Quintic (61 page)

He shook his
head
no
but didn’t drive away. The man left him alone; the man
knew, of course. This was not their first quarrel after all.
Perhaps Philip imagined Chris was waiting for Miss Patricia to
come back down and they’d reconcile on the spot.

Tell me, P
rincess.
Would your doorman still call you Miss Patricia if he knew you
started a fight at a strip club earlier?
Chris would wager that Philip, like the rest of the staff
here, would. Damn woman.

She
had knocked a jerk out with a beer bottle and
kicked him repeatedly. Charles said she was protecting him, no
less. That rookie was out. He had taken her to that dump when he,
Chris, his fucking
boss
, had explicitly forbidden
him to take her anywhere!

Her shoulder
had barely healed from the last fight; did Charles use her as his
personal bodyguard? Didn’t the kid see how helpless she was in a
fight the first time? He was fucking pissed at Charles
and
Patricia. What the hell was going on between those two?
Sneaking out to some strip club! Twice!

He
sat
and smoked a cigarette. Another. His
mouth tasted like shit. At some point, when he ran out of smokes,
he ignited the motor and drove away. He took a right at the corner,
and then another right, and a right again to end up right back
where he had started. He arrived in time to see a car, Charles’s,
pull to a stop in front of the front door.
Shit, what the fuck now?

Chris
flew out of his truck car and into the hotel
fast enough to catch up with a startled Charles waiting for the
elevator. He seized the kid by the shoulder, flipped him around and
punched him. The guy was just out of the emergency; Chris
controlled the blow, hitting hard but without full-on anger. His
fist voluntarily missed the kid’s face but not by much.

Charl
es went stiff before he
vainly tried to ward off the punch, his fists shielding his face in
a tardy defensive move. Luckily for Charles, Chris had worked off
the worst of the edge by smoking half a pack. His fist left a dent
in the elevator door. His knuckles throbbed with pain. The pain was
welcome; the pain gave focus. Control.

The night
guy came over, cautious
. “Everything all
right, Mister MacLaren? Should I maybe call the police?”

It was
Charles
who waved the guy away with an
everything is under control gesture.

“
You’re
out
,” Chris spewed out in a low voice
between clenched teeth, breathing through his nose.

“
I
know.
” Charles shrugged dismissively. “I
just want to make sure Patricia is all right.”

“
You should
have thought of that before tonight,” he snapped back in the same
level tone, but a sharp edge crept into it.

Charles
didn’t say
anything.

“
Get
out
, Charles.”

The kid didn’t move.

“
Charles.
Get.
The. Fuck. Out.”

“
No. I want
to make sure she’s fine.” The kiddie cop chose this moment to stand
up to him for the first time.
A little late, rookie
.

“
She’ll
be
OK. Go.”

C
harles took a deep breath and
straightened.
Getting ready
for a fight, asshole?
Bring
it on.

“
No,” the
kid repeated. “
I make sure first, and
then I go.”

He could
drag Charles out,
or punch him for real
and take him down. Tempting. Not efficient, though, but fucking
tempting. Or he could allow the jerk up and see. He might make
sense of tonight if he observed Patricia and Charles interact. The
stories he’d been told were not all the same; something was off.
Charles had been lying to him about tonight, that he was certain.
But Steve’s version, as reported by witnesses, were over-the-top.
Patricia could
not
have taken the fat guy down and kicked him; that
was absurd. Crazy.

Tensed
silence accompanied the two men to the fourth floor, right up
to
Patricia’s door. Chris knocked, two
hard whacks, and waited. No sounds, no signs of movement. He banged
again, harder. He wanted to break the fucking door down, wanted to
feel the wood splinter his knuckles, but if he lost control now− He
used the card key.

He had it
made long ago and always kept it in his wallet. Of course, since
then, Patricia had
officially given him a
key hence the two electronic hotel cards in his wallet. Why did he
carry the two? Simple, he anticipated she might lock him out or
throw him out again. Wasn’t it what she was doing now, figuratively
speaking?

They found
her in bed, fully dressed, fully awake but hiding under her covers.
Her hair was a mess, her eyes red and so fucking green.

She glared
at him unhappy when he pulled the blankets off her. “Out!” She
barked, arm out straight and pointing at the bedroom
entrance.

Both
men retreated to the living room part of the
suite. Seconds after, the bathroom door slammed. They heard her
moving around, turning the tap on and off, knocking bottles,
banging doors, making noises.

She stayed
in there a good
twenty minutes (he had no
clue doing what) while he sipped his drink. Scotch in a fucking
wine glass! The kid could damn well forget about getting
one.

Chris was
pouring himself a second shot when Patricia stomped barefoot into
the room. A twenty-minute downtime wasn’t long considering the
night’s events and her history of fucking around. Of
pretending
, Chris corrected himself. Delaying. Ignoring. Hiding.
Fucking around.

She had
changed into sleek jeans and one of his sweatshirts. She had tucked
her hands into the sleeves and pulled the hood over her head.
Concealing herself still. Except for her bare feet, the nails
painted with a lavender polish. How kinky was it that he liked her
feet? She wiggled her toes when she was nervous; the pink tips were
fucking jittery right now.

He
kept his mouth shut. Wait and see.
The ball is yours, Angel, yours and
your damn rookie lover boy here. Let’s see where you throw
it
. She plopped down on the couch and
crossed her arms. She had yet to ask why they were here and why
they were here together. She had yet to ask anything. Apparently,
she too was waiting.
Waiting
for what, Angel of mine? Talk to me
.

