2. Clara
Chapter 2
Clara
I ’ve only been in the attic once, and it was during a crazy storm while I was completely terrified. Now, with the lights on, the space full of people, laughter, drinks, and soft music, it feels like I’ve wandered through a portal to another planet.
Trips waits at the top of the stairs, observing the crowd. He glances at his watch as Jansen and I step into the throng, his lips pressing together as he takes me in, head to toe. I swallow, waiting for a caustic remark, the announcement that I’m officially one minute late, that I’ve failed in some unknown way, but instead, he snags my free arm, tilting his mouth down to my ear. “Good job,” he whispers before marching through the crowd, tablet in hand.
It takes a minute for my breaths to slow from his unexpected compliment. Once I’m recovered, it’s obvious to see that Walker was in charge of decorating the attic. The way the honey-colored wood, green and red leather, and iron accents pull the room together gives the space a luxury speakeasy vibe. It’s his signature brand of excess, and a hum of approval escapes my lips.
Although I can’t see them, I know there are tiny microphones and cameras the guys have rigged up throughout the space, so they can know what’s going on with none of the patrons realizing. Two large oval tables sit in the middle of the space, eight chairs spread on three sides, and one chair closest to the bar, which must be for the dealer.
The bar is at one end of the attic, surrounded by plush sofas and chairs, people dressed in outfits that cost close to my semester tuition bill, lounging with glasses of high-end liquor. I thought my black dress would cover any situation I could find myself in. I think I might be mistaken.
There are a few guys in jeans and t-shirts, but I can tell they are regulars by the way they study the other players—they’re already hunting for weaknesses during the “drink and be merry” part of the evening.
Walker’s tending an actual, solid wood bar, his black hair forced into a side part, an affable grin on his face. He shakes some concoction before pouring it over a giant ice cube. Then he pulls out a beer from under the counter, filling another glass, and I realize they must have a dedicated fridge/freezer up here. It’s like the attic is an actual poker club.
Jansen gently pries my fingers loose from his arm, before resettling my hand with a gentle pat.
Yikes. I hope I didn’t draw blood. “Is it always like this?” I whisper .
He nuzzles my hair as he answers, his breath tickling my ear. “It’s a little extra tonight. We had to push the game a few weeks after the whole police situation, with, well, you know who, so we allowed extra players and guests to make it up to our regulars. Come on, let’s get you settled with some of that sushi.”
He navigates through the crowd, a smile and a nod for a select few people, eventually bringing me around to a full buffet set up behind the lounge area. Trays of rainbow-colored fish make me salivate, a vat of miso soup next to a pile of matching bowls, seaweed salad in epic proportions—I think I might have died and gone to heaven. Hot green tea is in a carafe at the end of the buffet, in case people decide against liquor.
“This is crazy, you know that, right?” I say, scooping up a smorgasbord of sushi, sashimi, and fancy rolls onto a solid ceramic plate.
Jansen pops a spicy sweet potato and avocado roll into his mouth, swallowing it in one bite. “It’s exactly what it’s supposed to be, Clara. Exclusive, reclusive, and for people who have money to lose.” He pours himself a cup of tea before turning to scan the room. “Sadly, Trips just waved me over, so you’ll have to fend for yourself for a bit.” He taps my nose with his finger. “Be good, beautiful.”
I stick my tongue out at him before remembering I’m supposed to be fancy. He gives my hand a squeeze then pulls the elastic out of his hair and weaves through the crowd to Trips, blond locks glinting in the light.
I take my full plate to the side of the bar, watching Walker work. He has a splatter of brown paint peeking out from under his right cuff, a spot he must have missed scrubbing when he got ready. He pours a glass of red wine for a woman in a blue dress, her blond hair falling rain-straight over her shoulders. “I wasn’t expecting you to be tending bar tonight,” she says, taking a slow sip from her wine, holding Walker’s gaze.
I hold my breath, waiting to see how Walker will deal with this blatant flirt. Part of me wants to shout “Mine!” at the top of my lungs, but a bigger part is curious about how he’s going to play this. Walker might be a forger, but he also likes to play the “smiling snake.” I’ve never seen the side of him that is adept at manipulation up close and personal.
