Chapter Fifty-One
Clarke
Everything didn't change.
Just because we got physical.
We sat in that bed eating food until Barrett suddenly needed a cup of coffee, hopping up to get it.
I took a shower, and when I got out, one of my bags was outside the bathroom door.
By the time I slipped into my clothes and made my way out, Barrett was anxiously standing at the door, jiggling my keys, waiting for me.
"Are we heading into the office?" I asked, reaching for my cold coffee because, even cold, it was too good to waste.
"I have someone coming in about a case in an hour."
"Am I helping on it?"
"Well, you work for me now."
With that, he turned, opened the door, and made his way out.
See, Barrett was still Barrett. Even if he'd given me the best orgasm of my life. Nothing changed just because we'd gotten all naked and sweaty.
He was still obsessed with work.
He still would give that most of his focus.
Normally, that would be a deal-breaker for many women.
But see, the way I saw it was simple. Sure, he gave work a lot of his focus. But when his attention was on me, it was completely on me. It was more fixation than most women would get from their partners ever.
Not that we were partners.
In more than a physical way anyway.
That was my only real concern as we got in my car and made our way into town.
"Oh, good God. Seriously? Did a bomb go off in here while I was out of town?" I grumbled, kicking a discarded shirt out of my way so I could maneuver around the giant tree stand, sans Diego.
"It's not that bad."
It was.
And I couldn't help but wonder what was different the past week compared to previous ones. There was always a mess—the discarded files, the coffee mugs, the unswept dust and dirt.
This was different.
There were clothes strewn all over.
Papers were blown about, scattered in corners.
I wondered if maybe his world around him was representative of the world inside.
My mom was a tidy person, always spouting that line about how chaos in the environment creates chaos in the mind.
I always thought it was kind of a load of crap. I functioned just fine when my room was a mess.
But I could see that maybe the more Barrett got lost in some problem that was proving elusive, or experiencing some emotion that was troubling to him, the less concerned he was about his outer world becoming a sty.
That said, I saw no reason to press the issue, just rolled up my sleeves and got to work so that the office was halfway respectable when the new client showed up.
I had to do so at half speed, my ribs objecting to certain twisting motions, my head feeling a little woozy when I bent and stood up too fast. But with a little determination, I managed to get the place somewhat presentable by the time a woman with watery eyes walked in, one hand clutching the gold chain on her designer bag.
It took all of three minutes before the tears were streaming, mascara running.
One glance at Barrett as he scribbled notes implied he didn't love these cases—suspected cheating spouse cases.
But he took it on regardless.
"Cheating spouses pay the bills," he told me after she left, when I asked why he was willing to do it even though he wasn't interested in the case. "They let me take my time on the more interesting cases."
It was logical.
If I was going to cut my teeth on a case, it might as well be an easy one. From what Barrett mumbled off at me as he pulled a new laptop out of his drawer and started firing it up, all we'd be required to do was get some compromising pictures of her significant other.
"But what if he isn't cheating?" I heard myself ask as I restocked a toppling pile of file folders. "You don't think someone can be faithful?"
Alright, maybe I was asking for personal reasons. And I was a little irritated with myself for being that silly, that needy.
"People can be faithful. My brother is faithful. Tig is faithful..."
"But?" I asked, sensing it was coming.
"But it's because they took their time, waited for the right person."
"The right person," I heard myself repeat, a little surprised at a flowery concept coming out of his usually analytical mind.
"People can be predictably stupid," he told me in the most matter-of-fact voice.
"They move too fast based on attraction and chemical reactions instead of actual connection.
They never really get to know the other person on a deep enough level then end up resenting them, grow further apart.
Then, eventually, they seek out those sensations elsewhere.
If they'd just stopped being in such a rush, it could have all been avoided.
They could have found the right person and built a deep connection that they wouldn't even think of fucking up by something as base as cheating. "
"Well, yeah, that's true. People tend not to think things through."
I'd certainly been guilty of that with the opposite sex in the past. Luckily, I'd always smartened up before it got too far.
