Chapter 57 #2
“I’ll need signatures from everyone, and then you two can live it up, sin free,” the official states with a grin, handing a pen to Clara first.
As she goes to sign, her hand stops an inch away from the paper. “Wait, I think there’s a mistake.”
Trips snatches the pen from her, scribbling on the line next to the one Clara was hovering over. “There’s no mistake.”
She blinks, slowly, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears as she raises her chin to look at her now-husband. I step forward, wondering what the hell is going on as Trips stabs the pen in her direction.
And there, spelled out in all its official glory, is a name that doesn’t exist—Trips Bergen McElroy.
“Your father’s going to kill us,” she whispers.
Trips says nothing, waiting until she signs her name, nothing changed at all, Clara Grace McElroy, then steps back, ushering Clara’s dad to the table.
He takes a moment to see what Trips did, and when he does, he’s got nothing but confusion and tears for us. “But why?”
“I never wanted to be a Westerhouse. There’s no way I’d make your daughter become one as well.”
The shocked silence lingers as we finish signing the marriage license, the officiant tucking it into his jacket as the sharp clatter of a flurry of dress shoes rounds the corner.
Trips’ father leads the charge, a collection of guards behind him, Trips’ brother bringing up the tail of the brigade. I school my expression, but damn, does it feel good when things are going according to plan.
The doors to the gallery swing shut with a muffled bang, the climate control sucking the sound away, dulling the dramatic punctuation I expect. “Stay where you are,” our enemy demands before directing the guards around the space.
A number move to the paintings, an electronic scanner in each of their hands as they inspect the pieces on the wall.
The rest of the guards surround us, grabbing at us with no explanation.
One tries to yank my jacket off my shoulders, and the instinct that RJ and Trips trained into me takes over.
I flip the man over my hip before I even wonder if I should show my hand.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I say, pressing my heel against his throat as he scrambles for leverage on my leg to fling me down beside him. I guess that cat’s out of the bag.
Clara’s dad takes a swing at the guard in front of him, while Trips shields Clara from a second guard coming for her on one side.
Meanwhile, his brother weaves between bodies, approaching Clara from the opposite direction, and I risk releasing my captive to intercept him.
The officiant’s startled expression dodges from one scuffle to the next, a heavy hand on his shoulder keeping him from running.
A surprisingly soft cough from the evil mastermind halts the chaos, the guards freezing to listen to his command. He glances at his phone, then straightens his lapels. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I need everyone here to strip. Now.”
I’d assumed a pat-down was coming, but stripping? Fuck.
Trips’ father knows something is going down, and we’ve got his attention exactly where it should be: on me. But his attention wasn’t supposed to translate into getting naked in front of a crowd.
“What are you talking about?” Clara’s dad grumbles, the officiant looking just as perplexed.
“I know this is not ordinary, but I have reason to believe that the security in this part of the house has been tampered with, and with all the priceless art on the walls, I can’t risk any pieces walking away without checking.”
Clara’s dad isn’t an idiot, and the retired crook just motions to the room. “They’re all here. You can see that as well as I can.”
“I have insider knowledge regarding a forger,” he says, his look pointed at me, leaving no one in the room with any question of who he’s referring to.
“So, strip,” Trevor Westerhouse barks, stepping forward like he plans to help Clara with her dress.
Trips lunges to block his brother, but I get there first, my grip on the scum’s wrist hard. It’s the most vicious grab I know, one where I dig my fingers into his tendons until he flinches. “Stay back,” I say. Then, I look at the man in charge. “We’ll do this. But you’re mistaken.”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
I strip quickly to my underwear, handing the items to a nearby guard, the men around me doing the same. Clara, meanwhile, waits in the center of her protective circle, staring down the man in charge.
“You too, my dear,” he says, the endearment too genuine to be comfortable. Trips steps forward, beating me to the task this time, and slips the buttons on the back of the dress free. He should be the one to help her, but all I want to do is touch her.
The dress pools at her feet, leaving her in heels and a set of virginal white panties and corset.
My heart pounds, torn between desire and fear. This isn’t something for a crowd of guards to see, let alone her father- and brother-in-law. The officiant has the good sense to face away from her, but except for a handful of guards, the rest of the crowd isn’t as circumspect.
