6. Walker
Chapter 6
Walker
C lara’s soft breaths soothe me, taking the edge off my anger, letting me ignore my doubts. The flower scent in her hair lulls me; nevertheless, I can’t sleep.
This should be a perfect moment. It was a perfect moment, but it vanished under the cloud of my fear. I have to talk to the guys. We need to come up with a plan, but I can’t help but feel that, well, I have no part in that meeting. I know what part they’re going to give me in all this—Walker, just work on the art. Finish the Rubens, we’ll take care of the rest.
Only, I can’t even do that right now.
I need some detail photos that I couldn’t find online. I thought it might be a fun weekend getaway for Clara and me to hit up a bunch of museums in Chicago, but I’d been waiting for her to recover some before I brought it up.
But instead of fun, now the idea is straight up work. How can I fit in a trip to Chicago in the next week or two, on top of school, heist planning, and now a tryout, of all the ridiculous insults? Then there’s Thanksgiving, finals, Christmas, and the actual “doing” of our New Year’s heist. And my only team responsibility is to make a pretty picture? Yeah. Really helpful, Walker. Especially when it’s my fuckups that made this mess.
I might have slept some by the time the sun hints at the horizon, but I’m not sure. Clara’s turned onto her stomach, and I stroke down her spine, her skin smooth and warm under my fingers. A sleepy mumble escapes her, but she doesn’t wake up. Which is probably a good thing.
I roll onto my back, my side pressed against hers. What am I doing? What are we doing?
I know last night was important, special.
But I also know that wasn’t Clara picking me over my friends. She made it clear that she doesn’t want anything exclusive a few weeks ago. She even made sure I was okay with it. And I said I’d try. But now I never want to leave her side again. I want her floral scent to stick to my skin, her hand in mine.
I twist to gather her close to my chest, perfectly asleep. Perfect.
I want this.
But she wants more.
Am I not enough?
Am I a failure if she wants a relationship with my closest friends, too?
What am I compared to them, anyway? I’m not as smart as RJ or Trips, not as fun as Jansen. I can’t throw a punch better than average and I’m not a big planner. Sure, I can pretend to be someone else, someone better, someone important, but I’m never going to be that person.
I’m just the guy who makes good cookies and fake masterpieces.
I press my nose into her mass of curls, breathing deep. Jansen makes her laugh, makes her light up from the inside. RJ takes her confidences, her fears, lifts the weight from her shoulders. Trips pushes her, makes her stronger, smarter. Where does that leave me?
The brittle glow of cold morning light cuts across the room, but Clara doesn’t wake. Instead, she burrows her face into her pillow, hiding from the dawn.
I mean, at least I can do this: I can hold her on a chilly morning, I can feed her, touch her, turn her anxiety and anger into action. But is that enough?
If something were to happen to her, what the hell could I do? RJ would find her, pulling up some combination of a money trail and a super-secret illegal security camera network. Jansen could break in wherever she was and get her to safety. Trips would thoroughly destroy whoever threatened her. And me? I could, what, throw paint at them? Bake them poisoned pies?
I sigh into her hair. Who am I kidding? She’d probably save herself before any of us even got to her. And she’d make it look gorgeous and effortless while she was at it. She’s a goddamn natural.
Which, of course, reminds me of the guilt I can’t shake, the heaviness of taking a normal girl and dragging her into our world. We showed her this haze, set her loose in this arena full of dark goals and even darker villains. The threat of awful shit happening to her is legitimate. And if that awful shit happened to her?
God, I wish this were a casual thing for me, but even the thought of her hurt makes my chest seize up, so the thought of her gone? Unfathomable. I need to keep her safe.
But I can’t. Not alone.
And some part of her must know that I’m not enough, that I can’t do it.
Clara will never be just mine. I could never be enough for her. She’s a goddess, a force of nature, a piece of a star fallen to Earth. And I’m the mud she landed in. At least I get to be hers—for exactly as long as I can convince her to keep me.
On that morose thought, the hum of muttered cursing drifts down the hall from the kitchen, the fridge door opening and closing. It’s time to update Trips. Because even bad news must be shared.