Page 45 of The Opposite Effect

“You can’t guarantee that.” She hiccups through tears.

“Like hell I can’t.”

She lifts her tear-stained face off my chest before her watering eyes bounce between mine. “How?”

I remove a strand of hair stuck to her tear-drenched cheek before locking my eyes with hers. “By never letting you out of my sight. That’s how.”

Clara inhales a sharp, quick breath but remains as quiet as asleeping baby. I draw her in close to my body and stand from the couch. After gathering her purse from the filing cabinet at the side of my office, I head to the back door of Inked.

Clara’s eyes drift between mine as I stride down the hallway, but not a word spills from her lips. By the time we make it into the parking lot, the tears flooding from her eyes have dampened to a slight trickle, and her shakes have dulled.

I adjust her position so she’s being held by one arm, before digging my hand into her purse to search for her keys. A growl of frustration rolls up my chest when I fail to find them. My excavation is hampered by the massive amount of makeup and girly shit she carries in her oversized purse.

The heaviness weighing down my chest the past two hours lightens when a giggle spills from Clara’s lips before she snatches her purse out of my hand and delves her hand inside. I roll my eyes when she produces a set of keys in under two point five seconds.

Once I locate the car key I gave her four weeks ago, I jab it into the passenger side door and unlock her car. Clara’s gleaming eyes lift to mine when I gently lower her into the passenger seat before securing her seat belt. After closing the door, I race around her car and glide into the driver’s seat. Her second giggle of the night topples from her lips when my knees become trapped behind the steering wheel.

“What the hell? How can you drive sitting so close to the steering wheel?” I grumble, yanking on the seat mechanism.

Clara giggles again.

She must still be in shock. I’ve never heard her laugh so much.

After pushing the seat back as far as possible, I prod the key into the ignition and fire up the engine. The only noise heard in the cabin of Clara’s car for the first two miles is the small pants of her breath.

Another mile out, I shift my eyes from the road to Clara.Although she doesn’t appear as rattled as earlier, her pupils are still filling her cornea, and her face is stained with tears. When another mile clicks over, the expression on her face surges from confused to concerned.

“Where are we going?” she queries as I pull her car into the underground parking lot of my apartment building.

I park her car in my assigned parking bay and switch off the ignition. “My place,” I reply before yanking open the driver’s side door and stepping onto the concrete.

Any words she might speak are drowned out by the loud echo of the driver’s side door slamming shut. Not giving her a chance to protest, I run around the car, swing open her door, and pull her into my arms. I’m shocked as hell when I walk through the deserted parking garage, and she clings to my chest. I expected some type of response—at the very least, a gripe about how she can walk and doesn’t need to be carried—but she doesn’t say a thing until I place her on her feet at my apartment door.

“Why am I here?” she asks as her eyes aimlessly float around the empty corridor.

Her eyes rocket to mine when I answer, “Because you’re in shock.”

Her confused gaze stops bouncing between mine when my apartment door gives out a slight creak when I swing it open. I lean in and flick on the lights, illuminating my modest but well-decorated loft apartment.

Clara takes two steps inside before stopping dead in her tracks. She stands frozen in the entryway I finished refitting six months ago. After my grandmother moved into Caramine Care, I downgraded from a two-bedroom apartment to the loft on the top floor. Although I lost the bonus of a guest bedroom, I have the same floor space and the new addition of a rooftop patio.

I track Clara’s eyes as she absorbs my apartment in greatdetail. A double-size living room with two suede sofas sits to her right, a manly black kitchen adeptly stocked with all the latest appliances is on her left, and a four-seater dining table is directly in front of her. Her eyes circle when she takes in the black wrought iron and wooden spiral staircase that leads to my bedroom floating above the living space. The thrum of the pulse in her neck quickens when her eyes run along the wood-lined pitched roof.

Once she has surveyed every inch of my apartment, she locks her eyes with mine. “Why am I here?”

“Because you’re in shock,” I repeat. I curl my arm around her shoulders and guide her deeper into the space. “You’re shaking and shit. I can’t leave you alone like this.”

To be honest, I don’t know if the new shakes hammering her body are from the mugging or because she’s just realized I only have one bedroom. Either way, I’m not leaving her alone in this condition.

When her shakes increase, I say, “Unless you can give me the address of a friend or family member I can take you to, you’re staying here.” I move to stand in front of her. “Can you give me an address?”

Fresh tears spring in her eyes before she shakes her head.

“Then you’re staying here.”

Her eyes continue to absorb my apartment as she shadows me up the staircase. While her eyes drink in the king-size bed in the middle of the room, I walk to a set of drawers on my left.

After yanking out a dark blue T-shirt, I pivot to face Clara. “Do you want to shower before you go to bed?” She licks her dry lips before shaking her head. “All right, then put this on and jump into bed.” I hand her my shirt then nudge my head to my bed.

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