Chapter Forty-Seven #2
I hated shopping. Stores in particular. They were too bright, too loud, too busy.
Full of strong smells, pushy people, and too many things to take in at once.
It was an overload to the system. It made me itchy, agitated.
I could barely grab what I needed and get out before I scratched bloody marks onto my arm.
I could never truly grasp how anyone could actually enjoy going to the store, spending a day hopping from one to another. It sounded like torture to me.
"I hate stores."
"Too much on the senses, right?" she asked, something in her tone having my head tipping to the side slightly. It was almost an assumption. But based on what?
"Ah... yeah."
"Well," she said, her tone suddenly breezy.
Like she picked up on my confusion and internal questioning, wanting to move on.
"You could maybe do a little surveillance while I go shopping.
Maybe you will pick up on things I missed.
Then I can get all the black eye shadow and red lipstick and fake lashes and pungent perfume without torturing you. "
So that was the plan for that afternoon.
We exchanged actual numbers.
I dropped her near the food court—because this was Clarke, after all.
I sat there like a creep, watching as she walked away, those ever-present short shorts of hers putting her legs on full display.
As if sensing my gaze, she turned her head over her shoulder, shooting me a wicked smirk as she wiggled her ass around.
Caught, my head dropped, wondering how the hell we were going to continue on with this case, with her working for me, without me making a complete idiot of myself.
I guess we would see.
—
Six hours later—she'd somehow managed to blow six whole hours in my personal hellhole—I got a text to hurry up before it got cold, with a picture of three food court tables pushed together and completely covered with bits from every restaurant that could be found there.
The food court was still crowded, loud, and agitating. But it was close to the exit. And there was little else in the world that motivated me quite like food.
"You took too long. I had to eat your taco. It was going to get soggy!" she told me, even though I had said nothing about being upset about it.
"Was it good?"
"It was oily. Which is weird because nothing about a taco requires actual oil. But I, luckily, enjoy oil. I don't know about my arteries, but we're still... relatively young. Interesting first choice," she told me as I reached for the waffle fries. "Did you find out anything useful about Emre?"
"He's going to be at Hush later tonight."
"Oh, so... we're doing this tonight?" she asked, dropping her fork into her lo mein, uncrossing her legs, shifting around in her seat. I didn't have to be great at reading body language to know she was uncomfortable about something.
"Worried?" I asked.
"Have you ever done an... undercover type thing?"
"A time or two. But I understand it's different for you and me."
"I guess some people might call that sexist."
"But?"
"But... I guess it is kind of realistic. Even if I hate it."
"Well, you're not the only one who likes to shop," I told her, reaching into my pocket. "Though I do mine online," I added, handing her the band, watching as she flipped it over in her hand, brows pinched.
"What is this? It looks like a fitness band."
"That's because it is supposed to look like that. It's a wireless listening device. You won't be alone in there. I'll be keeping an ear out. If things seem like they're getting iffy, I can come in."
"Come in how? You can't just walk in and grab me. I am going to assume he doesn't often go out alone. His buddies might be there."
"So I play the jealous boyfriend card. Make a scene. Get us thrown out. Then we book it."
"That could work," she agreed, picking up her fork again, her finger moving over the smooth, blank face of the device. "Do you just... carry these kinds of things on you all the time?"
"I have some things in my trunk in case I need them on a job.
Listening devices are the most handy. This is the only one I have that you wear, though.
I've never used it before." I watched the way she stiffened up.
"It had really good ratings, though," I assured her.
"We can try it out around the hotel before we go out into the field with it. "
"It's always good to have a trial run. You know my mom always used to go to a job interview or date location the day before she had to be there to make sure she knew the way, knew all the areas around it.
Trial runs are smart. Especially since these guys are so dangerous.
Are you going to have an earpiece in like some spy guy? "
"That's the plan."
"Spies are kind of hot," she admitted, then clamped her lips shut.
"Are you really going to let that milkshake sit there and not dip your fries in it?
" she asked, her words tumbling over one another, something I was taking to be some sort of cover for when she was feeling anxious or something like that.
"You're one of those freaks who likes salt on their chocolate, aren't you?"
"Not a sweet and salty person," she replied, shrugging her shoulder. "I guess I can't judge. I like weird mixes."
"Like ketchup on your macaroni and cheese."
"I told you that you can't knock that if you haven't tried it."
Before I knew it, the trays were full of wrappers and empty plates. A quick check of the giant clock hanging off a support beam in front of the Old Navy informed me that we had been there for almost two hours.
Two hours.
In a crowded, loud, overwhelming mall.
And I didn't recall even having any urge to run, to get away, to get back to darker, quieter, less overpowering places.
There was nothing different about the mall that day. Nothing except Clarke. And her quirky, unusual, somewhat frantic style of conversation, her way of making a chunk of time feel like it flew by in a matter of minutes. She made everything go quiet, get calm, even as she burst with energy.
I wasn't sure I had ever experienced anything like it before. Except for time spent entirely alone.
I don't know what it meant that being with her was as comfortable as being on my own. But I had a feeling it was significant—something worth thinking about, analyzing, figuring out what it might have meant.
"So what do you think?" Clarke asked, stepping out of the bathroom after locking herself in there for nearly an hour and a half.
In that dress.
Black.
Tight.
Low-cut in the bodice.
Short in the hem.
Slicing up the front of one thigh in a way that was almost indecent.
I would have to do all that thinking and analyzing later. Because seeing her in that dress, well, made every single rational thought in my head disappear.