“Charming me is against the rules.”
He instantly sobered, “So it is. Well, then, call it my lack of charm perhaps? Anyways, good luck.” He fake saluted her.
Her hand slipped down to the side of her waist, and she braced her palm against the knife hidden there. If only, if only. She could do it. He couldn’t respond in time. She could put him out of her sight forever. Her heart clenched at the thought of him no longer existing. She could so easily pin him though. And then…too many options in that scenario. Could go either way, infatuation resurfacing or anger winning, and that was a risk she couldn’t take.
He watched her, never taking his eyes off her face. He studied her face as if he could read her thoughts, and she stared back determined not to flinch.
She pulled her shoulders back, breaking the moment, “Sleep well,” she said as genuinely as possible and stormed out before she had a chance to do anything else–especially anything involving her hands on him.
The second she was outside, her shoulders slumped. She was stronger than this. She had to be. In the past three years, she hadn’t let anyone provoke her the way he just did. He so seamlessly slipped under her skin. He targeted her in a way no one else could. What she didn’t understand was why.
Why had he broken up with her? Why had he pushed her away? Why, now, was he playing this game of back and forth? Pull her just a tiny bit closer to push her farther away. It was all a game to him. She wouldn’t lose. She could play too, make him want her back and then refuse him.
The bar was full of half drunk men, and she kept her palm across her knife as she maneuvered to the counter. Thankfully no one attempted to intersect her. Anger was bubbling beneath her skin, begging for release and she might have stabbed someone for the hell of it.
She paid, and caught the key the bartender tossed to her. He immediately turned his attention to his other patrons, not bothering to see if she found her room, or even giving her the room number. The key had “11” carved into it, the marks half rusted and barely visible.
The steps were uneven. Most of them had begun to sink in. Clara stepped carefully, avoiding the dingiest spots. She curled her lip in disgust at some of the stains, at least she hoped they were only stains, spotting the floor and hallway.
Room 11 was near the end of the hall. The lock rattled as she tried it, and it took more than a couple grunts for her to actuallymake it inside. The door closed behind her easily enough, leaving her in a dark, unsanitary room. She thought through her options. She could sleep here, she could go back to the train and sleep out in the cold, she could…no. She definitely could not ask Carver for his help. That’s one thing she would not do. She could sleep here. She would.
The bathroom at least had running water (she shouldn’t have been surprised, but from the state of the building she wasn’t sure anything had been updated in the last 100 years). Though when she turned the faucet on, it sputtered with a milky red liquid before cleaning out and running clear. She grimaced, staring at the stream reluctant to touch it.
Again, she weighed her options. She could go back to the train. It was clean, if nothing else. This wouldn’t be comfortable. She seriously wanted a shower. Pulling the curtain back, she almost gagged, 99% sure the giant splotch on the back wall was blood. She’d seen enough of it to know. She glanced at it again, hoping it would fade a little more. Clearly, it hadn’t been cleaned well enough. She imagined running her finger nail over it, and cringed at the idea of the dried blood flaking off into her hand. Killing marks was one thing, showering with blood of an unknown origin, another.
She shuddered, her stomach churning.
While not usually squeamish, the chaos from the bar downstairs, her exhaustion, and the disgusting condition of the room began to overwhelm her. Things needed to be in order. They had to be in order.
Her stomach rumbled and her mind flipped over too many ideas. It was a weird feeling not knowing what to do. She went through each of her options again and again, still coming to the same conclusion. Her available options weren’t good enough.
She could start with food then. Surely the bar had food.
The men were more drunk and raucous than before, and she had to resist slicing through someone’s forearm as he tried to grab her when she walked by. She could have done it. She wouldn’t have felt guilty. He clearly deserved it. But she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.
There was only one spot open at the bar, and to Clara’s vast relief it was at the far end of the counter. As secluded as she could possibly be among the number of wasted bodies. She sat, pressing herself against the wall. A slight shift in her seat and she could see the entire bar.
“What’ll ya have?” The bartender finished drying a glass, throwing his dish towel over his shoulder as he moved in front of her.
Her brain spun as she tried to come up with something that sounded like a possible order. The drink she had with Carver the other night was the first time she had consumed alcohol since her one and only bad experience with it. Reese still hadn’t let her live down that night. Her attempt at dancing on a table had not gone well.
“Vodka?” She knew how unsure she sounded.
He looked at her, assessing. “Want that in a mixed drink?”
She shook her head no, and he raised an eyebrow before grabbing the glass and pouring the shot.
“Do you have food?” She asked, cautiously. She had never been to a bar before. She felt conspicuously out of place, waiting for someone to come in and rip her away. She felt wrong, like the enjoyment people had in this place was too foreign for her to even witness.
He set a menu down in front of her, and served a couple of other people as she tried to read the faded words. She thought it was a fairly decent list for an establishment that specialized in liquor. She ordered the first thing that sounded filling, and picked up her shot glass as the bartender walked away.
She held the clear liquid in front of her face, peering quizzically into the glass. She knew a couple of her friends, well more Reese’s friends, snuck off base to drink regularly. Reese had convinced her to join only once, and Clara had sworn she would never do it again.
The other night with Carver was a desperate attempt at normalcy. The drink had kept her from wrapping her hands around his throat. She wasn’t certain what prompted her to try this tonight. She sniffed it, resisting the urge to down it. After a moment’s hesitation, she took a tentative sip and coughed.
12CARVER
Carver reveled in the satisfaction of having beaten Clara to the room for a full thirty seconds before his worry kicked in. He couldn’t send her to the far less safe bar and let her stay there alone. He wouldn’t. He was too much of a gentleman for that, even if Clara wouldn’t acknowledge it.
