I hated Smith, and while I can’t say I’m happy I killed him, Icansay I’m happy he’s not my guard anymore. But if that awful man had one thing going for him, he was at least good at his job. This guy won’t last long with Trips’ dad as his boss. He’s not the sort of man to suffer fools.
Jonah and I chat about a concert he and his girlfriend went to over the weekend until class starts, and I stuff down a wave of sadness, remembering the concert Jansen and I wentto last winter, watching Evie’s band play. Which of course reminds me of us fucking in the bathroom, both of us confessing our love while angry bar patrons waited outside.
I’m positive I’m blushing as I flip to a clean page, zoning out as the professor essentially recaps what the book said, and scrawl out a reply to RJ’s note. It takes nearly as long as I have, the code not as quick as writing in English. But I get it done about three minutes before the alarm. Which gives me nothing to do but pretend I’m taking notes. I’m going to be totally fine in an intro-level marketing class without paying attention. And even if I’m not, what’s the point? I’m not going into the FBI—the thought is laughable.
Either I’m working with the guys, in which case my grade in class is meaningless, or I’m married to Trips and stuck as a baby maker for his father until fate forces him to let go of the reins, in which case, once again, class is meaningless.
It’d be a freeing realization if I weren’t currently buried under the weight of silent, unanswered worries about everyone I love.
I hold my breath when the classroom clock hits the correct time, but it takes nearly another minute for the phone to match the clock, the consistent chirp leading to one student, then another digging through their bags, confused chuckles filling the room the longer the alarm goes off.
“Can someonepleaseturn that off?” the professor asks, and the chaos picks up. Once it reaches the point of awkward mayhem, my guard occupied by what appears to be a ‘look at these idiots’ internal monologue, all rolled eyes and huffy breaths, I tug the note from my notebook, fold it quickly, and pass it to Jonah. “You know where Trips lives, right?”
He glances at me, then down at the note. “Yeah, but—”
“Bring this there. Give it to RJ or Walker. Please?” I flick my eyes to the guard so he gets the picture, just as the girl finds the phone in her purse. But it’s not settled yet—they still have to figure out whose phone it is.
“I guess I’m a regular James Bond,” he says, a grin in the corner of his mouth.
“Sure,” I tease. He chuckles as the social butterfly crosses the room to get his phone, his confusion obvious.
Class finishes with no more excitement, and as I leave, I meet Walker’s eyes across the atrium. Seeing him but not touching him makes me want to weep, the loneliness a living beast walking beside me. I wish for a second that I’d held onto the note, just for an excuse for the warmth of his skin against mine. But my guard stares at him, his brow scrunched like he’s trying to place Walker’s face, and I’m grateful I chose to deliver the note the way I did. When Walker tilts his head, asking if I have a drop, I give him a small shake of my chin, telling him no.
My current guard might suck, but the more times the guys find excuses to bump into me, the more likely it is the guards will recognize them. It looks as though we’re reaching that point.
Being separate from them is torture, but so is a future chosen by a devil of a man. One where I’m a broodmare and the men I love are either jailed or locked up with me.
So as the sharp fall wind tugs my hair free of my ponytail, I take another breath and try to work out how to do what I do best—distract and charm.
There’s no other path available right now, even if I’d planned on having Trips as my foil. I’ve got to get a despicable human to see me as a sweet girl in over her head, as nothing more than what his file folder says I am. My next step is as simple as it is horrific: I’ve got to get Trips’ dad to like me.
Chapter 11
Walker
The weather turns, and I know I should work in my studio instead of my room. Only I can’t seem to leave the house. I know RJ will call me the second Clara reaches out, but I want to be here for her, even if it’s just staring at words on a screen. It’s been two Fridays, and we still haven’t heard from her. If it weren’t for the tail waiting for us outside, I might be tempted to do something nearly as stupid as Jansen did. But the tail showed up two days after his stunt, so we’re being careful and working extra hard not to lead them to Jansen. So far, we’ve kept that from happening.
Jansen and Emma have had to order a lot of delivery, though.
Going to my parents for dinner last weekend was torture, knowing I could miss a message. My parents’ constant praise for my brother Marshall, every word making it increasingly obvious that I was their audience for the ‘Marshall Show,’didn’t help. After dinner, Marshall tried to ask me a few things about my life, but my dad pulled him away, the only comment pointed at me the whole night a ‘You should be more like your brother.’
I don’t know why I keep trying. Probably because there isn’t really another option—family is family, no matter how they make me feel.
The doorbell rings, forcing me to set down my blood-red paintbrush, lock my door, and head downstairs, almost tripping over the bedside table I moved into the hall earlier.
Outside is a guy I’ve never seen before, clean-cut and vibrating with energy. “Wrong address,” I say, knowing this guy isn’t here for RJ at a glance. If he were here for anybody, it’d be Trips, but the man doesn’t really have friends, and even if he did, they’d have figured out he isn’t here by now. I go to close the door, but the guy throws out an arm to stop me.
“Wait, are you Walker or RJ?”
I hold the door half open, saying nothing, having learned from Trips the power of weaponized silence.
“Clara McElroy is in class with me, and she asked me to drop this off.”
As soon as Clara’s name falls from his mouth, I quickly change into my shoes and get the guy to follow me down the street, noticing a square of paper in his hand.
“Dude, are you guys like, spies? Because I feel like a spy, and I’m just passing a note.”
I feel the tail’s eyes on me, so I smile at the guy, and it must be rusty, because he jumps. “Let’s talk about the project at the coffee shop, yeah?”