He corks the bottle, tucking it into a wine fridge at the back of the bar. He turns back with his signature half-smile, but his eyes are sharp like jagged obsidian. “I wasn’t expecting you to condescend to play tonight, Summer.”
She huffs, this obviously hitting some button I know nothing about. “I enjoy a good game, you know that.”
“Only when you spent too much on your latest shopping spree,” Walker says, his onyx eyes flashing.
Summer pulls a twenty from her purse, sliding it across the bar. “Always such joyful conversation. Until later, Walker.” She scoops up her wine, winks, and saunters into the crowd.
Walker tucks the twenty into a jar, his face falling into a pleasant grin, his shoulders relaxing, playing the part of happy hired help as he wipes down both the wood top and the steel top workspace on his side.
I wonder for a second if a twenty from this woman is an insult or a compliment. If this is the same Summer that Trips and Jansen were talking about, she apparently has enough cars to worry about them matching her outfits. What I can stretch to cover groceries for the week (with a few scrounged free meals along the way), is apparently a reasonable tip for a glass of wine for this woman. And if I were to guess, she’s in her twenties—where does she get all that money?
Bored with waiting for Walker to notice me, I knock on the bar. “Barkeep?” I call, using my snootiest voice.
Walker drops his rag and rushes around the back of the bar, scooping me into a hug. “Clara! You came up!”
I try to sneak a sniff of him. He always smells like maple syrup and pine trees, which is a weird combo, but somehow fitting. “Yup. Trips said I could visit and eat if I always have a babysitter.”
“Hmm. Can you mix a drink?”
“I know the basics, but my specialty is coffee, not alcohol. Also, I have sushi,” I say, bobbing my head toward my plate, not ready to let it go.
“Then maybe I can use you as a bar decoration instead,” he says, mischief lighting his eyes. He pulls back, both hands bracing my face, looking for something and apparently finding it. He grins, spins around, and comes back with a bar-height stool.
Setting it on the side of the bar where I’d been standing, he pats the seat. “Up with you. You get to sit and look pretty.”
I laugh. “I don’t think me throwing back sushi is the sexy draw you’re hoping for.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says, dark eyes shining, still waiting for me to take my seat .
I climb up and he slides my plate to me, a pair of chopsticks appearing from behind the bar. “Now, what would you like to drink?”
A man in his thirties wearing a three-button vest and dress pants steps up to the bar behind Walker, so I shake my head. “You’ve got an actual customer. I can wait.”
Walker glances over his shoulder at the man. “I’ll be right with you,” he says, before turning back and waiting for my answer.
I look down at my sushi. “Something fruity, but not too fruity? Maybe a plum wine base, but with bubbles.”
Walker laughs. “And you say you don’t know anything about mixing drinks.”
He goes back behind the bar, pulling bottles and setting them to one side.
“I don’t,” I say. “My dad works at a liquor store, though, so I know a lot about alcohol. I just haven’t had many chances to play with it.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not twenty-one yet,” I say, thinking that explains it.
Walker wrinkles his brow. “But you drink?”
“Well, yeah, of course. But I can’t just go to the liquor store and buy whatever I want. Or order some fancy mixed drink at a bar.”
Walker sets down the bottle he was pouring with a thud. “Wait, you’re telling me you don’t have a fake ID?”
“Nope.” Of course not. I’m not certain, but being caught with a fake would probably ban me from joining the FBI. Honestly, drinking illegally is probably a risk too, but I’m not a total rule follower .
Walker bursts out laughing. “Okay, I need a minute. You good to wait?” he says, gasping over his words. I didn’t think it was that odd not to have a fake ID. Although, I am currently chilling in an illegal gambling hall in my attic, so I guess a fake ID would be small beans to my roommates.
Walker, taking a moment to recover, helps the thirty-year-old guy, pouring him some high-end scotch on the rocks. I can’t see the label, but it looks like either Macallan or Glenlivet. I wonder what the liquor budget is for a place like this—I’m sure they don’t have a liquor license, so they’re saving on that front.
My mind wanders, and I realize I’m making a business budget for an underground poker club in my head. What the fuck is my mind doing? And come to think of it, while everyone is tipping, no one is paying for their drinks, or the sushi. And this fish is top-notch. Is there a door fee? How does this work?
I finish up my plate, the bite-sized chunks disappearing faster than I’d like. So yummy, so sad to be done. Then I realize that this is basically an all-you-can-eat buffet. I can get more!
