Chapter Forty #2
"I picked the lock, obviously. Yeah," I agreed when his gaze went toward the door, eyes on the floor.
"The glass was a nice trick. But if you really want to make sure no one got in, you should get one of those door jammer things.
Or stay in an actual hotel. You can tie your belt around that auto-close bar at the top of your door, and no one can even force it open.
Just some pro tips if you travel often. Anyway, how did you do it? "
"Why did you run away?"
"I'm not seven years old; I didn't run away," I told him, rolling my eyes. "I went out of town."
"For almost four months?" he asked, pulling himself up in bed, his tee tightening over his chest, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was the kind of skinny where you saw all his ribs, or if he was skinny-fit with the outlines to his abs.
"People go out of town all the time," I hedged, knowing this man was employed by my father. If my father knew what I was up to, he wouldn't be happy.
"Not without telling their families," he told me, reaching toward the nightstand, flicking on the light, illuminating the room. It wasn't as bad as I had been expecting from the exterior.
The carpets were a bit of a puke green color, but cleanish.
The heavy cream drapes on the windows were a little dusty, but not stained or age-tinged.
The bedspread was also a cream color with little green notches.
Stylish? No. But it seemed like it had seen a washing machine in somewhat recent history.
"My family can know about it when it's all done."
"What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying the local flavor."
"In your car outside a Turkish mob front?"
I wanted to know how long he had been on my case, if he had figured out that information faster than I had.
My mother had raised me to believe my competitive streak was an asset, that in business—what everyone expected me to go into for some reason even though I was a bit hot-headed for it—it behooved a woman to be strong, to be willing to fight tooth and nail, because everyone knew women had to work twice as hard to get two-thirds of what men got by sometimes only putting in the bare minimum of effort.
That said, it had been a hindrance in a lot of ways, something maybe that should have been tempered instead of stoked when I had been young enough for real change to be possible.
I couldn't help but want to know I was better, faster, smarter.
Even though this guy was a complete stranger to me.
"The place isn't even on the map technically," he told me, shrugging his shoulder as he reached up to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. "It doesn't take too much work to put two and two together."
Damnit.
It took me a little more than that.
It had been a full week before I had figured that out.
Maybe he knew Philly better than I did.
But even as I was thinking it, I knew it was no excuse.
"Clarke."
"Yeah?"
"Leave."
The rudeness didn't bother me. I appreciated people who said what they thought and meant, even if it wasn't kind. It made things easier. The energy spent trying to figure people out could be utilized more efficiently on other, more important things.
"I will. Once you answer me."
"You didn't clear your Maps."
"My... what?"
"The Maps app on your phone," he told me, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth as he yawned.
Apparently, he was someone who really needed his rest. Me?
I was always a bit too jazzed up to sleep well or much at all.
"You searched this place. Took a shot that you would be hanging around here. "
"Damnit," I grumbled, reaching up to swipe some of my quickly drying hair to the other side of my head.
"Well, I know better now." I guess I would have to go old school and print out the directions from a website, then clear my history.
"What do you think I am doing here?" I asked, wondering how much he had inferred from what little breadcrumbs I had left behind.
"Dunno. You tell me. Drugs. Fucking some douchebag enforcer..."
I couldn't claim to always make the best choices in men. In fact, my mother and friends would likely say the exact opposite.
There had been Kenny the alcoholic at age twenty-one.
Brilliant, but throwing it away. Then there had been the guy in a band I had chased after for months, feasting on whatever scraps he fed to me.
And the investment banker who seemed perfect on paper.
Except at the time, I had no idea that some of his papers included marriage and birth certificates.
The scumbag. After him, there had been a long—and continuing—bout of singledom and celibacy.
Men were a distraction. They were often disappointing.
Besides, according to studies, single women were happier than married women.
So... yeah. I was, you know, taking care of myself and shit by staying single, focusing on me.
I damn sure wasn't doing drugs.
"I don't do drugs," I informed him, only slightly offended. It wasn't like how it used to be with drugs, when only troubled people from the 'wrong side' of town were shooting up or snorting. It was a problem inside all houses, from the projects to the sprawling mansions.
