Chapter Forty-Eight
CLARKE
It was stupid to be nervous.
I mean... I had hoped to make a living out of putting myself into dangerous situations. Repeatedly. I understood that there was no guarantee that when I got into my uniform, strapped on my gun and badge, and went out there on the streets, that I would come home at night.
Those were the risks I had weighed and considered, ones I had decided to take.
And yet, here I was, getting ready to do my first truly dangerous thing, yet I was freaking out a bit.
That was why I spent so much time in front of the mirror.
Well, that and the fact that I kind of sucked at applying eyeshadow since I never wore it - always having too much of a tendency to touch my face, a fact my germaphobic kindergarten teacher would have hated to know about me.
But even after I had the smoky eye with a touch of desperation down, I still stood there in a barely-there silky thong staring at an only half-familiar face in the mirror, reminding myself that this was what I wanted, that the satisfaction of being able to bring down a man that Murphy had failed to would be worth it all.
Yet, somehow, that clawing, unavoidable need to prove myself suddenly felt a little silly, empty.
But why?
Because I had a different opportunity to prove myself? Because I had someone else to prove myself to?
Not out of revenge, but just a desire to be good enough, to hear praise about my work. Even just Barrett's comments about the depth of my notes had made me stand a little straighter.
Regardless of my enthusiasm for this particular plotting of revenge, I understood there was a job to be done. I got Barrett involved in this. He was sacrificing his time. We had to at least try to see it through.
"You got this," I reminded myself, silently wishing for those little flower petals that might make my nipples slightly less visible underneath the dress that left exactly nothing to the imagination.
I wasn't against using my sexuality. It was an asset, after all. This was just an act, just a game. So why did I feel so squirrelly about it? Why was my skin sticky and my stomach doing its very own rollercoaster ride?
Shaking off the nerves, I slipped into the ankle-breaking heels, spritzed on about five puffs of perfume, clipped on a gaudy as hell thick gold chain necklace along with some thin gold hoops, took a deep breath, and let myself out into the main room where Barrett was sitting, dressed up a bit in a pair of slacks and a black button-up that he left open in the center.
His hair was different too - brushed, maybe even gelled a bit, making it push back from his face, putting his bone structure on display.
That, paired with the clothes and the fact that he was wearing his glasses instead of his contacts, gave him this sexy nerd look that was making my chest feel a little tight.
We weren't even going to mention the fact that my lady business was trying to convince me to hike up my skirt, climb on his lap, and get rid of this sexual chemistry once and for all. To hell with the case.
"Do I look tarty enough?" I asked, turning in a circle, giving a little ass wiggle reminiscent of the one I had given him earlier when I had felt his eyes on me while I walked into the mall.
Why, I wasn't sure.
Since it was me who had insisted we weren't going to discuss the physical thing between us. Because it would get too messy. Because it would be stupid since I was going to need to work with him and—as if that wasn't messy enough—pretend to be his girlfriend when his friends or family were around.
"You smell like a whorehouse," he informed me with a smirk.
"Then I believe I have achieved my goal.
Is this too much?" I asked, touching the little slit at my thigh.
For some reason, in the bright, flattering lights in that particular dressing room, it hadn't seemed quite so long, quite so wide.
Now I was half paranoid that if I shifted wrong, there would be nothing left to the imagination in the club.
Dancing was all but out of the question if I wanted to remain decent. I was crossing my fingers that Emre was not the dancing sort.
"No, it's perfect," he told me, head tipped to the side, eyes still moving over me, a fact that was making the lady business problem become even more emergent.
"So... can we get moving?" I asked, shifting on my heels. "I project I have about two and a half hours before these heels start making me teary-eyed. And three hours away from full-foot blisters and blood."
"That's a lovely image. I don't get why women wear those things."
"Blame internalized misogyny," I suggested as he slowly stood, moving toward me.
"You forgot something," he informed me, producing the listening device watch, reaching for my wrist. I couldn't help but wonder if he felt my pulse, the way it jumped, skittered around at the feel of his fingers on my overly sensitive skin.
