Chapter Fifty
CLARKE
See, I knew Barrett would rescue me.
I wasn't the kind raised to think I needed rescuing or to believe anyone would come to save me. Not even the cops. Because while my dad was one, he was also quick to point out that there was a lot of red tape to be worked through, and a lack of resources.
Your best bet was always to look for ways to save yourself.
But my dad didn't know Barrett like I did. He didn't know his steadfast determination, his laser-sharp focus, his unending need to prove himself.
I didn't know exactly how he would find me, but I had faith that he would.
Which meant that all I needed to do was buy myself some time.
I was awake when the car stopped, but I forced my body to go slack, making them drag me out of the trunk, throw me over their shoulder, drop me down on the floor.
I kept faking unconsciousness until the boot slammed into my side, making it impossible to keep acting when the pain sliced through my ribcage.
From there, it was all smart talking or evading questions, dealing with the hitting, the slapping, the hair pulling. Then, finally, the punches.
I didn't fight back.
I knew that I was outnumbered. I knew that while I was the most trained, they were bigger, stronger; I understood that my chances of getting away were low. I needed to appear defenseless, keep their guards low.
Just a woman, nothing to fear here.
Then, when the time was right, I would use what I had been trained to do.
Which was the second that I heard someone's voice roar.
I didn't know it.
It wasn't Barrett.
I figured maybe it was the cops.
Or maybe Barrett's brother.
It wasn't until I had the one guy out that I turned and saw Barrett there, hand holding a gun, finger nowhere near the trigger, clearly a little out of his depth, not sure what he was supposed to do.
Then he'd thrown a leg out like in a cartoon and knocked the guy down.
A commando move it was not, but it worked. He made sure the guy didn't get away before someone could incapacitate him.
The cops had been a surprise.
And luckily enough, I was just about in earshot of Barrett when he added the bit about the reward, the reason we would be screwing around with an organized crime syndicate.
I figured that, since Barrett had a legit license, and I worked for him, and Brock's guns were legal and he had the right to carry them, not to mention was a licensed investigator himself, we were pretty much set, wouldn't have to worry about getting in any kind of trouble ourselves.
Unless the cops decided to nitpick about Brock's guns being licensed in Jersey, not Pennsylvania.
Maybe we'd get a disapproving lecture about our methods. But they couldn't really complain. We'd helped bring a major player in on kidnapping charges. It was a feather in their caps.
But as I sat on the bed in the emergency room, my head screaming, I didn't feel a surge of relief.
Or even one of accomplishment. Because I had brought someone in, because I accomplished something, because I had proved that I could do amazing things.
Not alone, but, really, cops were never alone either.
All I felt, though, was done.
I was so, so done.
I just wanted to go home, move on with my life.
Back at the abandoned building, I hadn't thought this trip to the hospital was necessary. The more time that passed, though, the more grateful I was that Barrett had insisted.
The headache piercing through my skull had an intensity that was making my stomach roll, making the stark overhead fluorescent lights feel like little daggers being stabbed into my eyes.
And, well, I wasn't entirely sure my ribs were alright either.
Plus, the nurse had promised me that when the doctor came in, he would give me something for the pain. And the nausea.
With that comforting thought, I slowly pulled my legs up onto the bed, rolling onto my good side, closing my eyes against the offensive lights, just trying to be able to think past the pain.
"Don't sleep," Barrett's voice, sharper than usual, cut through the pre-sleep haze, making a loud grumble escape from between my lips.
"Come on, get up," he demanded, patting my hip, only then reminding me of the complete lack of decency I was currently sporting.
I had managed to yank out the earrings and pull off the necklace in the ambulance, swiped off a bunch of the leftover makeup when the nurse handed me a wet paper towel so she could see what was underneath.
But the dress? Yeah, that was still ripped. Damn near up to my boobs, making me very grateful I had slipped on pretty panties and remembered to shave in the shower.
Barrett's hand met bare flesh.
I wanted to pretend that the shiver that moved through me had something to do with the coldness of the hospital, but I knew it had a hell of a lot more to do with his fingers on me.
"Leave her alone," Brock’s—I now recognized it as Brock's voice since I'd seen him back in the building—demanded.
