“I didn’t mean to suggest that I was blaming you,” he began. “I’m not. I’m blaming myself.”
“I’m showering. Go away.”
“I seriously never sleep in. Ever. It’s like my brain has a built-in clock.”
“The body’s circadian rhythms are a wondrous thing,” I agreed. “Go away.”
“I’m just saying, I was feeling wrong-footed and—”
“And you took it out on me.” I pushed the knob to shut off the water after barely wetting my hair, and I reached out a hand to grab a fluffy towel from the rack. “What a charmer you are.”
Riggs sighed. “I want to protect you, Carter,” he said as I wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped out of the tub. “Not because you’re a job, a principal I have to protect, but because you’re… you. And I keep not doing that. Or not doing it well, anyway. And I’m frustrated with myself. The fact that you’re so fucking hot is no excuse.”
I pursed my lips. So fucking hot, huh? I didn’t consider myself a particularly shallow person, but it was hard to stay angry when he put it that way. And more than that, he seemed sincere. His dark eyes were haunted.
“Have you ever had things go wrong with a client?” I asked, forgetting for a second that sharing time was over and we were back to client/bodyguard mode.
His face closed off immediately, whatever doubt I’d imagined I saw immediately hidden behind a blank facade.
I sighed. “Well, for whatever it’s worth, I feel very safe with you.” I laid a hand on one of his crossed arms. “You’re good at your job.”
Riggs grunted noncommittally like he believed I was just trying to make him feel better.
“I’m serious. That’s part of why I slept so hard. I mean, the other part was sheer exhaustion from being on edge all day—I was so tired on my way back from Gustavo’s room that I hallucinated someone from Licking Thicket was speaking to me—but I’m being serious when I say the fact that I fell asleep and stayed asleep under these circumstances?” I waved a hand around the well-appointed bathroom, which was not nearly so nice when you remembered it was our prison for the time being. “That means you’re doing a good job.”
Riggs’s eyes lightened a little, but he snorted deprecatingly. “Voices, huh? Were they talking about the Thicket’s annual milk pail race event thing?”
“I believe you mean the Lickin’ Lope.” I may have sounded a trifle smug since I considered myself something of an expert on all Thicket-related trivia these days. “And no, not that, but close. I could have sworn I heard one of my patients, old Amos Nutter, talking about how Nutters need to be free. Except the only person around besides me and the guards was a middle-aged dude with a mullet who was definitely not old Amos. Have you met Amos?” I grinned at Riggs, who frowned at me in the bathroom mirror. “If you’re driving out of Licking Thicket towards the highway, Amos owns the pasture on the right side, near the town sign. He’s the one who puts letters on the sides of his cows, and they end up spelling out interesting shit.”
I grabbed a toothbrush from the vanity and turned on the faucet.
“Wait, say that part again?”
“Cahws,” I garbled around the toothbrush. I spat into the sink. “Er, cows. With letters. Like, one time Amos wanted them to spell out ‘Field use denied’ because kids had been playing ball in his pasture, right? But they rearranged themselves as they grazed, and they spent hours spelling out ‘Defile us indeed.’ Some people took pictures.”
It was possible that I’d been one of those people.
“Not that.” Riggs shook his head. “I don’t give a shit about the cows. I meant, repeat the part about a Nutter being here in Venezuela.”
I snorted. “He’s not, that’s what I’m saying. Amos is eighty-something with a trick hip, and unless you’re thinking Santiago’s grand plan for world domination involves getting capybaras to spell out rude Spanish words, there’s no reason he’d be staying at el Fortress de Scary Dudes. I’m saying I was so stressed that I hallucinated Amos’s voice as I was walking down the hall near the— Oh! Oh, shit! I forgot to tell you!” I whirled to face Riggs and shook his elbows excitedly. “There was a computer room!”
“What?”
“Yeah, yeah! That’s where the-Amos-who-isn’t-Amos was. I looked up because I thought I heard Amos Nutter, and I saw this blond guy with a mullet inside a whole room filled with computers and monitors playing Horn of Glory—which, okay, now that I think about it, the whole thing might have been a hallucination because everyone knows you can only play it on a handheld Horn.” I frowned. “Anyway, it’s worth checking out because the room I saw was full of computers and probably internet access, but damn. What had my brain been trying to tell me with that hallucination? Or was the universe trying to send me a message? If so, I really wish it wouldn’t deliver it in Amos Nutter’s voice.”