Chapter 37
Trips
The next week passes equal parts fast and slow. Fast, because we’re getting close to go-time for the action part of the plan, and slow, because homework and conjugal visits aren’t enough to fill my days.
I hate that we don’t have good communication options, that I have no idea how the guys are doing on their side besides a few words from one of them twice a week. It’s not unexpected. I knew I’d hate that part of the plan, second only to the danger Clara put herself in by coming back. I hate that the most.
At least since ‘the pool incident,’ as my father has decided to call it, he’s allowed me to spend more time with Clara. Lying awake in the dark hours of night with her sprawled across my chest, her warm breath tickling my skin, is the most peace I’ve felt in my father’s house since I was too young to understand the dangers. I never thought of myself as acuddler until I got jealous watching her with the guys. Now that I’ve experienced it, though, it’s the best new addiction I could imagine.
No matter what happens, at least I’ll have that—long nights of her warm body wrapped around mine.
My father won’t ever say he’s made a mistake, but the change in my incarceration is as good as him saying he fucked up. Clara needs an extra layer of protection from my brother, and my father’s flagged me to be her last line of defense. I’m hungry to defend her. It’s a pity my brother’s avoiding us right now.
Mattie’s avoiding us, too.
God, I want to explain it to her. But saying, ‘Well, yeah, I totally sent four guards to the hospital, as well as our brother, but I swear, I’m the good guy here,’ fixes nothing. Mattie’s too smart to take what I say at face value, and my actions sure as shit don’t back up my good guy argument. Clara’s actions that night, while exactly what I’d been teaching her to take, don’t help with my sister either.
The only person who’s been acting mostly normal is my stepmom, but even she is trying to communicate with weighty glances and obscure questions about the wedding flatware that seem to warn me of something. I think. Or maybe she’s just really into wedding planning. I can’t tell.
But we make it through another week, winter blowing in for real now. Each morning, when we step out of the car and into the cold, I’m relieved it’s not triggering one of Clara’s panic attacks. She spent weeks working with red roses after she found out about my father’s favorite part of the estate, desensitizing herself so she could pretend theyaren’t a weakness of hers. We couldn’t plan for winter while summering in Mexico, though. We could only hope that she’d be okay. And she is. Thank God.
The most exciting thing that happened this week was Walker catching me after my finance lab and trading me the red pen Clara snatched for another birth control shot. Where they got it, I’ll probably never know, but Clara clung tight after I gave it to her, her whispered fears of turning into her mother finally clarifying the trigger for last weekend’s breakdown.
With every stolen meeting I have with the guys, Falk proves he’s on our team, and I’m grateful that at least one part of this plan has worked out.
On Friday evening, my father calls me to his office, Clara’s absence beside me noted. He’s standing by the windows staring down at the nearly frozen lake, gentle waves barely visible at the edges of the ice in the distance. “Do you remember your responsibilities to me now that you’ve come back?”
“Yes,” I say, wondering where this is going.
“Then you’ll be needed later today.”
He doesn’t dismiss me, nor give me any further information. So I stand there, like a damn fool, waiting. But unlike his usual silences, this one doesn’t seem to be a power play. Instead, it’s like he’s caught in his head. Like he’s thinking, maybe even feeling something besides anger or avarice.
Eventually, he turns and strides to his desk, like he’s sorted out whatever was bothering him. But his next words make me wonder if that’s just an act.
“Tell me, what do you think of your brother?”
My mouth won’t open. I can’t tell if this is a trap.
He gestures to the seat across from him, then pours two scotches. Two.
I take the seat, still wary, but hold the glass like I plan to drink from it.
“You can be honest. I know there’s no love lost between the two of you. And things have only gotten worse now that you’re both well on your way to being settled, which I will say isn’t what I expected to happen.”
“An honest assessment?” I clarify, just in case.
He nods, and as he thinks of himself as a man of his word, I have no choice but to believe him.
“Trevor’s an exceedingly charismatic adult toddler. Impulsive, easily upset, and jealous. There’s not a secret he doesn’t want control of or a person he doesn’t want to break, just to see what happens. He’s dangerous, not just because of his actions, but because he doesn’t seem to believe there are consequences for those actions. His charm has gotten him out of so many scrapes that he believes he’s invincible.” I swirl the scotch in the glass, taking a small sip. Damn, my father has good taste in liquor. “And I just generally hate him. I have since the day he tried to drown me because he thought it might be fun.”
Father’s brows crease. “Trevor tried to drown you?”
“Yeah. When I was a kid. I told you, but Trevor said otherwise, and of course, you believed him. His story was more convincing.”
Father sniffs his glass, gaze drifting to the snow. “Thank you for your honesty.”
He still doesn’t release me, so I take a second sip, knowing it will have to be my last, savoring the flavor on my tongue. Animage of taking of sip of the stuff and then sharing the flavor with Clara skirts unbidden through my mind, and I shift my weight in my seat. Shit. What would I give to explore with her? To figure out how what she likes and what I like might fit together? And even more important for the future, how does all that fit with the other guys?
