Chapter Forty-Seven
BARRETT
I was good at acting like things never happened. I wasn't usually emotionally invested in much, so it was never an issue to just move on without needing to talk it out or shit like that.
But Clarke just breezed out of that bathroom, babbling about how French toast and a side of breakfast potatoes were somehow going to help us solve the case.
Acting like I hadn't been right there in that bathroom with her while she was showering and making herself come.
I'd heard something. That was what made me cut the water, stop brushing, unsure what it was, just a squeaky sound.
But then I heard it again, louder this time.
There was no mistaking it.
Apparently, I hadn't been the only one affected by the make-out session that ended just as suddenly as it had started.
Just a second or two of hearing her whimpering, and my cock was hard, every single part of me more attuned to what was going on in that shower than anything else I had ever focused on in my life.
The spray of the shower head, the splash as the water fell from her body onto the porcelain floor, the catches of her breath, the rush of it back out, followed by the little mewling sounds.
I was sure nothing took as much control as staying silent, staying put, doing and saying nothing at all.
Then when it was over. I finished brushing my teeth, and walked out like the need didn't have a vice grip on my system.
The craziest thing was, I wanted to talk about it.
I got myself dressed, then sat off the side of the bed and waited while she seemed to take an hour to get herself together, messing around with things she had scattered on the counter, drying her hair.
But as I sat there, I anticipated her finally coming out, and the two of us having a conversation.
About the kiss. About her needing to touch herself afterward. About what that meant moving forward.
Then she came out, talking so fast her words nearly tripped over themselves on the way out of her mouth, gathering her things, then heading out into the hall, not even waiting to see if I followed.
Which I did.
For one, because French toast and breakfast potatoes did sound good to a stomach that hadn't had much more than chips and coffee in a full day.
But also because it was hard to avoid me while sitting across the table from me.
Then, of course, the fact that we had a shitload of work to do on this case of hers if we wanted to figure it out in our lifetimes.
There was a reason no one took on mob cases, why sometimes even the alphabet agencies slacked off to focus on other things. They were notoriously good at what they did, at avoiding detection, about keeping their hands just clean enough that nothing could be pinned on them.
And the boss?
He was always damn near untouchable.
I knew Edip Kaya was the ultimate goal, but as time went on, as she got more into her new career, and further away from her plan of revenge, maybe she would settle for just being attached to bringing someone smaller in.
Though I understood if it didn't go away.
That drive. That need to prove yourself.
I still had it myself, despite having built a successful investigative firm, taking on challenging cases all by myself.
That need to be better, do better, prove myself, was just as strong as it had been the day I had left my brother's firm.
Sometimes, things happen in our lives that create deep cracks in our personalities, cavernous holes that can never truly be filled.
Maybe neither Clarke nor I would ever feel one hundred percent sure of ourselves in this one aspect of our lives. All things said and done, one insecurity wasn't so bad. We both seemed pretty secure in all other aspects. Plenty of other people couldn't claim that.
"Does anyone ever even want to try these crazy syrups?
" Clarke asked, continuing her unending one-sided conversation.
Like she was all-too-aware of the fact that I was looking for an opening, some gap in speech to slip a word or two in.
About something she clearly didn't want to talk about.
"I worked for, oh, five whole seconds in high school at a breakfast place with all the flavor syrups.
I think the only time anyone actually used them was when little kids had fun making a mess.
The red one—which they had the audacity to call strawberry, though it tasted like pure chemicals and sugar—used to stain the tabletops so badly that even bleach wouldn't get it out.
Who puts something like that in their body?
Well, I mean, I guess that doesn't mean too much.
Diet soda can strip paint off a car, and people love that stuff too.
So who knows? It seems like this is taking a long time for the food, doesn't it? "
"Maybe because you haven't stopped for a breath since she took our order," I suggested.
