Page 67 of Burn Bright
Eliot wags his brows playfully at Harriet while he approaches me. Her scowl deepens, and he laughs while he hands me a sheet of paper with game instructions. He’s a natural flirt, but I’m not even marginally threatened by my brother.
For one, I’m confident if we were competing for a girls’ attention, I’d win in the end if I wanted the W. But mostly, Eliot would never hit on a girl I brought over. The depth of that betrayal would eviscerate him inside-out. So in a lot of ways, I will always and forever trust my brothers, even when they deceive me. The intent is always pure.
Mine is too.
I take the instructions, having trouble concentrating on the typed font when some tension still swarms the parlor.
From what I can tell, Eliot seems to like Harriet. Charlie has zero opinion of her so far, and Beckett watches my reaction more than hers. I didn’t expect to be most worried about my favorite brother, but if he continues being this overly observant of me, I might have problems.
Fuck.
Yeah…I’m hiding a lot from them. Like being broke. LikewhyI have money issues in the first place.
I don’t need Beckett digging too hard tonight. Before I figure out how to shrug off the attention, a man—wearing what I can only guess is a Sherlock Holmes costume—pops into the room.
“Welcome to The Labyrinth Library. The exit door is about to be locked, and it will remain locked until you find the key. No phones are allowed once the game begins.” He holds out a basket for us to deposit our phones.
I’m about to chuck mine in there.
“Wait,” Beckett says while putting his phone to his ear. He’s calling his bodyguard to come collect our cellphones for us, not trusting this game master guy to hold on to them.
No phones. Stuck in a room with my brothers. Only one way out.
Sounds like the start to a very big disaster.
I’m going to kill him. Murder seems a reasonable solution after I learn that Eliot chose an escape roomwithouta time limit. Meaning, it doesn’t end in an hour if we don’t get the key. We’re fucking stuck here.
Ten minutes in—and I’ve never been more goal-oriented in my life.
After a quick sweep of the parlor, we discover three different padlocks in the room. The first on a drawer of an antique desk, the second attached to a tin box, and the third locking a cupboard of an apothecary cabinet. It’s clear we need to find three keys to open the padlocks. Hopefully that’ll lead us to the final clue for a way to exit the escape room.
Charlie has plopped down on the couch to readFar from the Madding Crowd—as if this isn’t a team activity. Tom thinks the color of the books matter and is meticulously rearranginghardbacks on a bowed, wobbly shelf. Eliot and Beckett hover over an ink-blotched map spread on the antique desk, while Harriet and I comb through the apothecary cabinet for clues.
“That went really horrible, sorry,” Harriet whispers fast, her gaze darting to the bookcase where Tom balances on a chair to reach the highest shelf.
“I think it actually went well.” I give her a slanted smile.
She crunches down on a hard candy. “You’re full of shit.”
“No, really.” I rifle through the glass vials in the apothecary cabinet, not sure what I’m looking for. “You stood up for yourself and you didn’t piss off any of my other brothers. Honestly, it couldn’t have gone any better.”
She expels a deeper breath.
I eye her. “That was weighing on you?”
“Noooo,” she draws out with thick sarcasm. “Itotallycame in here expecting to start a fight with Tom.” She makes a lackluster hoorah motion. “I even brought ammunition. Bombs. Knives. Brass knuckles.”
“Okay, Killer,” I say into a laugh.
Her lips quirk in an almost-smile. It’s hard to look away. Hell, it’s hard not to pull her away somewhere more private so I can try to eke that smile out more. I don’t get a chance to imagine it further because Eliot sidles near and hangs an arm over my shoulder.
“How are we doing?” he asks.
“Terrible,” I say seriously since we’re no closer to finding a key than we were fifteen minutes ago.
“Terribly amazing,” Eliot rephrases. “We’re Cobalts, brother. We can solve anything.” He gives my broad shoulders a motivating squeeze, then picks up a leather-bound book. He acts like its yellowed pages carry the answer for point-two seconds before chucking it disinterestedly over his shoulder.
It thumps to the ruby red rug. Beckett trains his eyes on the discarded book, then the crooked shelves where Tom repositions texts, then the several papers scattered over the antique desk. With tension in his hand, he lights another cigarette and leaves the mess to sit on the sofa beside Charlie.