"So you think there is a right person for everyone?"
"Everyone?" he asked, glancing over at me, lips curved upward at one side.
"Have you met people? Some of them are miserable, vile, selfish assholes.
I don't think anyone should be subjected to a lifetime with those people.
So maybe some people are meant to be alone.
But I think most people can find someone. .. significant. If they're patient."
"Do you think..." I started, cutting off when the door flew open hard enough to slam against the wall behind it, making Barrett straighten as I swirled around, ignoring the ache in my ribs as my hands curled into fists, ready to fight.
My father.
"Detective," Barrett greeted him, either ignoring or—more likely—utterly unaware of the violent, vibrating anger emanating from my father's entire being.
It was almost hard for me to grasp.
I'd seen my father in plenty of moods in my life. Everything from distracted or shut down to frustrated and exasperated.
But he'd always been able to keep his more volatile feelings under wraps.
I figured it came from his line of work, from having to face down scumbags in interrogation rooms, knowing damn well that they were guilty, but having to let them walk because you didn't have all the evidence you needed to prove it.
Self-control was all that kept him from going apeshit and beating confessions out of people.
So he had always been able to keep himself mostly calm even when dealing with my temper tantrums as a child, my backtalk as a teen, my cold indifference as a young woman who was full of resentment for a childhood that hadn't gone as planned.
But right now?
Now he was barely holding it together.
Seeing it, my spine straightened, my belly twisted.
I had no idea how to handle this side of my father.
"You put my daughter in danger," he accused, taking a step forward toward the seemingly oblivious Barrett.
"Wait," I objected, moving between them, blocking his path. "You can't come in here accusing anyone of anything when you don't know the story."
"Don't tell me I can't come up in here and accuse someone when my daughter is covered in bruises," he snapped, one hand raising, reaching out to touch my forehead which, admittedly, still wasn't looking so great.
His hand was shaking.
"I'm fine, Dad," I assured him. "A minor concussion." His brow raised, like he knew I wasn't saying something. "And a bruised rib or two. It's nothing, really. I'm fine."
"Fine," he scoffed. "People who are kidnapped by the Turkish mob are not fine, Clarke."
"And yet... here I am. Standing upright. Straightening up. Getting my work done."
"Why didn't you call me?" he demanded, face red. "You made me wake up and hear it from an old buddy? That my little girl was kidnapped and roughed up?"
Alright.
That was an oversight.
I had to call my mom too.
She wasn't big on keeping up with the news, but if one of my aunts or her friends, or even my friends heard about it and called her, she would be frantic.
"In my defense," I started, holding out a hand, "I was in the hospital. And then I was passed out from the migraine and pain medicine. Then this morning, well, I just... spaced. I'm sorry."
A muscle was ticking in his jaw. "Did you call your mother?"
"No," I admitted. "I was just thinking that."
"You call your mother. Then you and me, we need to talk. Come to my place."
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to get started on my new case.
But mostly, I simply didn't want to have the conversation he wanted to have. I knew what it would involve: all the ugly details about what led me to where I was the night before. From lying to him about the academy and then my plan for revenge. The whole clusterfuck of a situation.
That said, it was time.
I had to be an adult.
I had to own up to my past if I wanted my future to continue on the path I was starting to walk.
"Okay," I agreed, nodding.
"I'll grab food," he added, deflating a little, relieved to be getting answers soon. "You and I,” he said, turning back as he reached the door, looking back at Barrett, "we are not done with our words either." Then he glanced back at me and in a very dad-tone, reminded me, "Call your mother."
"You're not breathing," Barrett filled the silence in the office after my father had left.
"He was pissed," I told him, turning back.
"He thinks I betrayed him," Barrett deduced, his face unreadable.
"He forgets that I am an adult and that I get to make my own decisions."
"He wants to protect you," Barrett corrected. "And you haven't explained to him why everything happened the way it did. He will understand then."
There was no stopping my scoff. "Just because he knows about my reasons doesn't mean he will condone or understand them. Parents, uh, aren't usually that rational about things where their kids are concerned."