Read Online B00NRQWAJI by Nichole Christoff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nichole Christoff
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couldn’t quite bring myself to cut the engine. Briefly, I considered sneaking into the house, snagging my suitcase, and hightailing it back to Washington without another word to anyone bearing the last name of Barrett.
But I wasn’t a quitter.
And I wasn’t a coward.
I’d face Barrett and whatever the truth might be. So I got out of my car. And that’s when I spied Barrett himself, elbows propped on the rail outside the garage’s second-story apartment. He didn’t hail me or offer any kind of hello. But in my heart of hearts, I knew: Adam Barrett was waiting to talk to me.
Chapter 7
Well aware that Barrett was watching my every move, I crossed the lawn, turning a cold shoulder to the chilly evening breeze that blew in from the orchard. The wind didn’t seem to bother him, however, as he descended the stairs to meet me. Maybe the faded jean jacket he wore over his ratty flannel shirt was warmer than it looked—or maybe he was liquored up again and the booze had made him numb.
When I drew near, Barrett took a seat on one of the steps. He slid to one side of the tread, leaving plenty of room for me to sit beside him. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that.
“You were gone a long time,” he said.
“I had things to do.”
He nodded.
Silence, as taut as a telegraph wire, stretched between us.
“What did Luke Rittenhaus have to say to you and Eric Wentz?” I asked.
“He cited Eric for discharging a firearm within town limits. He also swears he’ll arrest me if I go near Eric again. Not that that will stop me.”
“Barrett…” Frustration had me sinking onto the step beside him. But I was very careful not to touch him. “I know you came up here because Vance McCabe told you Eric was suicidal. But today, waving that shotgun around, he didn’t look suicidal to me.”
“He had it bad in Afghanistan. And he never got over what happened to Pamela. None of us have.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s in danger of killing himself.”
“The statistics aren’t in his favor. And Vance says—”
“Vance has a drug problem. And based on your recent behavior, I haven’t been so sure it hasn’t rubbed off on you.”
Barrett didn’t reply.
Irritated, I couldn’t look at him anymore. Because if I did, I’d yell at him. Or I’d cry. And neither kind of outburst would fix this situation. So I scowled at my shoes, beautiful handmade oxfords crafted by a grateful client from cocoa-colored patent leather and inset with peacock velvet vamps. But beside my right foot was Barrett’s left, clad in an old combat boot too run down to wear with his uniform any longer. And that was exactly how I felt: run down.
He said, “I didn’t want you to stay. I knew if you stayed, you’d hear bad news about me.”
“I’m a PI,” I mumbled, “and a security specialist. I hear lots of bad news. All the time. About everything and everybody.”
“Well, you heard about Pamela, so now you know. She’s dead because of me.”
I could barely breathe, barely ask, “What do you mean because of you ?”
But Barrett shook his head. “Jamie, it’s complicated.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t. Don’t you get that? I can’t talk to you about this!”
“Oh, I get it.” Anger flashed through me like heat lightning. It propelled me to my feet. “You can fuck me. But you can’t confide in me.”
And there it was. The real reason I was so upset. In words that were rude and raw.
Because in that instant I realized I’d inadvertently lied when I’d told everyone in Fallowfield that Barrett and I were only friends. I’d accidentally lied to myself, too. I wasn’t in New York merely because his grandmother had asked me to come. I wasn’t here because Barrett had had my back when I’d come under fire, either. No, I was here because last Tuesday night, with Barrett, in my guest bedroom, I’d been ready to be as close to another human being as I knew how. In short, I’d trusted him completely.
But I wasn’t a quitter.
And I wasn’t a coward.
I’d face Barrett and whatever the truth might be. So I got out of my car. And that’s when I spied Barrett himself, elbows propped on the rail outside the garage’s second-story apartment. He didn’t hail me or offer any kind of hello. But in my heart of hearts, I knew: Adam Barrett was waiting to talk to me.
Chapter 7
Well aware that Barrett was watching my every move, I crossed the lawn, turning a cold shoulder to the chilly evening breeze that blew in from the orchard. The wind didn’t seem to bother him, however, as he descended the stairs to meet me. Maybe the faded jean jacket he wore over his ratty flannel shirt was warmer than it looked—or maybe he was liquored up again and the booze had made him numb.
When I drew near, Barrett took a seat on one of the steps. He slid to one side of the tread, leaving plenty of room for me to sit beside him. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that.
“You were gone a long time,” he said.
“I had things to do.”
He nodded.
Silence, as taut as a telegraph wire, stretched between us.
“What did Luke Rittenhaus have to say to you and Eric Wentz?” I asked.
“He cited Eric for discharging a firearm within town limits. He also swears he’ll arrest me if I go near Eric again. Not that that will stop me.”
“Barrett…” Frustration had me sinking onto the step beside him. But I was very careful not to touch him. “I know you came up here because Vance McCabe told you Eric was suicidal. But today, waving that shotgun around, he didn’t look suicidal to me.”
“He had it bad in Afghanistan. And he never got over what happened to Pamela. None of us have.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s in danger of killing himself.”
“The statistics aren’t in his favor. And Vance says—”
“Vance has a drug problem. And based on your recent behavior, I haven’t been so sure it hasn’t rubbed off on you.”
Barrett didn’t reply.
Irritated, I couldn’t look at him anymore. Because if I did, I’d yell at him. Or I’d cry. And neither kind of outburst would fix this situation. So I scowled at my shoes, beautiful handmade oxfords crafted by a grateful client from cocoa-colored patent leather and inset with peacock velvet vamps. But beside my right foot was Barrett’s left, clad in an old combat boot too run down to wear with his uniform any longer. And that was exactly how I felt: run down.
He said, “I didn’t want you to stay. I knew if you stayed, you’d hear bad news about me.”
“I’m a PI,” I mumbled, “and a security specialist. I hear lots of bad news. All the time. About everything and everybody.”
“Well, you heard about Pamela, so now you know. She’s dead because of me.”
I could barely breathe, barely ask, “What do you mean because of you ?”
But Barrett shook his head. “Jamie, it’s complicated.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t. Don’t you get that? I can’t talk to you about this!”
“Oh, I get it.” Anger flashed through me like heat lightning. It propelled me to my feet. “You can fuck me. But you can’t confide in me.”
And there it was. The real reason I was so upset. In words that were rude and raw.
Because in that instant I realized I’d inadvertently lied when I’d told everyone in Fallowfield that Barrett and I were only friends. I’d accidentally lied to myself, too. I wasn’t in New York merely because his grandmother had asked me to come. I wasn’t here because Barrett had had my back when I’d come under fire, either. No, I was here because last Tuesday night, with Barrett, in my guest bedroom, I’d been ready to be as close to another human being as I knew how. In short, I’d trusted him completely.
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