Dirty Daddies(24)

I send him a simple everything’s fine and curse myself for it. I’ve got less than a week to find Carrie a more permanent place to stay, and I’m at a brick wall with all the agencies without her cooperation.

Jack’s place is the only viable option for now, although the thought of Carrie trampling muddy boots all over his living room carpet does little to ease my anxiety.

It appears I’m switching one set of stresses for another. At least I know she’s safe for the time being.

That will have to do for now.

I send her a text message at lunchtime telling her I’ll be back early evening, wondering how the hell things are going to be in the cold light of day after having given her the brush off last night. She’s volatile. Unpredictable.

Intoxicatingly wild.

I’m seriously out of my depth here and I feel it right through me. I consider calling Bill and Rosie and letting them know she’s been found safe, but I’m already well aware they are beyond caring about her current whereabouts. I could confess the sorry situation to my co-workers and hope they don’t judge me too harshly for going maverick on an epic scale, but I don’t.

I tell myself it’s for Carrie’s sake, making sure she can find her feet before she’s shunted into a load of agency meetings, but I know it has just as much to do with my own inability to let go of this time with her as any of that.

My gut is one big knot as I drive to Jack’s place straight after work. I plead for good fortune under my breath as I make my way to the front door, trying not to contemplate the carnage that might be waiting on the other side.

Muddy boots could be the least of my problems. She could have taken it upon herself to redecorate his living room with ketchup for all I know. Nothing would surprise me, having seen her case notes.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I find her in front of Jack’s huge TV. Her hair is shiny and full, cascading down over her shoulders to pool on the leather sofa. Her skin looks fresh and clear, her eyes bright as she watches some crappy reality TV show. Her knees are gathered to her chest, a collection of crockery discarded on the living room floor.

“Hi,” I say, but she barely gives me a glance. “How was your day? How’s your ankle?”

She shrugs then wiggles her foot. “Told you I’d live.”

The coldness in her tone takes me aback. The memory of her lips pressed to mine feels alien and distant. This is another face of Carrie Wells, one that should be familiar to me from weeks of grunts and silent treatment, but in my office it never felt personal. Not like it does now.

I clear my throat. “Did you sleep well?”

“The bed’s shit,” she says. “Too springy.”

It is springy, she’s right.

“What did you have for lunch?”

She shoots me a glare that damns me for interrupting her TV show. “Sandwich. Soup. Bar of chocolate. Any other questions?”

I take a breath. “Are you ready to talk about where you’ve been these past few days? Who did that to your lip?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. I’m not ready to talk about where I’ve been these past few days. Who even cares?”

“I do.”

Her eyes are fierce. “How about you? Are you ready to talk about why you’re too much of a pussy to act on what you want?”

“It’s not like that,” I begin, but she groans and turns the volume up. “Carrie…”

“It is like that!” she hisses.

For all of my patience over the months and all the relief of having the girl back safe and sound, I feel the simmer of impatience under my cool. I don’t lose my temper with the people I work with. I subscribe to the philosophy that people are always doing the best they can with the resources they have available. That in Carrie’s world right now she’s making choices based on choices she’s been making all her life up until this point. That she doesn’t mean what she says, it’s just that she doesn’t have a framework for more effective ways of social interaction.

Even so, I want to give the bratty little cow a good slap for her rudeness.

I take a breath to compose myself and she laughs at me.

“Don’t like being called a pussy? Then don’t fucking act like one.”

“This isn’t my office,” I tell her, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine.

“No, it’s your posh friend’s place and you put me in here.”

“Yes, I did. Because you needed somewhere to stay. You still do. Last night has nothing to do with anything. You needed help, I was there.”

“There with a fucking hard on in your pants. Admit it, that’s why you came to rescue me, right? That’s why you even give a shit?”