He slipped the fake fitness tracker on, fitted it to my wrist size.
But his grip lingered even after turning it on, even after there was no reason for him to keep holding me.
I wasn't entirely sure of it, but I could have sworn I felt his thumb brush across the veins on the underside of my wrist before he suddenly dropped it, jerking away, spinning on his heel, rummaging around inside my notebook, now riddled with his own notes. But in Polish code.
He promised to share the code with me when we got back to Navesink Bank. I was a little too excited about that fact if you asked me. It felt a little bit like training to be a spy in some respects—codes and listening devices and how to break into places on the fly without being seen.
"So are we ready?" I asked. "Anything else you figured out about Emre that might be good for me to know?"
"He likes pushy women," he told me. "Not the shy type who waits to be approached. So if you walk in and he's talking to someone else, if you literally move yourself in between them, he will tell her to take a hike. He likes the confidence and, well, I don't know. He just likes it."
He liked it because he liked thinking he was worth fighting over.
Which was absurd to any self-respecting woman who knew that pretty much no man worth having was someone you actually had to fight for.
But there was no accounting for the fragile thing known as the male ego.
So sometimes, to get what you wanted, you had to play their game.
Even if you would never, ever be caught dead doing it in real life.
"Anything else?"
"He likes to order for you. So go up with an empty hand."
"Alright. Got it."
"You ready?" he asked, slipping a discreet little earpiece into his ear to listen to me all night, the movement practiced, easy. Sexy.
"Yep," I rushed to agree, giving him a jerky nod as I reached for the little clutch I had picked up at the mall, loaded only with some cash and a tube of lipstick.
My cell wouldn't fit. And I had the listening device anyway.
I still felt oddly naked without it. Or maybe it was my near-nudity that had me feeling that way.
Twenty minutes later, I was doing something I hadn't done since my early twenties. I was standing on a line outside a club waiting to be let in. Maybe a part of me—a small part, but it was there—was worried I wasn't as young, as hot as I had once been, an idea that had my stomach knotting.
It was a short-lived concern as I finally got to the door, the doorman waving me in.
"Here we go," I mumbled slightly to myself, knowing Barrett couldn't hear.
During our little dry run, we had learned that he had difficulty hearing quiet conversation unless my arm was raised.
Like settled on the table beside me. Which meant our best bet was to catch Emre at the bar so I could casually rest my arm there, maybe holding onto the glass of my drink while he and I spoke.
The inside of Hush was what you might expect—a heavy crush of overly perfumed bodies, hair gleaming, jewelry flashing. Women hair flipping. Men peacocking. The thickness in the air laden with the nose-wrinkling scent of sexual desperation.
The music thumped from giant speakers, the vibrations of it coursing through my body, jumbling my insides around with it, a sensation that was both familiar, but somehow also unsettling.
Maybe because it felt like it dulled two of my senses on a night when I felt like being in touch with them felt like the most important thing.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the groups of women pretending not to notice the group of men checking them out while they each secretly hoped the hottest of the bunch—a dead-ringer for that blonde guy from that biker TV show except with better clothes and a more cultured beard—would approach them instead of their best friend.
The main bar was a hopping spot, people pressing in to try to get the attention of one of the two career bartenders, their movements rushed, but not harried, nothing about this pressure being something new to them.
There was a second bar, though, as Barrett had figured out by stalking their social media account, tucked away in a back corner, the place the regulars frequented because it was not so busy, quieter, a place you could actually hear someone when they spoke to you.
I made my way there, trying to make sure I was only casually—like any woman on the lookout for a man would—glancing around, trying to see if Emre was there on the lookout for someone just like me.
He showed up about half an hour later while I was stuck talking to some greasy-haired wannabe gangster in a cheap, badly tailored suit. He smelled strongly of Old Spice deodorant which reminded me a bit too much of my father.
Emre walked up to the bar with familiarity, holding up a finger.