That has everyone looking at Trips, who just groans. “I fucked up once, and there happened to be a camera,” he says.
But it was more than once, and he and I both know it. Not that either of us got what we wanted from those brief, stolen moments. At least now, I understand why he’s been impossible to wrangle. If this was the outcome? I wouldn’t get involved with anyone either. Especially if I cared for them.
But I can’t think about that. Not right now.
“He also dug up all kinds of information on me. A dossier. He had to make sure I was worthy of carrying the Westerhouse name.” The sneer that I make can’t be helped, but Trips mirrors it, like his own name is abhorrent. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s why he’s given himself a nickname, even if everyone else teases him about it. “Oh, and he holds my parents’ lease. If I play along, they get a rent reduction. If we don’t, they get evicted. And if we really fuck up, yeah. Jail.”
And we all know he can do it. The man feels omnipotent right now. “So, that’s that part of the night. And that’s what needs fixing.”
“And the rest of the night?” RJ asks, that anger still burning in his tone. So unfamiliar. But it’s the same intensity, just pointed in a different direction.
I don’t even know how to start that one. To be honest, I wasn’t even conscious for a lot of it. I stare at my fingers, the swelling finally negligible after my last nap. No permanent damage. At least physically.
Trips clears his throat. “After my father dropped his ultimatum, I lost it. I didn’t even think about it. But there’s a spot in the woods that I would always go to when I needed to get rid of everything inside me, when it overflows. For years, I’d just scream at the trees. When I got older, I brought a bag out there and would beat the anger out. It’s as private as anything at the estate. I haven’t been out there in years, though, not since we moved here full time. Someone must have removed the bag. Not that it matters. That’s not what’s important.”
He closes his eyes, dropping his head into his bandaged hands. “I dragged Clara out there with me. I didn’t even think about it, question it. Just dragged her deep into the woods on my father’s estate during a snowstorm, wearing nothing but a slip of silk and a pair of heels.”
The memory is still hazy, and I’m sure the drinks I had at the party combined with the lack of food and just straight up shock, played into my idiocy. I shouldn’t have followed him. I should have stayed in the house.
Trips lifts his gaze, letting everyone see his regret, for once not trying to hide what he’s feeling. Not stuffing it down until it explodes. “When I wore myself out, bloody fists and all, I found her curled up in the snow. Blue. She was blue.”
I don’t want to hear this part. I don’t want to know how close I got to never coming back. This is the beginning of my story. It has to be. There’s too much bad stuff behind me for this to be the end. I deserve some happiness, don’t I?
“Luckily, or unluckily, I’ve been there before. I panicked, though. I should have called an ambulance, my father be damned. But being there, it fucks with my head.”
RJ’s on his feet, but slumps back to the couch when Trips waves a hand, rushing to clear things up.
“Not an excuse. Never an excuse. Just trying to explain why I was such a goddamn idiot. Either way, I brought her back to the house, got her warm without a stroke or heart attack. No major frostbite or anything. But. Yeah. That’s that part of the night.”
Jansen pulls me off the chair and into his lap, and I let him. We both need this closeness. If I didn’t have to collect my thoughts, I’d stay in one of their arms forever. But my brain doesn’t process normally when I’m close to them. Not right now, at least. He tilts my chin up. “Why didn’t you go inside?”
I wish I could answer that with something better than what I have. “Some combination of shock, exhaustion, and drinking on an empty stomach, I think.”
Walker slumps off the couch, and the two of them shuffle around so I’m pressed between the two of them.
But RJ stays on the couch, staring down Trips on the floor on the other side of the room.
“I guess if we’re pretending this is a planning session, I should add that I’m fairly certain my father has more on us. Or at least more threats. He wants this, for whatever the fuck, and he’s going to make it happen.” Trips is practically gray, keeping an eye on RJ, but the other man doesn’t relent with his silent censure.
“What else could he possibly have?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Maybe details about other jobs we’ve done in the last few years.”
“Which he couldn’t use on me,” I point out, needing to focus on the problem at hand. Needing to find a solution.
“Not directly. But for all you act the part, you’re soft, Clara. He knows you care about us. He’ll use us to control you. To control us both.”
The part of me that wants so desperately to be tougher than I am screams at the allegation. But it’s also true.
I’m not as soft as I was, but for these guys, I’m butter left out on the counter in the summertime—so soft I’m almost liquid.
“So what now?” I ask.
Four sets of eyes meet mine. “What do you mean, princess?” Walker asks, his hand warm on my waist.
“Isn’t this the part where we plan the heist? Figure out what else we need to know so we can get out of this?”
Jansen huffs a sad little laugh into my hair. “This isn’t that kind of problem, Clara. I can’t break into the Westerhouse estate and steal you away.”
