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As I head back to my room, I’m so lost in the maze of my tormented thoughts—my horror at seeing Mason at Gray Wolf versus the undeniable thrill of possibly meeting Leonardo da Vinci in person—it’s not until I’ve nearly crashed right into him that I notice Braxton at the end of the hall.
Inside, I feel gutted, like my heart’s split in two. Still, I manage to say, “What have you done?” in a voice so accusing, I watch him cringe in response.
“Please,” he whispers. “Not here. Come to my room. We can talk privately there.” He grasps for my hand, but when he sees me flinch, he’s quick to retreat.
“What did youdo?” I cry, not caring who overhears. “Why did you bring Mason here?”
“Tasha.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he peers at me through a shipwrecked gaze. “I’m begging you, please.”
I glance down the hall toward my room where, at my request,Vanitasnow hangs. A painting meant to remind one of the fleetingness of life and the utter worthlessness of directing one’s efforts toward amassing worldly pleasures and goods.
A painting that, just by owning it, serves to mock its own message.
A painting I used as a power play that’s now destined to haunt me for the rest of my days.
“Fine,” I say, reluctantly following. “But don’t even think about holding my hand.”
When we reach his room, Braxton ushers me inside, sets his duffel on the floor, and heads for the antique bar cart by the window.
“Do you want a drink?” He turns to me. His sweater is rumpled, his hair tangled and wet, and there are twin moons casting deep violet shadows beneath both his eyes. I’ve never seen him looking so exhausted, so defeated.
I shake my head, preferring to be alert for the interrogation I’ve planned.
“Do you mind if I have one?” he asks.
I start to shrug when I notice the fresh scrape across the left side of his jaw and immediately remember the sight of Mason’s raw and bloodied knuckles.
“Did Mason do that?” I motion toward the spot where Braxton’s face took a blow, watching as he absently rubs at the cut like he’d forgotten about it till now.
“Clocked me pretty hard.” He winces at the memory. Then, uncorking a crystal decanter, he measures a couple fingers of Scotch into a tumbler, downs it with one elegant toss of his head, then pours himself another, which he chooses to savor.
“Mason’s tougher than he looks,” I say. “If you’re going to dress like that, as a Black kid, at our ignorant school, learning how to fight is a matter of survival. By the end of ninth grade, no one dared mess with him. Until you.”
Braxton leans against the wall, regarding me with a gaze so heavy and raw, it’s easy to see the toll this Trip has exacted. Which is the only way to explain why he sees fit to open with, “What the hell is Killian doing here and why did he have his hand on your knee?”
I glance longingly toward the door and give serious consideration to leaving. Instead, I say, “You cannot be serious.”
He grips the glass so hard, his knuckles turn the color of bone, and I can’t help but cringe as I imagine it shattering into a mess of bloody shards.
“How did he get here?” He jabs a thumb toward the door as though Killian is waiting on the other side.
“Maybe,” I say, my voice even but tight, “the more important question is—how did he get left behind in the first place?”
Braxton works his jaw, tosses back the drink, then sets the glass aside and collapses onto a worn brown leather couch that looks like it was lifted from some posh young royal’s country estate.
“How long has he been back?” He pushes the words through gritted teeth.
I move to stand before him. “You answer mine. I’ll answer yours.”
The look he gives me is wary.
“What is Mason doing here?” I say.