"She might have a concussion," Barrett insisted. I had thought he'd been a bit of a hypochondriac, but with the splitting migraine, I was starting to think maybe he was right about that.
"Yeah, but all that keeping them awake thing, that's old school. There's no reason to keep someone with a concussion awake. They need sleep to recover."
"He's not wrong," a female voice joined the group, making me grudgingly slit my eyes open to see the surprisingly young doctor - short, brunette hair, big doe eyes, a single dimple she shot Brock who was eye-banging her. "I heard you two were heroes today."
"Just doing our jobs," Brock informed her, everything about him laid-back, easy charm. If I wasn't mistaken, it was effective. "You here to check out our co-worker?" he asked, wanting to make it clear he was single. As if Barrett's hand wasn't still planted on my thigh a bit possessively.
"The nurse gave her a quick look over, but I need to check her out too. Give her something for that headache."
"Bless you," I grumbled, hearing the thickness in my voice, knowing I was close to tears.
I wasn't someone who cried often. I was someone who bottled it up for a long while—all the little sadnesses—then had them explode out of me in a giant bawling session.
From my calculations, I was due for a good old-fashioned weepathon.
The headache was just pushing me right to that edge.
"Can you guys just step—”
"They can stay," I objected. I might have been close to tears, but I also didn't want to be alone just yet.
"Alright. Well, you stay right there, let me check out those ribs before you sit up to show me that head."
With that, she did.
Barrett had to move, his fingers gliding down my bare thigh as he moved away, creating another shiver.
"It's a little chilly in here," the doctor agreed, saving a small sliver of my pride.
"I'll get you coffee," Barrett offered. "To warm you up," he clarified, scooting past Brock as I slowly sat up, feeling my head spin, my stomach pitch.
The doctor finished up, giving me my anti-nausea meds and then the migraine killer, telling me she was going to have my ribs x-rayed and my head scanned as well, to hold tight, let the meds start kicking in, then handed me a blanket and headed out.
It was only a few seconds before Brock broke the silence. "You dirty fucking liar, you."
My head whipped over, whiting out my vision for a long moment.
"What?"
"That was not the shiver of a woman who is being regularly fucked by a guy she's into.
That was a shiver of a woman who is dying to be fucked by a guy she's into.
" I didn't peg him for being observant. But, it seemed, sex was his chosen language.
He was very fluent in all its intricacies.
"But why would you guys be lying about that? "
"Long story. Big headache," I added, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.
"Those meds will kick in soon. Lie back down," he commanded, and I saw no reason to object.
There was the shuffle of feet, the sound of the sink, but I couldn't seem to find the desire to open my eyes, feeling the slow trickle of tears slipping over my nose, down my other cheek to catch on the stiff pillow.
I had no idea why the sink was on until I felt what seemed like wet gauze press into my forehead as a hand rested gently on the back of my head.
"It'll pass."
That wasn't Brock.
The soft-sweetness of Barrett's quiet voice seemed to rip away what was left of my defenses, the trickle of tears becoming a flood, accompanied by closed-lipped sobs.
There was a small, helpless sound that didn't come from me, followed by something that sounded a lot like, "I'm no good at this."
But his fingers slid inward, opening and closing in a gentle massage against my scalp, something that made the pain screaming in my head just a little more tolerable as I drained myself dry, as the medicine finally did start to kick in, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain until it became more of an annoying thumping in my temples.
"Thank you," I told him, swiping at my wet face with my palms as I started to sit up.
Our gazes caught and held, both full of words that needed to be said.
But Brock was the one who spoke first. "Incoming."
And with that, I was whisked away for my scans.
A couple of hours later, the sun fully situated high in the sky, I was told that my ribs were just a little bruised, and that I had a mild concussion—nothing to worry about. I was told to take some ibuprofen as needed, get some rest, and take it easy for a bit.
"What's the plan?" Brock asked from the front seat beside Barrett, giving me the back to sprawl out, one of Brock's discarded sweatshirts draped over my body to keep me warm while the AC blasted my overly tired body. "Stay at the hotel another day..." he added when no one immediately responded.
"I'd rather head back home," I told him, fighting sleep as the ride seemed to soothe me the way it did restless babies.
"Alright."