1. Clara
Chapter 1
Clara
D ing-dong. Six. That is the sixth time the doorbell has gone off in the last twelve minutes, and I’m about ready to stick a sign on the front door that says “Out of Business. Go Home.” I have a feeling that wouldn’t deter these people, though. Something tells me that illegal high-stakes poker players aren’t the sort to politely turn on their heel and disappear simply because a sign says they should.
I flop back on my bed, the notes for my business law midterm heavy on my chest. How’s a girl supposed to study when strangers keep ringing the doorbell?
For a split second, I wish I’d known that the guys, my guys (even if I haven’t told any of them that yet), had warned me about their illegal gambling situation before I moved in this fall. I laugh a second later.
The Clara I was the last week of August would have sprinted in the opposite direction if she’d realized she was moving in with a forger, a hacker, a thief, and a bookie. And as a runner, I can go fast.
Now two months later, I hardly recognize that version of myself. Where I once was terrified of upsetting anyone, now I’ll stand up for myself and push for consequences that fit the crime, even if those consequences might be on the wrong side of the law.
I’m glad I’m living with four criminals, and in quiet moments, I fantasize about what it would be like to be with each of them, or better yet, with all of them.
In dark moments, I wish I didn’t have a crush on any of them. It would make things so much easier.
Because, among other problems, I’m still waiting to see if I got into the FBI summer internship program.
Yeah, things are complicated.
The doorbell rings for a seventh time. I give up. I’m not going to get any studying done tonight. Studying on a Saturday is hard normally, but with all the ringing and the stomping of feet up the stairs above me? Yeah, it’s not happening.
I toss my notebook onto one of my pink velvet chairs—an unexpected gift from Trips, the bookie—and wander into the communal kitchen. Is anyone there to complain to? Of course not. All the guys are upstairs running the poker game. Walker, the forger, said they were doing catered sushi tonight. I wish I ran in the kinds of circles where I would show up for an event that had catered sushi. Although, I guess I kind of do run in those circles now, don’t I?
I open the fridge, staring at my yogurt. Sushi sounds so much better than yogurt.
The doorbell rings yet again, so I peek out into the front hallway. Jansen opens the door, his blond hair back in a ponytail, a dress shirt and jeans hugging his slim waist and leanly muscled shoulders. “Hello, welcome,” he says, holding the front door half open, blocking whoever is out there from coming in. “If I could have the passcode?”
A gangly guy about our age bobs his head in compliance. “Money is a funny honey for a sunny bunny.”
I snort, and Jansen turns toward me, tossing me a grin and a wink before returning to his doorman duties.
“Excellent. Name?”
“Harrison Grant.”
Jansen holds up his phone, scrolling through pictures until he finds Harrison’s. The guys take this more seriously than I realized. “Perfect, Mr. Grant. If you head up to the attic, your first game will begin at the top of the hour. Your guest is your responsibility. Ignorance of the rules is no excuse, and all consequences will fall on you, even if the actions are hers. Do you understand?”
Harrison Grant swallows, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat, and he glances behind him. “Got it.”
Jansen swings the door open with a flourish, and Harrison Grant stumbles upstairs, trailed by a blond wearing a killer dress and what must be thousand-dollar shoes. Wow. I guess sushi is the right level of fancy for this shindig.
“Hiya, beautiful,” Jansen says, abandoning his door duties to come give me a kiss. As soon as his lips touch mine, my heart flutters in my chest, my hands pulling him closer of their own accord. With that invitation, Jansen dips his tongue into my mouth with a mad swipe, before releasing my lips so he can nibble my earlobe and down my neck, my shivers following his every touch.
“Hi,” I eke out, tilting my head to give him plenty of space to do his thing. Although, if he does too much more, I’m not sure my legs are going to hold me up. Luckily, he’s guessed I’m turning boneless, as his arms wrap around me, bracing me against him the moment before my knees turn to goo.
My own hands sneak up under his dress shirt, feeling the smooth skin of his back, the ridges of his spine. God, I’ve missed this. Why have I been keeping my distance?
Right now, there’s no reason for that oversight.
The doorbell’s jingle makes us both groan, my neck damp in the best way possible. “Shit,” I mutter.
Jansen presses a kiss to my cheek, my forehead, and my nose. “Do you think I can pretend they’re not there?”
