“It was a show of comfort,” Clayton replies irritably. The dying light outside the truck bounces off the dashboard and catches the hard line of his jaw. I glower at the offensive paw he dared to touch me with as it hangs between us.
“Well, let’s get one thing clear. Touch me again,” I seethe through my flared nostrils, “and you lose that hand.” I don’t back down, our stare off gaining too much weight to be denied. The truck’s interior grows cramped, too small for both of us and the anger we’re hoarding. Then, slowly, mockingly, Clayton lowers his hand onto my T-shirt and squeezes a tight ‘fuck you’into my shoulder blade. I snap, elbowing him into the gut as hard as I can from behind the wheel.
We’re on each other in a tangle of limbs in the next second, the cab erupting with the sort of fury that’s been simmering for hours. I manage to duck as he punches, his fist finding my back instead of my face. I welcome the sting that erupts along my spine because pain is a language that doesn’t lie. Turning back to face him, I go hell for leather, throwing punches wherever they’ll land. Clayton pins my wrists with hands that could crush bones and slams a shoulder into my chest. He’s got the muscle I’m lacking, but I know my own strengths. I’m a slippery fucker.
Pressing my mouth to the side of his face, I chuckle lightly. “I didn’t know you were so kinky.” As intended, Clayton rearsback as if he’s been burned, and I lunge after him. My hand is around his throat, my other fist connecting with his ribs in quick succession. We’ve been building up to this all day, with every door slammed in our faces and dead end we’ve crashed into. The rejections burn much deeper when there’s something precious at stake. With nowhere else for our testosterone to go, I’m honestly surprised it’s taken this long for us to turn on each other.
Throwing me off him, the horn blares when I shift my knees in the enclosed space, attempting to free my legs for kicking. His fist catches me numerous times, reopening the slice through my lip where my piercing used to live. The cut has no hope of healing at this rate, and it will absolutely scar. Just one more to add to my collection. Ignoring the taste of copper, I fight through the red coating my vision until a final blow to my chest sends me barreling into the door.
“Okay, okay,” I wheeze, holding up my index finger. The bastard has well and truly winded me, the air I suck through my parted lips struggling to navigate a way to my lungs. Clayton stops, throwing himself back in his seat with a strangled groan. Our chests both heave for different reasons, and somewhere under the chaos we’ve caused is the quiet throb of something bigger. Fear. The fear that Harper is lost. The fear that we won’t find her in time, that we won’t find her at all.
“This needs to stop,” Clayton huffs angrily, gesturing at all of me. “We can’t shift through the lies and the bullshit when we’re at each other’s throats. We’re no good to her like this.” Glancing away, I stare out at a raccoon poking through a dumpster across the street. “I’m on your side, Wavershit, but I need you to meet me halfway.”
For a long second, I don’t move. My hands are still fisted, the desire to fight taking its time to diminish. In the dark, I imagine all the failures I’ve piled up. I think of Harper and the tilt of her chin when she looks at me like I’ve done something right. Thequiet surprise that I’m more than anyone thought I could be, myself included. I’d do anything to see her eyes glint like that again. Even bend to Clayton’s request.
“So we’re doing this?” I sigh, resigned that there’s no other way. I don’t trust people, but I do trust that Clayton cares for Harper. That he’ll also stop at nothing to see her safe.
Bringing my attention back to the inside of the truck, I find him watching me, an eyebrow raised in caution. I don’t blame him, especially when I robotically lift my hand between us. My arm is rigid, the ink gleaming in the light of a streetlamp that flickers over, casting the cab in an orange glow. I’m unsure if he’s going to accept it at first, but then, he thrusts his hand out and meets my eye, resignation visible in his blackened stare.
As our palms connect in a tight clasp, something strange happens. Something shifts inside my chest. Like the scales of my soul, which have always been tipped towards the festering darkness, have been nudged ever-so slightly in the other direction. Harper found a crack in my façade to wriggle into and inhabit, but Clayton? I’ve done nothing but bring misery to his life, and now we’re making a truce to put the bullshit aside. Swallowing hard, I snatch my hand back and plant it on the steering wheel.
“Okay, Scum, let’s get our girl back.”
We don’t speak another word until I pull into the parking lot of a rundown hotel. Even then, it’s just to decide who’s taking care of the case file in the back seat, whatever crumpled pieces are left of it.