That left
Charles. Charles who perched his ass on the coffee table in front
of her. Charles who smiled at her and put his fucking paws on her
knee. Chris scrutinised them with half-closed eyes. A deep frown
cut his forehead. He was holding the glass so hard, its foot broke
off, and he cut himself. Bruised knuckles and a bleeding palm
equated to pain.
Focus on the
physical pain and wait. Talk to me, Pussycat.

Her
Threesome

A
s weary as she was of
Christopher’s reaction, Patricia barely noticed Charles’s hand. The
Big guy had a glint in his eyes that troubled her even if he looked
his usual hard and tightly coiled self. She studied him from
cropped hair to dressy shoes, her gaze catching on his right hand;
that hand had been fine two hours ago.

Why had he
brought
the young officer up with him?
She turned to Charles. His bruised, dog-tired face aged him; it
wasn’t worse than it had been in the hospital, though. Had the two
men been fighting? If so, she couldn’t determine a clear winner,
but would Charles be standing if they had? No, hence no fist fight.
Christopher had thrown a punch at someone or something
else.

Charles
broke the
stillness. “Are you all
right?”

Was that
all? “Yes.” She swallowed. “No,” she added shaking her head. “I’m
not sure.” She pushed her sleeves up and studied her hands.
Although she was over the fear, they were somewhat shaky. From now
on, she intended to be the hunter.

“
I’m not
sure
I’m quite fine yet, but I will be.”
She smiled up at Charles, gently taking his hands from her knees
and gathered both in hers. “You did well tonight. You’ve
graduated,
yé
!”

He
looked at her with such puppy eyes, her heart
twisted. “You did well tonight, Charles,” she repeated. “It was a
brilliant idea that you had, going undercover to find the fight
guy. Brilliant one might say.” She added for Christopher’s benefit,
“Maybe you’ll get promoted now.”

Charles
didn’t return her smile, his big brown, sad eyes full of concern;
he shook his head dismissively, discouragement evident in the droop
of his shoulders. She threw a quick glance at Christopher; the
infuriating man was observing them carefully, his lips now a thin
line. She couldn’t remember seeing him this angry. Maybe in the
beginning? Later during the murder trial? The kiss? She’d rather
see him angry than sad, or worried about her. Or worse, hurt. She
couldn’t stand to see him get wounded.

She squared
her shoulders. She didn’t have any choices left. If she didn’t take
care of things, Christopher would fire Charles. Tonight was
her
fault;
Charles didn’t deserve to pay for it.

She
picked herself up, letting go of Charles’s
hands, and marched to Christopher. She gripped his wrist, pulling
at his arm, but he didn’t budge. She stood so near that his body
heat rolled over her. She tugged harder without looking at him,
but, as he still wouldn’t yield, she stopped wrestling with him and
quietly waited.

If
she
asked him for a hug, he would give
her one. She could make him give in temporarily, but the anger
would still be there. And in his arms, she might not be able to
speak. She was not going to cry in front of him! She heaved a sigh,
shuffled back to the couch and flopped down in her previous spot.
Leaning her head on the backrest, she closed her eyes.

“
I told
MacLaren how you
’ve helped me take care
of the fat guy,” Charles announced. “I take full responsibility for
it. I’m sorry, Patricia, so sorry. Going with you to those clubs
was a lousy idea.”

“
What? Did
you say clubs? Club
s
with an
S
?” Christopher asked, his voice
deceptively soft.

She knew
that voice.
His control was rapidly
slipping away.

The Big
guy
didn’t wait for an answer. “How many
of those fucking clubs have you done? Both of you?”

She knew
her
boyfriend. As he asked, he was
already calculating back. They had not seen each other once in the
evenings since the weekend. They had not slept together, had not
even talked since then either. Had he noticed Charles’s beard had
appeared at about that time? He stomped to Charles and grabbed him
by the collar, lifting him to his feet. Yup, he had
noticed.

“
I’m
listening
, Charles.”

Charles
couldn’t respond without
getting fire. And she couldn’t answer for the rookie without
getting him into the trouble.

“I made her come with me to a
couple of clubs. For help. I’m not at ease in those places.”

“
What?” She
was stunned. What the heck? Was Charles covering for her? If he
kept this up, he was going to get fired for sure. Eyes wide, she
jumped to her feet and hissed at both of them, “He did
not
make
me go.
I
took
him
with me, big difference.” Hands on hips, she
frowned at Charles, her scowl silently willing him to shut
up.

Three of
Some

A
bout fucking time those two
stopped holding hands, Chris thought. If he could get them to turn
on each other, or, at least, spar verbally, he might understand
what was going on. “OK, guys, whose stupid idea was it
again?”

“
Mine,
” Patricia and Charles
chanted in unison.

“
Shut up
,” Patricia silently
pleaded Charles. “
Don’t
answer that; it’s a trap
.” If Christopher
believed his officer, Charles was out.

“
Again,
who
se stupid idea was it?” Chris growled
at the two.

Patricia and
Charles stared at one another. This time, when neither one
confessed, Chris figured he was getting closer to the
truth.

“
You
couldn’t have
done more than a couple
tonight,” he taunted. “When did you start this shit?”

Trick
question, Patricia thought. If she said Sunday, Christopher would
know she had not been with Ingrid.
Unless
she claimed Ingrid’s mystery contact had cancelled at the last
minute? Too much of a lie. If she alleged they had started on
Monday, that translated to a three-day strip club spree. Too long a
time, the vein bulging on Christopher’s neck informed her. Would
the Big guy believe they had only deployed a two-night plan? Would
he
forgive
a two-night extravaganza? Would he absolve them even of one
evening, one trip? She didn’t answer.