"I guess I am a little hyper this morning. Which is funny because I've barely even sipped my coffee." How could she when she hadn't quit talking for even two seconds put together? "Maybe it is stronger than I am used to. I guess I can be a bit of a coffee con..."
"Clarke," I cut her off, knowing my tone was a little sharp, a stab through the front she was trying to hold up.
But, I told myself, it was a mercy killing.
"Stop," I added, shaking my head. "You don't want to talk about it, fine.
Say that. But stop with the frantic grasping for conversation topics. "
"I don't want to talk about it," she said with a firm little nod in case her tone wasn't proof enough of her seriousness.
"Okay," I agreed, shrugging. For now, anyway. It was okay for now. We'd see about later.
"Thank God," she said, all her air coming out in a rush as a smile pulled at her lips.
"I was struggling. How many things can you say about breakfast food, y'know?
" she asked, putting a shake of salt in her coffee.
She hadn't been wrong; it was strong. Bite back kind of strong, the kind where you were bound to have heartburn from it later. Which was exactly how I liked it.
"And here's our food," I told her with a chin jerk toward the approaching two waiters since this place had some aversion to using trays, and we'd ordered enough for a football team, both of us able to put away food like most other people could only dream of.
I lucked out with a fast metabolism. Clarke admitted that if she didn't keep up with her martial arts classes with some regularity, that she 'pudged up.
' I bit back a comment about how I thought she'd look good 'pudged up,' figuring it would sound a bit like a segue to other things about bodies—hers, mine, ours in particular.
There would be time to talk about that later.
From the sound of things, we still had some more surveillance work to do to find our way in.
Clarke, judging by her notebook I had been looking over while she shoved half a piece of French toast in her mouth, had done a great job detailing the men and their women, their likes, dislikes, and lives.
For example, Edip Kaya's nephew, who acted as his second-in-command, was a shameless flirt and manwhore who occasionally got loose-lipped with women he was trying to impress with his criminal lifestyle and two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine.
"Have you ever considered going after Emre?" I asked, wishing I had my laptop so I could do a little digging about him online.
"But I don't want Emre," she objected, a fork full of toppling hash browns raised halfway to her lips.
"No, but you marked it yourself that he gets loose-lipped around pretty women, bragging about shit.
Maybe it could produce just enough information to find an in to Edip Kaya.
Since there's nothing else to go on for him.
But he has to go places. He has to have interests.
There has to be a way to catch him doing something illegal.
Maybe Emre could be the way to learn more about those things. "
"So... we find a pretty woman, stick her in a tight, barely-there dress, give her some tips, send her into one of the clubs he likes, then have her feed us what she knows. For a price."
"Or we skip the price part," I suggested, not because I was particularly frugal—no one who had seen how much I spent on takeout and the computers I trashed after each case per year would even imply that—but because your average person simply sucked at things like this.
They got nervous, asked too many questions, led too much. It all came off as fake.
"I really doubt anyone would be willing to do something like this—to a very dangerous man, I might add," she told me, referencing the handful of times he got pulled in for roughing up some of the women in his life. "For free. Even some damn justice warrior wouldn't be that stupid."
"I was suggesting we stick you in a tight dress and send you in," I told her, shaking my head.
"The girls he is attracted to..."
"So we throw on some trashy eye makeup and a dark lip, spray on too much perfume. You'll fit right in."
"They do sort of, tart it up, don't they?" she mused, pushing her eggs around on her plate before reaching for the ketchup, squirting it on. "Maybe I should lay off the grease and sugar if I am going to be sausaging myself into something slinky."
Typically, people who attempted a bastardized version of gerunding drove me nuts. Somehow, it didn't bother me so much when Clarke did it.
"He seems to prefer a more obvious sort of woman," I agreed. It wasn't my type, but there was a type out there for everyone else. Which was good, I guessed.
"I have to hit the mall then," she told me, looking up at me for a second only to break out into a smile. "You look like you're passing a kidney stone," she told me, voice light, airy. "I never said you have to come to the mall with me."