I hate to say it, but Clayton is right. We’re no good to Harper like this. Dejected, exhausted, at a loss of where to go next. It goes against everything in me to get out of the truck and grab my duffle. Every step feels like admitting defeat, rather than accepting the need to rest up so we can start fresh again tomorrow.
Relying on my knack for burying emotion, I roll my shoulders as we enter the lobby, visibly resetting. A cheery blonde smiles from behind the desk as I approach.
“Welcome to Hotel Indigo,” she beams. I take care of the logistics and payment whilst Clayton lingers behind, looking over the décor. Dulled floral wallpaper makes the room feel smaller, with strips peeling throughout. Gold-painted vases holding cheap foliage are chipped, the carpet well-worn with age. It’s just one night, I tell myself, leaning into the hope that we’ll be on the jet, heading back to Waversea by tomorrow eve.
The woman slides a key across the counter with a grin that’s a little too bright for this hour. The kind of smile that feels printed rather than lived in. I can relate. I take it, whistling for Clayton to meet me at the elevator. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen,” the receptionist leans over the counter to call out. “Remember there’s a noise curfew of eleven o’clock.”
“What did you tell her?” Clayton frowns as we step into the elevator, the doors sliding closed. It creaks as it hauls us up to the third floor, the fluorescent light flickering above like it’s trying to warn us away. I shrug, dangling the singular key in front of his face.
“That we’re on our honeymoon.”
“Why the fuck would you tell her that?!” he splutters and explodes in a flurry of hand gestures. I ignore him, exiting into the long stretch of hallway that smells like mildew and cigarette smoke. Somewhere, a TV hums low behind a closed door, laughter leaking out at something obscene. “Rhys? Rhys!” His voice trails after me, bouncing off my back.
Twisting the key in the lock, I use my shoulder to push my way intoourroom. A double bed sits in the center of the room, the covers oddly in the same pattern as the wallpaper downstairs. Clayton stalls in the doorway, ranting aboutsleeping in the truck. Dropping my duffle onto the mattress, I roll my neck.
“Shut the damn door already,” I sigh. Leaving him to sulk, I stalk into the bathroom and slam the door between us. I don’t bother looking in the mirror, not wanting to see the state of myself. Instead, I splash my face with water, cleaning away the blood on my chin that I missed with the napkin in the truck.
Stripping down to my boxers, I peer at the scratches on my chest, tentatively washing the scabs in the basin. I’d rather catch an infection than step into the provided shower, blackened with so much mold and rot that I would equally catch an infection. All the while, my head is ducked for my hair to fall forward, covering my eyes from the grimy mirror. Whoever is waiting in my reflection is not a man I want to meet.
Emerging from the bathroom, I find Clayton standing as awkwardly as I left him just inside the closed door. Once again, he asks for the keys to the truck, and once again, I ignore him. Dropping onto the bed, I switch on the boxy TV, unsurprised by the glitching images. I’m not really watching anyway. It’s just something to fill the silence, as static as it is.
“Yeah, no. I’m not doing this.” Clayton grabs his duffle from the dresser he’d perched it on. “Whatever this is,” he grumbles more to himself. Turning my head in his direction, I call out to stop him one step away from the door.
“There’s no use leaving now. There’s food on the way up.” He stills as expected. Reclining with my arms crossed behind my head, Clay turns and directs a glare at me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“And I’m not busting my ass to rescue Harper, just for her to kill me when she sees what state you’re in. She would force you to eat, so I’ll force you to eat and I won’t be half as nice about it.” I stare at the ceiling, navigating the cracks with my eyes.
It’s taken me years of practice to master the art of nonchalance, but with my nerves as frayed as they are, it takes all of my concentration to appear at ease now. I feel Clayton’s gaze travel over my face, hunting for a twitch of emotion that I refuse to give. His bag hits the floor and an irritated sigh escapes him.
“Fine. I’ll stay if you tell me why I couldn’t have my own room.” This time, it’s me who groans and shuts off the TV. He’s like a dog with a bone, unable to let anything just be what it is. But maybe I owe him some glimpse of truth. Swinging my legs off the side of the bed, I keep my back to him as my front is layered with a bleeding red glow from the neon sign outside. Licking my busted lip, I hang my head.
