Boston—roughly the same time
What was the sense of sleeping with someone if you couldn’t remember it?
Chelsea slipped from the bed and tiptoed from the room, snagging her clothes along the way. Her head was pounding, her legs were stiff, and her mouth felt gummed up.
Ballerina girl! What are you doing with your life?
She waved her hand, trying to physically block her father’s voice from her head. But really, it was a hell of a good question.
Why had she gone home with Flores? If her head hadn’t been pounding already, Chelsea would have pounded it a few times against the wall just to knock some sense into it.
She wasn’t a prude, but this was absolutely not her style. Hookups with strangers were so far out of character that she was sure she wouldn’t recognize herself if she looked in a mirror.
Fortunately, there were no mirrors in the small kitchen, where she stopped to get dressed. Pots and dishes were piled in the sink, and the garbage pail, without a top, was overflowing.
Typical guy place.
How many times have I told you . . . ?
“Ssshhhh, Daddy. Please. I know you’re right,” she whispered.
Chelsea needed to use the bathroom, but as she went to it, she heard Flores starting to stir down the hall. She decided she could hold it for a while and trotted to the front door, jamming on her shoes so quickly that she didn’t quite get the heel of her right foot all the way in. No matter. She paused at the door long enough to make sure her wallet and keys were still in her bag—they were—then made her getaway.
It was not yet light out. That was fortunate. Chelsea walked for a block, her head clearing, before she managed to get her bearings. Miraculously, she was six blocks from her apartment.
Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing, she thought as she crossed the street. They were close enough that bumping into each other was inevitable.
Then again, even with the arrest, they’d probably have to clean up odds and ends on the project; Flores had alluded to that last night.
Several times. How drunk had he been?
Maybe so drunk he wouldn’t remember her being there?
Zero chance of that. And surely he’d been more sober than she was.
Oh well, she thought to herself, angling toward a Starbucks that looked open. There were worse things in life than doing an FBI agent.
Surely there were. She just couldn’t think of them at the moment.