “Okay, then. I’m curious where my grumpy asshole has gone, but I guess I’ll take this strange chivalrous knight in the interim.”
He huffs out a laugh right as I launch myself at his back. We stumble into the yard, his hands wrapped around my knees, my arms tight around his neck. Fat blobs of snow drift into my face, the city quiet around us.
Trips carries me to a silver Mercedes SUV instead of his pickup truck. Before I can ask, he pipes up. “I switched. We don’t need the pickup now that we finished building out the van.”
The door open, he backs up, dropping my ass on the soft leather seats. He hands me my bag, trudging to the driver’s side as I slam the door, blocking the snow from piling up inside. Trips kicks the car on, pulling his scraper from the backseat.
The swish-swish of Trips wiping snow off the car combined with the hum of the heater and the quiet of the snow-covered morning melds together, leaving me with the feeling that I slipped through a barrier between realities, falling until I found refuge.
Trips saves my window for last, and in a fit of bravery, I press my lips to the glass, glancing up at him. His nostrils flare as he stares at me, the scraper forgotten. Just as I’m ready to pull back, he raises his hand, pressing it to where my lips spread over the glass.
We gaze at each other, the wind buffeting his hair, the snow piling on him, melting into silver puddles the longer we stay like this.
A gust picks up, a sheet of snow drifting into him, and he blinks twice, turning away, glaring over the hood of the car. But his hand stays, the glass slowly warming between us.
Shaking his head, he steps to the front of the car, cleaning the headlights off, before finally coming around to join me inside. I crank the heat to max now that the car’s warm, and he holds his hands in front of the register.
“Thanks for the ride through the snow. And for scraping the car,” I say, the words scratchy against my sore throat.
A tiny smile creases his cheek. “Don’t thank me yet. If we can’t get out, maybe it’ll be your turn to give me a piggyback ride back in.”
The laughter bubbles up in me, and I squint at the beast beside me. “I don’t want to jinx this, but did you just make a joke? I’m so confused right now.”
He gives my shoulder the tiniest shove. “Don’t get used to it. I’m just in a good mood.”
“Right. It’s not that you’ve been hoarding jokes for years while silently brooding. I bet you already have at least half a lifetime of snarky comments in that vault by now.”
He chuckles, clicking on the four-wheel drive and throwing the car into reverse.
The drive to West Bank is long and tedious, only a handful of roads fully plowed. The campus buses chug along, albeit slowly, so school is happening despite the weather. When Trips claims one of his coveted spots in the West Bank parking garage, I’m grateful he has the cash to buy the annual pass. My toes will thank him, if nothing else.
I miss out on a second piggyback ride as we stroll down the shoveled sidewalks and into the same twenty-four-hour cafe we visited this fall. Deciding on an omelet so full of junk that I’ll never be chilly again, I couple it with a plain mocha, or as I like to think, hot cocoa for grownups.
Trips orders a black coffee and a stack of pancakes with extra bacon on the side. His warm hand rests against my lower back all the way from the car to the booth. Pretending it’s normal seems smart—there’s nothing like starting the way you plan to continue.
Once we’re set up in the booth in the corner, the first few bites of food gobbled up, I clear my throat. “So. Not that I don’t mind a good breakfast date, but what are we doing here?”
Trips finishes a piece of bacon, a hint of a grin still lodged in the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been thinking.”
His good mood must be contagious because I can’t help but flirt. I glance down at where his crotch would be if I could see through the table, then back up at him. “Hopefully not too hard.”
He locks eyes with me, scanning me from head to chest and back up, licking his lips. “I think it’s just hard enough.”
My breath vanishes, but I feign nonchalance. “I know a way to help with that.”
His eyes drop to my lips, tension rippling between us. “So do I.”
The energy between us builds, a storm waiting to break, but I need to be clear. I can’t handle any more confusion, not right now, when things are just starting to be good again. “You know my requirements. I won’t be tied down. Not again.”
He keeps watching my mouth, but he slowly nods. “I’ve taken it under consideration.”
Under consideration—what does that even mean? “I’m sure you have,” I say. Forcing my brain out of the gutter, I clear my throat. “Unfortunately, I think if playing with hard things had been the plan, we never would have left the house. ”
He huffs, diving back into his food. A mouthful of pancakes later, he takes a sip of coffee. “No. You’re right.” Cutting another pancake, he glares out the windows at the storm. I make it to the middle of my omelet before he gets to the point. “We’re here because I need to figure out how Jasmine’s client found out about us. I need to stop the leak. I need to fix it.”
“All I’m hearing is ‘I’, Trips. Where does my lack of expertise come in?”
“RJ’s tracking down any digital leads. But I need someone to brainstorm with me.” He looks up, his gaze holding a hint of pleading, and I’m floored. “Clara, I need someone outside of this mess to find potential leads.”
He’s asking for help. From me. About a major problem with his burgeoning criminal empire. “I’ll try, Trips. But I don’t know everyone’s history, who you guys have come into contact with, let alone who might know what kind of work you all do.”
Picking up his last piece of bacon, he taps it against the rim of his plate. “I know. I just, I need help thinking it through. I have ideas but want to make sure I’m not missing something obvious. And you won’t let me miss anything.”
I take another sip of my mocha, hoping it will help with the ache in my throat. It doesn’t. Finally, I nod. “I’m in. When should we do our heads-together time?”
“I thought this morning.”
I glance at my phone. “Don’t you have class in five minutes? ”
Trips shrugs. “Look at it out there, Clara. No one’s going to be in class. I can miss one day. It’s not like I didn’t learn all the material on my own two years ago.”