I simply didn't respond as well as I used to with regard to alcohol, so I figured anything harder would be a nightmare. I didn't need anything else to make me any more high-energy. And downers—like alcohol—could sometimes leave me in a depression for days afterward.
Who had time for that in their life?
I had shit to do.
I had people to prove wrong.
"Date douchebags then," he assumed, reaching over to the nightstand for a Milky Way, reminding my stomach of its emptiness.
"Well, yes and no."
"You can't answer a question both ways."
"Yes, I have dated my fair share of douchebags. But, no, I am not currently dating anyone. Do you want a pizza?"
At that, his head jerked back slightly. "What?"
"Pizza. Do you want one? I mean, fair warning, I want mushrooms and onions. And I will not be swayed."
"You're breaking into my room and asking me if I want to share a pizza?"
"Well, you're obviously hungry. I'm starving..."
Brows knitted, he watched me with those mood-changing eyes. "It's three in the morning."
"And we're in a big city," I reminded him. "There is always a pizza place open. So, are you in?" I asked, reaching for my cell—the burner I had picked up with the sole intention of trashing it when I was done.
"Pepperoni," he decided, still giving me those intense eyes that said he was trying to understand me.
"Fine," I sighed, opening up a tab to find a place that was open. "Oh," I said a moment later, talking to the overly peppy girl on the phone. "And garlic knots. Do you want garlic knots? Because all four of these are mine."
"No."
"Your loss," I decided, rattling off the address before hanging up. "What?"
"You're nothing like your father, are you?"
"Well, genetics don't really play that big a role in personality development.
Nurture trumps nature in a lot of ways. And since my father was absent a lot of my life, I guess I take after my mother.
I mean, somewhat. She's a little more grounded and calmer than I am.
So, are you like your brother?" I asked, watching those eyes of his spark.
Sore spot. I was a bit of a sadist in that I had a hard time not pressing on those a little bit.
"He's very well known around Navesink Bank. "
"We're not alike," he told me, voice curt, clipped, a snapping of syllables.
"I heard he's some badass ex-military guy."
"He served."
Inferiority complex, maybe?
I guess like recognized like.
Maybe I was lucky I was an only child. Comparing myself to a sibling would probably drive me crazy, then make me miserable for sizing myself up against someone I was just supposed to love.
"Did you serve?"
"No."
"Are you always this talkative?" I asked, dropping down onto my ass, reaching for my bag to find my cash.
"Why do you care about my brother and me?"
"Just curious. And since we are sitting here waiting for our pizza, I figured we could engage in a conversation. Even if it doesn't come naturally to you," I added, dropping the cash on the nightstand.
"Then how about you tell me why you're here?"
"Why? So you can tell my father?"
"Are you doing something he wouldn't like?"
"In some ways, yes."
"In what ways?"
"In ways that he would worry about me."
"Because he's not already worried about you?"
"I didn't expect to be gone this long."
"You could have called him."
"I left my cell at home." By the time I realized it, I was too far to turn back.
"You have a cell on you right now."
"Right. Because calling my ex-detective father on a new number, one he would only see for a few weeks, wouldn't be suspicious to him at all."
"But not speaking to him for months wouldn't make him suspicious?"
To that, I let out a sigh. The wind leaving my sails. He wasn't wrong. I didn't always think things through. Which was what the people told me who I was determined to prove wrong. Yet they continued to reinforce their opinions of me at every turn.
"This is a guy who missed almost every one of my school events. Including my graduation. He barely noticed me for months at a time,” I told him.
"Back when he was working," Barrett told me, stifling another yawn. "He's retired with nothing better to do than worry about you now."
Parts of me were in a constant battle when it came to my father.
The part of me that was a little girl looking out into a crowd while she belted out songs in choir, only to find an empty seat, was convinced he had no right to question anything I did when he had done so many questionable things in his time was always butting heads with the more mature side of me that understood how obsessions could overtake you completely, could steal your focus from things and people you would never normally—when you were in your right mind—ignore or hurt.