God, his head. It hurt, like he’d rammed a spike through his eye socket.
Christ, why did he do this to himself? Memories of waking up in the clubhouse, hungover, hurting, and half-clothed with some random woman next to him in his bedroom. He’d complained to his boss, who’d eventually gotten him lined up with an undercover girlfriend. Thank God. The other guys might think he was whipped, but that was nothing compared to the stress of finding ways to avoid fucking those poor women.
Women like Carly.
He screwed his eyes shut against those images.
With a rustle, his hand met paper, and memories from the day before came flooding back—Niko Breadthwaite dead, Clay drinking at the bar, then running into that cop. The man had seen right through him. He’d known something was up.
Had the sheriff made him? Clay wondered, the morning bringing a new perspective on that odd conversation. Fuck, maybe Clay was losing his edge and the sheriff saw right through the civilian charade.
Because that was what this was. A charade. All day, every day, Clay was playing some role, pretending to be something he wasn’t… Yeah, but you do it long enough, you become it. Whatever it is.
Maybe it was the goddamned banner Ape had forced on him—the one that said, Hey! I’m a fuckin’ cop and I’ll never work undercover again, because it’s written on my face!
After a worthless fifteen minutes of he-made-me, he-made-me-not, Clay stopped the internal debate firmly on the side of not.
In fact, he decided, he’d been so damn good at his role of stupid criminal that the man had figured he’d best take him off the streets.
Good. Good.
He stood, let the sweaty sheet fall to the floor, revealing his unexpectedly naked body—he didn’t remember taking his clothes off after returning from his vigil at the doc’s place—and moved to the A/C, pushed a few buttons, waited… Nothing. From polar ice cap, it had turned into a goddamned sauna in here, and he couldn’t get a fucking wheeze of cool air.
In the bathroom, he lifted the toilet seat and vomited, made even more nauseated by the state of the porcelain rim.
Christ, he had to get out of this place. He would have spent the night in the woods if the mosquitoes hadn’t eventually made it unbearable, their bites overlapping, the bumps still texturing his skin. His T-shirt was festooned with grisly smears of blood from crushing them. His blood.
Outside, his mind called again, overlaying the image of the doctor’s house with another place—that mountain overlook where he’d found… What? Himself? Yeah right. His new favorite bird, the vulture? The mirror showed a cynical smile at that thought, but the notion did have an oddly true ring to it. He’d felt a weird kinship with that bird.
After a long, cold shower, a big glass of cloudy water, and his last two wrinkled apples, he made his way back into the world, only to be blinded by the sun. He was yearning for something to soak up the booze, so he headed to Main Street, on foot, avoiding the bad-news diner and going straight to the coffee shop with its hipster baristas—probably the only place in town where he almost fit in.
A pretentious pastry and two tasteless coffees later, he felt slightly better, then caught sight of a clock only to realize it was just a few minutes before noon. He considered his options—back to the motel, where the A/C could no longer even pretend to battle the filthy, moist heat or…
Shit.
He was going to do it, wasn’t he?
Clay took a quick trip to his room to change into his sweatpants, hesitating before slipping into a crappy T-shirt with the arms cut off. At the last minute, he grabbed a long-sleeved shirt to throw over himself, then headed back to the gym beside the clinic.
The clinic. Shit, he’d have to go back at some point. Or maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d just hold on to the tats, like part of his history. Hell, the kids in the coffee shop had looked at him with a sort of awe—who knew a face tattoo would get you quite so much street cred?
He knew. His fake prison tats had gotten him exactly the respect he’d needed to fit into the club.
He hesitated briefly before he pushed into the MMA school. Inside, it was exactly what he’d expected. And at the same time, it wasn’t. Yes, it smelled like sweat and socks, like every other gym in the world, but there was more to it than he’d imagined. It was bigger than it looked from the outside, with mats covering the middle of the room and weight equipment along the sides, a couple of speed bags, and heavy bags in the corners. Nothing particularly high-tech or new. He liked it, which gave him a jolt. It had been a long-ass time since he’d felt right someplace.
Nobody manned the desk, so Clay just walked in, ignored the stares of the two guys lifting, and scanned the room until he spotted Sheriff Mullen in the back. He stood wrapping his hands.
“Made it,” said the sheriff, with a come on back here wave. “Get you suited up.”
“For what?”
With a tilt of his head, the man indicated Clay’s hands. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin all that pretty ink, would we?”
Clay scoffed and unconsciously rubbed his arms. “Yeah.”
“You got more under there?”
After a second, he lifted his chin in acknowledgment.
