23. Chapter 23 #2
"You look like shit," Mav starts in on me, but I say nothing.
We wait for another person to join us, which gives me time to sit back, cross my arms, and get comfortable.
A few more snide comments come through the speaker—knuckleheads always jacking with one another.
When the last person shows up—chronically late Cole—Mav starts by over-talking everyone until they fall silent.
Two minutes into him discussing the development with another file, I find the white rabbit again.
This is going to be a long briefing.
Four hours later, my ass is about to fall off. I should have moved to the couch when we began, but I know the second I hit the damn thing I’d fall asleep. I groan, my knees and muscles protesting as I stand up from the chair with a curse. I’m getting too old for this shit.
Lukewarm now, the glass of whiskey taunts me along with the dryness of my mouth, though I responded minimally throughout the call. Snatching the glass, I knock back the contents with one gulp and slam it down. It’s harsh and low knock vibrates up my arm as I let go.
I need a shower. To think. Then to get the hell out of my head. In that order, no deviation.
The size of this rental is abysmal; it only takes me three steps to walk out of the dining room and into the bedroom. Inside, I drop onto the foot of the full-size bed, feeling like a giant on the damn thing. It’s so much smaller than hers.
Ugh, stop it, Elias.
With more force than necessary, I yank at my shoestrings, ripping them out of my boots with harsh rasps.
I'm sure most people prefer to loosen theirs which makes it easier to lace later but I like doing it the old fashion way—ensures the perfect fit. I’ll feed string ends through their designated eyelets and tighten them firmly, maximizing support on the ankles.
Also prevents scorpions from crawling up the inside of my pant legs in some dusty shit hole.
Both boots are set to the side, laces tucked into the open space—some military habits never die. I’m almost ready to undress and put my old ass in the shower but I need a second. The rawness of everything feels like I’ve been blasted with sand and it’s torn through my skin.
The urge to check on Sadie pokes at the back of my head.
I shouldn’t. I’m trying to stop anyway, cold turkey, give her peace—whatever the hell that looks like.
What if she's doing better, not suffering like I am?
That's the goal but dammit, I don't want her to do better without me.
I need to be the one that makes her happy, who drags her kicking and screaming, and gives her everything she's ever wanted and needed.
How in the hell am I supposed to do that when we're the epitome of oil and water? I take that back, she's diethyl ether. Heh, volatile and reactive.
I should look; I need to. Watching her, even from this bum-ass rental, gets me through the night. She deserves space though.
FUCK.
Yes, no. Yes, no.
I'm going to go mad.
Fuck this.
Off the bed, I snatch a towel from the folded pile stacked neatly near the bathroom door.
I slam hard enough to rattle something on the wall outside.
Damn phone can stay in there, away from me.
Sitting on the bed like a ten-ton brick, mocking me from twenty feet away.
Still, it provokes me, daring me to swipe my roughened fingers across the smooth screen and bring it to life.
Like how I touch Sadie.
The same way my touch glides along the smooth skin of her thighs while goosebumps follow closely. I’d be a fool not to take my time to memorize the places that make her delicate flesh writhe, blush, and burn.
Someone give me a lobotomy.
Like everything else here, the shower is cramped and the showerhead stops at my shoulders.
Great—just fucking wonderful. Here’s to drowning myself when I lean forward to rinse out my damn shampoo.
Shockingly, the water splutters, pipes groan, and my patience wears paper thin before a spray finally shoots out of the shower head.
In a mound, my clothes pile on the floor, topped with crew socks that have seen better days. It looks foreign between a porcelain shower, cream painted cabinets with gold trim, and a fuzzy bath mat.
Who the fuck needs a fuzzy bath mat? Throw a towel down and call it a day.
Hot water scalds across my shoulders once I step under the torrent. Holding myself under the heat, exchanging it for the deep seeded ache in my muscles, I curse. This is exactly what I needed. Now for my head to get with the program.
Fresh, scrubbed, and pruny, I’m out of the shower before the water’s warmth and sporadic spluttering soothe me into unconsciousness.
Under a veil of white cotton, the fabric licks water away from my face as aggressive hands rub the towel into my unruly hair.
Another sits close by, which I quickly tuck around my hips.
Stepping into the bedroom, I toss the other towel over my shoulder where it hangs as I come face to face with temptation.
The air's colder, heavier, ominous for no reason.
Makes me miss the heat of the shower. Maybe I should get back in and stay.
I wish I could, but work never stops. I have a game plan: order take out, go through the file sitting on the table, and drink myself into idiocy.
Endless possibilities.
Digging out a black Henley, jeans, and a pair of boxers, I drag them on thinking of Thai and maybe having the delivery driver swing by an Italian place to grab something sweet.
Still too warm and not quite dry, I locate my phone, turn the screen on, and allow myself one quick sweep before ordering food and shoving my head in the emotional-turmoil-sand and deep diving into work.
Fuck off, it’s a reward.
I take control of one camera after the other, zoom in, pan the room, zoom out, then move on to the next.
Front entryway, clear. Back patio, clear. Bathroom, bedroom, office, all clear. She's either at the gym or her parents—it's too late in the evening for her to be at a therapy appointment, unless the asshole has decided to offer home visits.
Onto the living area, I tucked cameras in the major corners.
The open space is too big for one to cover by itself, therefore I had to get creative.
They’re all clear as well. Her backpack, the one I rummaged through before I left, is sitting on the coffee table.
I know for a fact I didn’t sit it there—it went back where I found it.
Hmm.
Lastly, I pan through the kitchen. Sink’s empty, stove’s cleaned off, microwave clock is reading correctly, even the cup she leaves lying around isn’t camped out on the island.
Is my girl picking up after herself now?
Turning the camera, I see the walk space between the stove and the fridge when my heart drops to the floor.
"Fuck!"
Slamming my sockless feet into my boots, I snatch the truck keys off the nightstand table, and am out the damn door.
Shoelaces be damned.