Walker tosses a ten in the jar, then dumps different liquids and ice into a shaker, followed by some tincture in a dropper. Is my drink a science experiment? Walker’s an art major, so experiments aren’t really his bread and butter.
He gives the concoction a good shake, then strains it into a martini glass. He sets it on the bar in front of me, eyes shining. “Try it, then we’ve got to talk about your ID situation. ”
I take a sip. It’s sweet without being syrupy, floral and fruity, and exactly what I’m in the mood for. “Wow. What’s in this?”
“Plum wine, a floral gin, simple syrup, lavender extract, and soda water. It turned out well?”
“It’s delicious.”
Walker reaches over and snags the glass, taking a sip. “Damn. I’m one hell of a bartender.”
I snatch it back, giggling. So good. I might have a new favorite drink. If only I knew what to call it.
Walker takes stock of the room, and with no other customers in the immediate vicinity, he slinks back around the bar, pulls me off the stool, then climbs back up and pats his lap.
“Here? Now?” I ask, my drink rippling after I take a sip.
Walker holds out a hand, offering to help me up. Am I ready to sit on his lap? In public? Surrounded by a bunch of strangers?
I debate saying no for one minute, but I miss this. I grab onto him and together we get me settled across his lap, his arm tight around my waist.
He kisses my cheek before encasing my hand holding the martini glass, dragging the drink from my lips to his. He takes another sip, licking his lips, and I know he’s doing it just to make me watch, to make me squirm. And damn it, it’s working. “Mine,” I say, tugging on the glass.
“Always,” he whispers back.
The moment lasts forever, but the bark of nearby laughter shakes me out of it. I look out at the crowd of people, suddenly stiff and awkward, perched on Walker’s lap. He clears his throat behind me, taking the martini glass from my hand and setting it on the bar.
“So, about the ID thing, you do know you live with one of the best ID forgers in the country, don’t you?”
I turn toward him. “How did I forget that? I thought you were all in on art stuff.”
Walker’s eyes glow, one side of his mouth twisted up in a grin. “Everyone’s in it for money, at least sometimes. I started with fake IDs. With RJ’s help, I moved national two years ago. To be honest, it’s a major contributor to our business account.”
“Wait, wait, hold up. You guys have a business account?”
“We have several. We’re incorporated as an LLC, but we have a ton of shell companies between all our endeavors, our business, and then ourselves. Trips set it up. It’s apparently really messy, and I guess that helps.” Walker shrugs, like he didn’t just lay out a money launderer’s wet dream in front of me. Shit. Like, I know these guys aren’t technically the most moral people, but this is super shady.
Walker’s phone buzzes in his pocket, so I slide off his lap, my mind still reeling. He swipes at something, and all the twinkle disappears from his face. He taps out a reply as I take another sip of my drink, eyeing the buffet. Maybe more food will make the level of premeditated crime my roommates commit more palatable. Miso soup sounds lovely, what with winter blowing in any day now.
I glance back at Walker, noting his clenched jaw, his knitted brows—he’s angry. Something just turned a sweet, thoughtful hedonist into someone ready to throw a punch .
Is it me? Did I do this? The panic spirals up, the urge to apologize flooding all normal thought from me. The words hover half out of my mouth before part of me calls bullshit. This isn’t my fault. It can’t be. Walker just got a text, and that’s what’s pissed him off. An apology won’t help, but a friend might be useful.
I force myself to take three deep breaths, watching Walker glare at his phone. It buzzes again, twice, before he looks back up.
“Are you okay?” I ask, touching his arm, the muscles there as tight as the ones in his jaw.
He shakes his head. “I’m taking you downstairs with me. I need you to watch and remember. Say nothing more than necessary. Your job is to tell me the things I’m missing.”
He takes my elbow, and we start toward the door, Jansen passing us on his way to cover the bar. What is going on?
“What kinds of things are you going to be missing?”
He stops, pulling me to face him. “I need someone observant, but not involved enough to get angry. I could bring Jansen or RJ, but you’ll throw him off. Watch for ticks, for signs of nerves, for any sign that he thinks he’s winning. Can you do that, Clara?”
I swallow. “I think so.”
“Then let’s go. It’s time to greet an uninvited guest.”