“Trips would kill you if you left one of his rich marks on the porch,” I say, running my hands around his sides and up over his abs, his breath hitching as I debate inching one hand higher—and the other lower.
Jansen watches me, considering the options, before pulling my hands out from his shirt, kissing each palm. With a long look, he throws open the door and greets the next player.
I watch from the kitchen doorway, the words of the entrance ceremony flowing over me, my attention focused on the shift of Jansen’s muscles under his clothes, the control he has over every inch of his body, the body of a dancer. Or in this case, the body of a thief.
I huff out a breath, annoyed at the interruption.
If I really think about it, though, I’m more annoyed at myself. It’s been three weeks since we sent my ex-boyfriend to jail, which was a consequence he’d more than earned. Three weeks of me sleeping alone in my bed, despite the obvious looks of longing from both Jansen and Walker. Three weeks of these beautiful, wonderful guys waiting for me to feel comfortable enough in my skin to let them touch me without feeling like I need to vomit.
Why do I feel like I’m the problem? I’m not. It was my stupid ex, Bryce, who had a problem. I’m just me. But I can’t help but feel like my own skin is repugnant, like I’m a twenty-year-old stuck in a fourteen-year-old’s body. Which is broken, and wrong, and simply not true, but if I think about it at all, that’s what it feels like.
Bryce broke the part of me that was comfortable with my body, with its appeal.
But I’m sick of pushing the guys away. Not only have I been avoiding being alone with Jansen and Walker, but I’ve also taken to running when I know RJ is in class. We’re not even at the kissing point in our relationship, but I still don’t want to spend time alone with him.
The only guy I haven’t been able to avoid is Trips. Every Monday morning, he wakes me up and drives me to West Bank for my business law course. I tried one morning, right after my last run-in with Bryce, to sneak out early, buy a coffee, then take the bus. Trips pulled up on the sidewalk between me and the coffee shop in his massive pickup truck, cars honking behind him. I really had no choice but to climb in, if only to stop the angry glances everyone was throwing at me.
He didn’t say anything, just glared at me long enough to make me squirm under those icy eyes of his, before spending the rest of the drive running his hand through his auburn hair until it was a lumpy porcupine poking out of his head.
I didn’t try to avoid him again.
Watching Jansen, I remember what it feels like to be touched, to be wanted. My whole body is lightning, waiting for another brush of his lips to explode into a burst of sensation, of presence, of simply being. His green eyes twinkle as he catches my gaze, almost done verifying this new entrant. God, I want that touch. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed me.
I mentally shake myself.
Enough wallowing. When you fall off the horse, you’ve got to get right back on. Not that I’ve ever been on a horse, but I imagine the saying applies here as well. I want some delicious memories, my body worshiped by men who see it for what it is, not what they wished it would be.
And if I freak out? I trust them, all of them, to walk me through it. I’ve trusted them with the worst things that have ever happened to me. It’s time to trust them to help me heal.
Jansen sweeps the door open, letting this new group up the stairs to the attic. The cool fall air trails them up the stairs, drifting off their clothes onto me below. The front door shuts, my attention snapping back on Jansen immediately. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed, not coming to me, but a dorky smile stuck to his face. Is he planning on teasing me?
Two can tease. I pat the wall next to me, inviting him over. He shakes his head. “I don’t trust myself over there, beautiful. You’re way too tempting. ”
I pull my hair over one shoulder, braiding the curls slowly, shifting my weight to raise one hip, giving me curves where I usually have a hillock and a dip. Running at least fifteen miles a week hasn’t left me with much of a figure, but I’ll use what I’ve got to the best of my ability. I lock eyes with Jansen, waiting to see if he’ll take the bait.
He shakes his head again. “I’ve got a job to do, and you weren’t wrong about Trips killing me for failing to do it right. You’re tempting, but I have a feeling Trips is an equal opportunity murderer when it comes to distractions.”
I laugh, leaning against the wall, my hair fully braided. I pull the hair tie from my wrist and wrap it around the end. “Trips may scare you, but he doesn’t scare me.”
I hear shuffling from the top of the stairs. “Are you sure about that, Clara?”
Trips trails his voice down the stairs, first with his red-bottomed Oxford shoes, followed by his perfectly pressed gray dress pants, and finally by his broad chest barely contained in his black button-down shirt. He looks like money.
