Chapter 26
Trips
Another week, another series of meaningless sex for the camera, meaningful murmurs in the dark, and family obligations.
Once again, my father demands we attend an orchestra concert, having donated buckets of money to host an event celebrating the soloist we saw last time.
Gwendolyn Shaw is finishing up her residency, and my father must be there, front and center, proving he’s the pillar of the community he always pretends to be.
Smart, charming, a patron of the fine arts, and a doting father to his three children.
His story never mentions that Jessica is his third wife—or that his first two wives died because of his fists.
Can’t have the wealthy thinking he’s a violent criminal, even if that’s exactly what he is.
Clara’s wearing a plain navy sweater dress like armor, buckled into the middle seat like she usually is, while sleet cascades down on the windshield of the SUV.
My wool overcoat repels the melting mess into droplets clinging to the fabric like it would a mirror.
Clara’s rich brown wool coat shows the same, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling her against my side.
She’s been quiet since she saw the guys earlier this week, and I can’t tell if she’s mourning their absence or focused on her plans.
And not for the first time, I wish we could talk to each other without worrying that my father will use our words against us.
She melts into me, her head fitting under my chin like it’s always belonged there.
Falk clears his throat, the guard with a weak stomach his partner for the night. “I’m not sure your father mentioned it, but before the concert, there’s a meet and greet with the orchestra and a few other major donors. I’m supposed to remind you both to be on your best behavior.”
I know that, but I don’t know whether Clara did. Once again, communication has been the greatest impediment to this plan.
The other guard twists to glare at Clara in warning.
A second later, she’s licking from my Adam’s apple up the line of my jaw and down the side of my neck, her teeth digging in as she flips him off.
I barely hold back a groan, half hard from what is obviously a taunt, and when she pulls back, leaving my skin chilled, I snatch her chin, making her see exactly what she’s done to me.
She smirks, then tucks herself back against me.
Brat.
God, what would I give to actually be with her instead of caught in this charade of what we really want? To explore the violence that hums between us and see what sparks fly when we’re free to just…play.
Not that I have much practice playing. But with her? I’d be glad to give it a go.
I need more good memories, the ones she’s promised me when we get through this. Something to look forward to. Something to build toward.
Orchestra Hall is mostly quiet as we’re directed to the open space where the hobnobbing happens, my father and brother wearing matching grins as they shake hands and laugh too loudly.
No one approaches Clara and me as we get our complimentary wine, only to have hers taken away by Falk.
“Not worth my life. Sorry,” he says, disposing of the plastic cup.
Clara rolls her eyes, wearing her sassy nut-job persona for the second guard. “Spoilsport,” she whines, and Falk hides his grin with his hand.
He and I have managed a few more conversations while sparring, and while he doesn’t know where my father keeps the blackmail, he knows when my father takes it to wherever he keeps it.
There’s always a blank appointment on his schedule a few days after something goes down, and my father drives himself somewhere during that gap.
He calls it ‘clearing his mind,’ if anyone asks, but Falk is pretty sure that’s when he moves the blackmail. Unfortunately, he knows only that.
It will have to be enough. I have three days’ worth of chances next week to get the info to the guys before Thanksgiving break.
It’s the last piece we need to make this plan a success.
That, and Jansen being healthy enough to do his part.
Which I can’t get a good read on, as the moments Falk has left me and one of the guys to talk have been short and sporadic, dependent on factors out of both of our control.
Clara only got that one chance earlier this week, and it necessitated this new persona she’s wearing tonight.
She twitches, like she can hear I’m thinking about her, then folds herself against my side, her fingers digging into my chest. It’s a cue that whatever she’s going to say next is part of a plan that I’m supposed to go along with. “Question. Purses,” she says.
There has to be a reason for this sudden turn, but the only possible trigger I can see is the skittish guard coming closer. “What about them?”
“Do you think a stomach could be turned into one?”
God. This woman. I pretend to think it over when all I want to do is laugh. “Maybe. Might be too stretchy for a purse, though.”
“Hmm. That would be a problem. What about plastic knives? Do you think I could break the skin with them?”
“Plastic is sharp as fuck,” I answer. “Wouldn’t even need to be a knife. Break a spoon or fork right, and it might work just as well as your average kitchen knife. As long as you aren’t fussy about what else gets cut.”
She glances at the guard, tilting her chin, scanning him from head to toe. “I’m not very picky. Messy is more fun anyway,” she says.
She grins, a feral glow to her eyes, and the guard shudders.
“Shit,” falls from his lips, before he rushes to the nearest restroom.
With a subtle glance at the growing crowd of donors and musicians, she links our arms, and half drags me to the other side of the room as I huff out a laugh.
I have no idea where we’re heading, though.
Once we’re hidden from the party by a grand staircase, she bounces on her toes, ready to run to Walker, RJ, and Jansen huddled out of sight of the crowd.
Falk nods at the guys, then turns to watch for our other guard’s eventual return.
RJ rushes to Clara first, and she practically glues herself to him, his demeanor softening as he wraps her in his arms.
Jansen dances around her, not good at waiting. “Where are your coats?” he asks me, his fingers wrapped around one of her curls.
“We checked them. Why?”
Walker taps on the shoulder bag he’s carrying. “Delivery. Try not to bend them.” RJ makes eye contact with Walker, just for a moment, and Walker adds to his instructions. “And look for something identifiable to smuggle out for us to plant at step two. Do you have the claim tickets?”
I hand them over. “Got it. How will I get the tickets back?”
Jansen punches me on the arm. “I’m offended.”
“My dad still wants you either in jail or dead. You shouldn’t do drops while he’s standing next to me.”