“You’re playing hooky with me, Trips?” I ask, honest to goodness butterflies flapping around in my stomach.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that and you know it.”
“Maybe. But I’ll take it however I please, thank you very much.”
He snickers, pulling out a tablet. “Okay then. Here’s what I have so far.”
Together, we tease apart all the weak points in the guys’ lives. We list out all the moments or places where someone might have figured out what they do in their free time and compare it to a list of who has the financial means to arrange a theft like the Rubens job.
In the end, the list is tiny, mostly composed of Trips’ family and family friends, plus a handful of prior clients. His face is bleak. Glancing at the time, I offer a small smile. “Are we playing hooky for business law, too?”
He runs his hands over his face, for a second looking like a lost little boy instead of an angry asshole with way too many muscles. “No, I think we did all we could. Let’s go to class.”
We both shove our stuff into our bags, returning the plates to the bins by the counter. I slip my capelet back on, my hat and mittens still damp from the snow and left in my backpack. “Do you think the buses will run on time? I have work at one.”
“You’re still working at the coffee shop?” Trips asks.
“Well, yeah. Where else would I get grocery money? ”
Trips wraps my hand around his bicep as we snake through the tables. “You’re part of the team now. The company can cover your living expenses. Anything else is just spending money.”
I glance at him. “But I’m not actually part of the team. Not really. Not yet. And so far, it looks like everyone else drops money into the pot. I have nothing to give.”
He shrugs. “You can sample what we do, see if anything clicks with you. And those jobs are just maintenance money, anyway. The real cash is in big jobs. And you’ve proven you can be an asset there.”
He stares straight ahead, caught up in his own thoughts.
I mull it over as we walk back to campus, the snow lighter but the wind harsher, my nose numb by the time we get back to Hansen Hall.
One thing has been bugging me, though, and I know he’s the only one who really has the answer. I tug his arm, gaining his attention once we’re in the atrium. “Trips? Will it always be as dangerous as it was yesterday?”
He pauses, and even through his thick wool coat, I can feel his muscles tense. Saying nothing, he drags me to the nearest empty study room, swiping us in. The door clicks behind us, the automatic lights switching on as he pushes me into the corner of the room, his body blocking out the surrounding space, my entire reality narrowed to Trips against my front and my backpack heavy against my back.
His lips smash into mine, not asking, not enticing, but forcing me to take what he has to give. Gasping at the onslaught, he takes more, his tongue lashing with mine, heat roaring through me .
I drop my backpack, letting it crash to the ground, before grabbing Trips’ coat, the buttons slipping under my fingers as he wraps my braid tight around his fist. His other hand slides under my dress, yanking down the front of my leggings, icy fingers plunging into me, making me yelp.
“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he growls. “I was trying to make myself forget you saw guns and fucking ran toward them. I could almost pretend you were one of the fucking guys. But fuck that, Clara. I can’t. You’re not.”
My quest for his skin under his coat forgotten, I’m clenching his lapels, trying to stay on my feet as sensation swamps me. Trips drags my head back by my hair, the pain making me moan. His fingers pound in and out before he grinds those same cool, wet fingers against me just right. His mouth covers mine, drowning my moans with his tongue, his teeth.
Dragging my head to the side again, his teeth close on my earlobe, tugging past the point of pleasure and into pain, blending with the ache in my scalp and my mounting climax into a confusion of joyous agony. “Never again. You promise me that and I’ll let you come,” he rumbles against my ear.
He pauses, his hand motionless against my clit, my braid still locked in his fist, as he waits for my answer. I flutter my lids, catching sight of his steely gray eyes, dark enough to match the storm that’s always roiling inside him. “Trips—“
“I can’t see that again, Clara. I can’t watch you on a fucking screen, putting your life at risk. Not again.”
I swallow, locked in place. “But I’d do it again, Trips. Without even thinking. If any of you were in trouble, I’d be there, helping in whatever way I know how. ”
His eyes close, his grip on my braid still tight, his hand probably drenched against me. “Fuck, Clara. What are we doing?”
I don’t answer. How can I? I won’t make a promise I can’t keep, even if every nerve in my body is desperate to come all over Trips’ hand, to be marked by him, to ride him until we’re both screaming each other’s names, spent in a heap on the floor of a goddamn study room.
Instead, I slide my hands up around his neck, tugging his hair, matching my intensity to his. He groans, his eyelids flying open. “Last I checked, we were nearly fucking in a study room,” I whisper.
A finger caresses my wet folds, teasing my entrance, and I lean into him, trying to tug his face to mine.
He shakes his head, dragging his finger through the slickness between my legs, inching from the back to the front, leaving a ghost of a circle around my clit, before pulling his hand out of my leggings, refusing my kiss. “Clara, I can’t.”
“You can’t fuck me?” I feel my anger rising, frustration and arousal needing a target.
He yanks my hair until I yelp, his eyes still dark, his slick hand circling my throat, the scent of my arousal filling my nostrils as his thumb rests against my jagged pulse. “No, Clara. I can’t be with someone who’ll jump into a fatal situation without a way out.”
His hand lingers there, not squeezing, but a threat all the same. And I’m so close to coming it’s not even funny.
“What if it’d been me stuck in that house?” I manage, fear and arousal making it nearly impossible to form words.
He searches me, his face grim .
Then he turns, releasing both my neck and the tension on my braid. Loose, I stumble away, tripping over my backpack, my hands catching me against the wall.
“We’re late,” he says, before marching out of the room, leaving me wet, smelling of my arousal, crumpled in the corner. He doesn’t even look back.
Fucking asshole.