It’s easy to forget he is money when I see him shoveling half-warmed leftovers in his mouth over the kitchen island every morning. But he comes with more money and more problems than anyone I know—and he’s shared exactly one of them with me. Thank goodness the other guys filled me in on the basics, or I’d think he’s just an asshole. I mean, he is an asshole, but at least he’s come by it honestly.
Jansen and I exchange a look, and despite years of experience breaking the law, he looks guilty as fuck. And we only kissed. He really must take this doorman gig seriously. I guess it’s my job to save him from Trips’ anger .
“You wouldn’t kill me, Trips. You’d miss me. Who else would you glare at over breakfast?” I flash him my brightest grin.
I swear I see a hint of an eye roll before he steps close to Jansen, half blocking my view of him. “I didn’t expect to see you out of your room, Clara. Don’t you have midterms to study for?” he asks, knowing full well we have the same midterm on Monday and that we are competing for the top score in that class.
Come Monday, I’m totally going to hand him his ass on a textbook-lined platter.
I shrug, not clueing him in to my intentions (although I’m sure he already knows I plan on kicking his butt—academically, of course). “I was hungry,” I say instead.
“Then you should be in the kitchen, not the front hallway,” he replies.
“But there’s sushi upstairs.”
“Sushi meant for paying guests. Not for bedraggled roommates.”
I glance down at my giant t-shirt and sweatpants. Definitely not swank enough for sushi and illegal poker. I lean back against the wall, conceding a point on that volley. “I clean up pretty. Invite me upstairs,” I say, not knowing if this is a dare or a dumb move.
Trips ignores me, turning to Jansen. “Where are we at?” he asks.
“We have two guests outstanding. Summer, of course, and Tran.”
Trips glances at his watch, which is an actual physical watch on his wrist, like an old man. He’s really playing it up for the people upstairs, isn’t he ?
“Okay, give it ten more minutes, then lock and bar the door. I’m sick of starting late because Summer can’t decide which car matches her shoes.”
“Got it,” Jansen says.
Trips saunters back up the stairs. His shoes are almost out of sight when they pause. “Clara, if you’re black-tie ready when Jansen locks up, you can come up.”
“Really?” I squeal.
“You’ll be within a handbreadth of one of us at all times. And we may kick you out at a moment’s notice. But you can come up and eat the sushi.”
“Sushi, sushi, sushi,” I chant, mostly to get a rise out of Trips. Jansen chuckles, able to see my sushi dance in the kitchen doorway.
“Tick tock, Clara. Nine minutes,” Trips says, his shoes stomping the rest of the way upstairs.
I take a moment to blow Jansen a kiss, then bolt to my room to get ready.
What in the world are you supposed to wear when you’re invited to an illegal gambling ring in your attic so you can eat free sushi? This is going to be tough.
I’ve just barely finished swiping on my mascara when Jansen taps on the bathroom door. “Come in,” I call.
The door pushes open, Jansen leaning against the frame. He looks at me from head to toe and back up again. “Solid work in nine minutes. You’re absolutely stunning. ”
One glance in the mirror verifies I’m blushing. I poke some fun earrings in, shaking my head to make sure the dark mass tied on top of it will stay put. My black dress is polyester, and my booties are scuffed, but I think I’ll pass muster as long as no one looks too closely. And why would they? I’m a nobody, I’m not playing, and I plan on stuffing my face and disappearing. I give myself one last glance, wiping away a bit of lipstick that escaped the margins of my lips in my rush, then shoot Jansen a smile.
“Do you think I’ll get in trouble?” I ask.
“With who?”
I shrug. “With anyone?”
He holds out his arm like a gentleman, and I take the crook of his elbow like he’s my prom date, looping a small bag on my other shoulder. He leads me to the front of the house, turning off lights as we go through every room, making the house look dark and empty. At the base of the stairs, he leans in, his breath warm against my ear, the same ear he was teasing a quarter hour ago, and whispers, “I’ll take your kind of trouble anytime.”
“Promise?” I ask, turning so my lips hover just in front of his.
He closes the gap, his lips soft against mine, but pauses there, chaste. “Promise.”
He flicks off the last of the downstairs lights and leads me up the stairs, into a world I never imagined joining.