Jansen spins, arms out, his black duster sweeping behind him like a cape. “Look at me—I’m a whole new man. And just as stealthy as ever.”
I’m ready to tell him how stupid he’s being, but Clara steps away from RJ, going to our resident thief.
I expect her to yank his braid and tell him he’s a bad boy, but there’s no braid to pull anymore.
Instead, she tugs his shirt until her lips are beside his ear, whatever she’s whispering obviously just for him.
And the guy looks like he’s been electrocuted by the time she’s done with him. He steals his kiss, lingering like she’s oxygen. Walker gives up waiting for them to finish, and tugs her into his arms, claiming her lips in a way they probably shouldn’t in public.
It doesn’t bother me the way it used to.
Instead, it feels like foreplay, watching the way each of them interacts, the different facets of Clara they each bring out, and the sides of themselves they only show to her, all of it unbearably revealing.
And uncomfortably erotic. I shift my weight, trying to relieve the sudden pressure against my zipper.
Never thought I’d be into this shit. I’ve never been happier to be wrong.
Damn it. Instead of giving in to temptation, I pass on what little information I have. “I haven’t found where my father keeps the blackmail, but thanks to Falk, I know when he goes to stash it.”
RJ looks away from Walker and Clara, his eyes dark. So, I’m not the only one into this shit. But at least the two of us can focus when we need to.
“It’s a blank in his schedule within a few days of something going down,” I explain.
Clara spins in Walker’s arms, as this is the first she’s heard of it. Jansen scoots closer, taking her hand and kissing her fingertips, distracting her when we all should focus. We don’t have much time. “He goes for a drive to ‘clear his mind,’ totally alone.”
RJ nods, finally giving in to the temptress between us and grabbing Clara’s other hand in both of his. “We can work with that.”
“But first, there needs to be something worth collecting blackmail on,” Clara says, her wheels spinning. I don’t like the look on her face.
“No, you’re not taking any more risks,” I warn.
She idly presses a kiss first to RJ’s palm, then Jansen’s, a few people in concert attire passing us. She relaxes farther into Walker’s hold, her face screwed up in frustration. “If you’re sure about that, then it’ll have to be you.”
“What are you thinking?”
“How badly would you have to hurt your brother for it to be worth blackmail?”
The grin that stretches across my face is likely crazed. “It’d have to be pretty bad.”
“He wants to make a move on me. What if I let him, and you came in and ‘rescued’ me? Would that be enough?”
“Depends on what you’re showing in the footage, too. He wants more on you to control me.”
“So, I get to rescue myself?” She looks thrilled.
“No. There’s too much that could go wrong. But maybe after I save you, you can take out your anger on him. That might be enough.”
Jansen hops into the conversation. “You’ll just have to make it really big. Flashy. Incriminating.”
RJ folds the palm she just kissed closed, his eyes only for her. “You could break a bone of his, Sugar. You’ve got the skills, especially if Trips is there to keep it from being a fair fight. I have full access to the elder’s schedule now, so we can be in position to follow him.”
“Then that’s the plan,” she says, like it’s settled. “It’ll have to be this weekend. Trevor’s going to Olivia’s for Thanksgiving.”
I can’t help the chuckle that I let out. They all look at me. “Your future sister-in-law is going to hate you for damaging her hubby.”
“When it all comes out, she’ll be thanking me.”
“You might underestimate her hero worship.”
Clara pauses, wondering if that is the case. It might be. It looks like it could be. But Olivia’s delicate feelings are last on my list of concerns.
“Is that everything?” I ask, motioning to the bag at Walker’s side.
“Yup.”
He tugs her closer to him, like he could pull her inside of himself if he tries hard enough. “We’re stitching them into your coats. And a button camera for the safe. We’ll leave a seam ripper in each of your pockets. Whatever comes next is up to you two.”
RJ shifts his weight, drawing my attention. “It might be nothing, but Bryce knows what happened. With that guard.”
Clara freezes, the same as I do, but before we can ask questions, Falk whistles softly.
The guys each kiss Clara fast enough that it could be a competition before she links arms with me, both of us putting on our game faces while I assume her mind is circling like mine is with that news. Bryce, the fucker.
We stroll back to the crowd of musicians in black and donors only marginally more colorful, meeting the weak-stomached guard as we enter the throng. He glances from Falk toward my father and brother, then back at us, suspicious. But he doesn’t say anything.
It’s time for us to get back to being the ignored second son and his non-society fiancée.
Can’t say I mind that role, at least.
Instead of getting our presumed solitude, though, a woman flanked by what looks like security slides up to us, taking Clara’s hand and whispering in her ear.
It only takes a moment to recognize her as the soloist we’re here to celebrate, Gwendolyn Shaw, and I’m more confused than ever.
Clara grins as the woman pulls away. “You’ll get there,” the violinist says, before stepping back into the crush, the jovial sound of my father’s laughter cutting through the mumbled conversation.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Clara shakes her head with something like wonder on her face. “She said that someday I won’t have to hide all my loves. That if I fight for it, I might be surprised how many people don’t give a damn.”
I squint through the crowd, unable to see the soloist in the sea of black surrounding us. “Huh.”
Clara leans into me. “We’ll get there. Only a little over a month.”
“A month and one hell of an obstacle course,” I say, both of us keeping our voices low so the guard who won’t last long can’t hear us. “But then I guess you get your perfect fairy tale ending.”
Her face grows tight, her eyes granite as she looks up at me. “No. Not perfect. Never perfect. It’ll be better than perfect, because it’ll be real.”
And maybe, just maybe, I believe her.