Chapter Forty-Four
CLARKE
In general, people who knew me would call me tenacious.
If not downright stubborn. I hated giving up on things, even if there was no way to win.
Even if failure was the only outcome, I had to figure out why I failed, how I could avoid it in the future.
My mother claimed this was the sole reason we didn't sit around and play board games more when I was young.
I, apparently, took the fun out of it. And her attempts to make me a graceful loser - since everyone had to learn to lose in life at some point in both big and small ways - she just gave up on playing them with me.
I took that desire to win and turned toward video games briefly in my teens until I realized that the opposite sex existed and I would much rather spend time gawking at them.
Then, as I got older, I directed my stubbornness toward my martial arts classes, not satisfied until I bested even my instructors.
Or I applied it to school, getting top grades even in classes I loathed.
Then, later, of course, at work. Even though I knew it wasn't my end-all-be-all career.
I still busted my ass and earned raises and promotions.
Until, of course, I quit.
Which led me to where I currently was.
In my scorching car, the leather seats sticking to my sweaty thighs, I tried to ignore the humidity that was making my hair stick to my neck.
And for one of the first times in my life, I was damn near willing to give up.
It was only the follow-up questions that would come after that action that stopped me from turning the car over, heading back to my hotel.
Like: What was I going to do?
How would I not hate myself a little for failing at something so important?
What would I tell everyone in my life?
Surely not the truth.
Wouldn't that change their opinion of me?
With a sigh, I tossed my notebook on the seat next to me, reaching for the bottle of iced tea that had gone tepid hours before.
I wasn't going to give up.
I was just going to give up for the night.
In the grand scheme of failures, this was a small one. A private one. No one had to know but me.
Besides, it wasn't my fault that these guys seemed to freaking live at their fake restaurant, not even stepping outside to smoke or get some fresh air most nights.
Even as I drove away, I had to admit to myself that I was losing my steam, that I was getting nowhere, that I was likely just wasting my time.
And, honestly, a huge chunk of me wanted to go back home, figure something else out. Get back to paying off my debt to Barrett.
Oddly, especially the latter.
I had maybe gotten used to it, had even begun to enjoy it in an unexpected way.
I tried to convince myself it was just because I liked having a routine again, that I had missed it when I quit my job.
Maybe that was part of it - a reason to shower, to throw on a little makeup, get out of pajamas, things that were unnecessary when all you did was sit in front of your computer doing research while eating bags of chips for lunch and dinner.
But there was definitely a part of it that was just because I liked being there. I liked the strange topics of conversation based on things like what books he was reading, the case he was on, what was in the headlines that morning.
Just as comfortably as we talked, we also worked in silence—something I often found awkward even with people I had known a long time—but there was nothing but peace there in that quiet.
Well, nothing was ever truly quiet in his office.
If Diego was around anyway. Whereas on the first few days, the endless talking, squawking, or wing flapping grated on my nerves, after a while, I began to enjoy it, sometimes talking back to him like we were having a conversation while Barrett lectured me about it being mimicking, not an actual conversation.
As if anyone genuinely thought they were having a conversation with an animal.
Those were the things on my mind as I slipped the keycard into the slot, hearing the little bleep as I opened the door.
"Do you ever sleep?"
The extendable wand on my keychain was deployed even before my mind could place the voice. The owner of it was walking out of my bathroom, unnerving gaze on me, eyes penetrating deep, making me shuffle my feet.
"Are you more or less likely to hit me with that now that you know it's me in your room?" he asked, sounding unconcerned with the idea of either option. Even if one of them guaranteed a nasty headache.
"Jesus, Barrett. What the hell are you doing in my hotel room?" I hissed, pushing the baton closed as I moved into the room.
It wasn't much - your typical budget hotel room complete with tan carpets, heavy drapes, and a deep brown set of bed linens. The walls were painted cream that matched the tile in the bathroom.
"Looking for you," he informed me with a shrug, tucking his hands into his front pockets.
"And you break into my room?" I shot back, brow raised.
"There was no way the staff would let me camp out in the lobby all day waiting for you. Besides, you broke into my room. You can't really be that outraged."
