Chapter Four
ADAM
I watched as she chatted with Mr Clarke, taking care of him in his distress, and in that moment, I wished I could swap places with him. What an awful thing to wish. I mean, he wouldn’t be missing his son, but I would. Of course, since I didn’t have a son, I didn’t feel like I was wishing my own child danger. But I wanted to be the one on the receiving end of those dainty fingers, as she tried to offer comfort.
More than that, I wanted to take them, and push them down onto my hard cock, and feel her stroking me, as she looked at me with those huge dark eyes. Oh fuck yes. I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. I was falling into the same cloud of sexual deviance as the bastards I now worked for.
Almost as if she heard my filthy thoughts, she looked across the road, catching my eye. I didn’t dare break that gaze, looking back just as steadily. If she thought I’d do the decent thing and look away, she couldn’t be more wrong. If this would be the only moment I’d have with her, I was going to fucking relish it.
She suddenly looked away, and that hold she had on me dissipated. Now if only my cock would go back to the dormant state it normally fucking lived in. I’d actually begun to wonder if my ex-wife took that in the divorce too. It certainly hadn’t reacted like that before, not just from a glance at a woman.
I watched as she did the girl thing, inputting her number in his phone, and the wave of jealousy that washed over me was a shock, practically a slap in the face.
Why the fuck would she give him her number? Was he going to be calling her? Messaging her? I toyed with the idea of getting the phone from him. Smashing it, so he couldn’t ever contact her. But, as I watched her leave, and stood up from the table at last, gripping my helmet strap tightly, I realised the fault in that plan. If I did that, I’d never know her name. Or why she wanted to swap numbers with him. Maybe she was into older men. Adjusting my jeans as I strode across the road, I realised that I really fucking hoped so.
The man was still leaning against his car, his phone in hand, when I joined him.
“Damn… what happened here?” I started, because how the hell else was I supposed to start this discussion? He looked blankly at me.
“Uh… I don’t know.”
I pretended to take in his appearance then. “Wow… are you okay, sir? You look like you’re about to keel over.”
He sighed. “It was my son’s shop.”
I took a moment to stare again at the wreckage, seeing the Bennetts’ fucking dirty handprints all over this bastard.
“He wasn’t in there, I hope?” It was a risky question to ask, but I had to start somewhere.
Mr Clarke sagged against his car. “I have no damn idea. I can’t reach him.”
I stepped in front of him. “Is this your car, sir?” He nodded.
“Why don’t you open the door, and sit for a minute. I don’t want to see you hit the ground, mate.”
Mr Clarke followed my advice, and let himself into the car, sitting heavily on the driver’s seat, his feet still on the street.
“Let me go get you a cuppa, okay? You stay right here.” He just nodded slowly, so I made my way back to the café, and ordered a tea in a takeaway cup, grabbing a stirrer and some packs of sugar. For shock, he’d probably need it, but just in case he was diabetic, or something, I’d give him the option.
When I returned to him, I crouched, careful not to bump my helmet against the car, and pushed the paper cup into his hands. I offered the sugar and he nodded, so I emptied all three packs into the cup and stirred it for him. He’d wrapped his hands around the corrugated cup, and sighed heavily.
“I just don’t know what to do. I… my son hasn’t been in touch in weeks. The police haven’t found anything. They have an incident report, and bugger all else. How does someone like me even know where to start.”
Perfect. At least one thing would be easy. I cleared my throat, staying crouched in front of him.
“Well… I think I was meant to be in the middle of my lunch when you showed up, sir. I might be able to help.”
He finally met my eyes, his looking a little wet, and he blinked far more rapidly than he probably normally did.
“How? Do you know my son? Harvey Clarke?”
I shook my head, and he raised his eyebrows. “You’re with the police?”
I shook my head again. He didn’t ask a third question, so I bit the bullet.
“Okay, so I can look into it for you. Help you. I’m a private investigator. It’s what I do.”
He sighed, glancing down at his tea. “Oh.”