Trips’ father is clinical, though, when he makes his next command. “The corset as well, please. We both know how much can hide in such a garment.”
Trips’ brother isn’t as polite; his eyes glaze in avarice as Clara holds her arms out, letting Trips undo the back of the garment. I step in front of her, using my body to block as much of her as I can, but I know it won’t be enough.
It isn’t—and I can tell by the lack of reaction from Clara and Trips that this isn’t the first such situation they’ve found themselves in.
It probably isn’t even the worst. And I suppress a shiver at all the unknowns they’ve had to deal with, the two of them alone.
The damage they’ve taken that we haven’t been able to see written across their skin from across a room.
And I couldn’t protect her. None of us could; we knew that—she knew it.
But I hate it, more now that I can taste it, feel it, live it.
The corset swings, brushing against my back as it falls free. Trips rolls it up like parchment in his fist, his glare darker than any I’ve seen before.
The monster gestures for Trips’ brother to retrieve the garments, the guards around us getting to work digging through pockets and feeling seams.
Trevor wears a smile as I step between him and Clara, keeping him from seeing all of her. “You assume this is a new view, lover boy. But your girl is fond of sharing. We all know that.”
I lunge forward, and Trips doesn’t stop me, letting me deck his brother in the nose, blood bursting, tainting the air with the metallic scent of old change. Guards rush forward, hauling me back before I can take another swing.
Trips snags the garments from his brother, handing them to another guard. “Don’t get blood on her dress. Fucking idiot.”
Trevor yanks out his pocket square and covers his nose. “Your wife’s boyfriend broke my nose,” he shouts, the sound nasally and choked with blood and snot.
“Then you shouldn’t be looking at my wife like you want her,” he says simply, the guard bringing the dress and corset to their father to be looked over.
“Boys, that’s enough,” the head of the family says, the brothers left glaring at each other. “Jakobi, if you could see to Trevor’s nose? I don’t want his wife whining to me all night about a trip to the hospital.”
The guards continue with their various tasks, Clara’s dad silently joining us in the ring around his daughter, giving her whatever privacy we can.
There are crunching sounds and some cursing when Trevor’s nose gets fixed, but otherwise, we wait quietly as Trips’ father gathers everything they found from our clothes onto the table, the boring wedding band I switched out for a nicer one earning me only a stern look.
Trips’ father takes a few more calls, sending groups of guards out of the room after every one, his frustration growing as time passes.
I smile on the inside, happy the plan is still on the right track.
They don’t find any art, of course. We knew he’d be suspicious of us tonight, which is why we smuggled the forgeries in long before now. They’re too unruly for a quick drop with this level of security.
What the evil man does find, though, turns out to be nearly as bad.
“Archie?” he asks, his voice ice.
“Yes, Father?”
“Can you explain what I’m looking at here?” He holds up the marriage license, and something about his calm tone has fear rippling through me.
But Trips doesn’t panic, not like I am. “It’s our marriage license.”
“Then who exactly married this woman this evening? Because I don’t know any ‘Trips Bergan McElroy.’ Although, the memorial to your mother is a nice touch.”
Trips shrugs. “I didn’t get to go shopping for a wedding gift. This seemed like an acceptable substitute.”
I can hear the angry teenager in his voice, and my fists clench in sympathy.
The man at the table sighs, folding the document and tucking it into his interior jacket pocket. “We will discuss this another time.”
The guards finish their inspection of the room, telling him what we already knew: there’s nothing out of place, our clothes saying the same damn thing.
He surveys us. “We all know this isn’t done.”
I don’t react, and I’m sure he’s getting the same level of emotion from those behind me.
“None of you will be without assigned eyes tonight. I’m watching.
I look forward to seeing what you think you can get away with, as laughing at your failure will be my payment for letting your little friends join us.
” He motions to the guards. “Give them their clothes. Then figure out your assignments.”
Four guards stay after we’re dressed, the one I thwacked with kitty litter sharing a meaningful look with Trips.
I don’t worry about that. Instead, I just hope we’ve been distracting enough for RJ to do his part. Otherwise everything we’ve worked for will be for nothing.