He wasn't wrong.
And yet, I couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut.
"Sure, but it's different."
"Different how?"
"Different because a girl breaking into a guy's room isn't much of a threat. But a guy breaking into a girl's room..."
"You could kick my ass, and you know it. Besides, you don't think I would hurt you."
He didn't sound offended.
Usually, when you insinuate that someone could be a predator, they get their nose all bent out of joint. Not Barrett. Maybe because there was nothing to be mad about since he was right; he would never hurt me.
"Anyway," I said, moving inside, going into the bathroom to grab a washcloth, running it under the tap, pressing the coolness to my neck, looking up at him in the mirror as he stood in the doorway. "Why were you looking for me?"
"I hadn't heard from you."
"That's it?" I asked, brow raised.
I wasn't exactly a 'check-in' type of person.
Even if a friend told me to text them when I got home safe, ninety-nine percent of the time, my ass forgot until I got a call waking me out of a dead sleep with a frantic female voice on the other end yelling about how they thought I had been kidnapped and murdered or something.
My mom had given me a lot of leeway as a teenager, only expecting me to call if I was going to be home past midnight. And even that was negotiable since many nights she was in bed well before then.
And my father, well, he usually didn't even know where I was as a teen or young adult. Though I was always good about making sure we were in touch every two weeks or so regardless if I hit his machine or, much more rarely, got him on the line.
It really never occurred to me to think someone might be worried about me not checking in when I said I would.
Least of all Barrett. I couldn't exactly call him a stranger.
We'd had a few too many conversations with him for it to be just that.
But he wasn't a parent or one of my oldest friends either.
Besides, there was next to nothing about him that suggested he was the worrying sort.
Yet... here he was.
"Were you... worried about me?" I asked, reaching up under my shirt to place the washcloth against my belly, something that sent a small, delicious shiver through my body.
I decided right then and there that anyone who preferred hot, muggy summers over crisp, chilly winters was, well, out of their minds.
"You are fucking around with the Turkish mob, Clarke," he reminded me. "For all I knew, they caught on to you."
"So... that's a yes?"
"That's a yes to what?"
"You were worried about me."
"I was..." his voice trailed off, gaze skittering away. "I was concerned."
"I'm pretty sure that's a synonym for worried," I informed him, sending him a small smile as I turned, dropping the washcloth on the counter, deciding I was as cool as I could get until I had a proper shower. "So, level with me. How filthy is that office of yours?"
"It's... not clean," he admitted, having a boyish, bashful moment, his chin ducking.
"How many mugs?" I asked, lips twitching.
"How many new ones did I buy or..."
"You're hopeless," I declared, moving out of the bathroom, brushing against his shoulder as I went, looking at the bag opened on the bed where I had kept a stash of snacks for late nights when I couldn't find any place open to order from.
And this hotel wasn't a dive, but it wasn't a room-service-type of establishment either. "It's late," I told him.
"Yeah. I just wanted to make sure you got in. I'm gonna go down and get a room."
"Well, while you do that, I am going to hit the grocery store really quick. My snack supply has been seriously depleted. Do you want me to grab you anything?"
"I, ah..."
"What is it?" I demanded, too tired and hungry for the runaround.
"I forgot my toothpaste," he admitted. "Just Brad's in sweet mint flavor."
"Do you need a toothbrush too?"
"No. I keep an extra in my car. But you can't keep liquids because..."
"Oh, I know," I cut him off, reaching for my bag. "I had an unfortunate incident with a lotion tube and literally everything in my trunk last year. "Alright. Brad's in sweet mint. Text me with your room number," I demanded, turning and leaving.
A half an hour later, I was making my way back to my room, arms loaded down with bags, silently cursing Barrett for not getting back to me until I was digging for my keycard, and my door flew open.
"You left the spare of this on your bath counter," he told me, waving the other keycard around.
"And you stole it because..."
"Because I was planning on coming back up to sneak a look at that notebook you tossed out of your purse before you left," he informed me, not even bothering to lie.
"You're a shitty investigator if I caught you," I told him, pushing inside to drop the bags on the bed.