Dirty Scoundrel

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, son. Look in your heart. You think you can offer Natalie the kind of life she deserves?” He gives me a long, up-and-down look again, eyeing my clothes.

And I feel . . . ashamed. He’s not wrong. The job I’ve got lined up is roughnecking—hard, dirty work that pays well enough, but not like what Natalie will be used to. I know her dad lives on an enormous ranch out in the country. I know he’s got all kinds of Hollywood money coming in. Natalie wears name-brand designer clothing. She’s gone on fancy vacations with her dad and her stepmom to places I can’t even find on the map. All I’ll have to offer is my starting salary as a roughneck “worm”—the lowest guy on the totem pole—and hope I can move up.

And love, of course. I can offer her so much damn love. But now I’m starting to think that won’t be enough. Natalie Weston is . . . well, she’s perfect. Shy, soft-spoken, sweet, and caring.

I’m just a crude Price.

Still, I can’t give up on the girl I love. “I might not be the best guy for her, Mr. Weston, but no one will love her more than me. No one.”

“That’s a nice sentiment,” he says, glancing back at his driver. “But I can tell you all about how fleeting love is, and so can my five ex-wives. And it’s hard to have love when you don’t have money.”

My heart squeezes somethin’ fierce and I begin to feel despair. I’m losing. Somehow I’m losing and I’m gonna lose . . . everything. “This isn’t what Natalie wants—”

“You so sure about that? She didn’t tell you about Stanford.” His voice gentles. “My Natalie’s got a soft heart. She wouldn’t want to hurt you more than is necessary, son.”

I can’t believe this is true. I can’t. I think of Natalie, with her big blue eyes and her soft smile. Feels like my fucking heart is being ripped in half. “Why wouldn’t she say anything to me?”

“Why do you think I’m out here?” The smile he gives me is genuinely full of remorse. “She needed some way to break this to you easily. She knew what was coming and she didn’t know how to get out of it.” He gives me a rueful grin. “Dear ol’ Dad to the rescue.”

No way.

She sent her dad to break up with me? I know Natalie hates conflict, but this is fuckin’ ridiculous. “I need to talk to Natalie.” This doesn’t make sense. I thought . . . Just last night . . .

I thought we were going to marry. I even have a ring in my pocket. I’ve carried it every day since I bought it. Granted, it’s only from the pawnshop, but I thought we could joke about how I’d buy her a better one once we got on our feet. I thought Natalie would think it’s cute.

Maybe I don’t know her like I thought.

“I understand,” Mr. Weston says. “Of course you will. She’s a little upset tonight, so maybe hold off until tomorrow morning, hmm?”

“Sure,” I say dully. “Whatever.”

Natalie

“Dad, have you seen my phone?” I race down the stairs, flustered. We’re already late for my big evening with Clay, and I know he’s going to be frustrated. I can’t call him to tell him that my stepmother’s been locked up with her emotional-support cockatoo for the last hour, weeping and feeding the poor fat bird crackers.

Everything’s always drama with my family. Not surprising, I guess, given that Dad still treats everything like it’s Hollywood. But jeez, it can be exhausting.

I straighten my sundress, pulling my favorite white cardigan over my shoulders. Johanna—my stepmom—isn’t going to be able to make dinner but we can hopefully still meet Clay. I’m excited about tonight and what it might mean for Clay and me. Meeting the family—that’s step one along a more serious commitment, isn’t it? My heart flutters happily in my chest at the thought. I know I’m only seventeen, but I also know I won’t ever love someone as much as I love Clay Price. Just the thought of his boyish smile and the way his brown hair is always shaggy and slightly overgrown makes my heart hurt with all the intense emotion I feel.

Clay’s not rich, but he’s the best. I know if my dad gets to meet him, he’ll love him as much as I do and see how happy he makes me.

But when I get downstairs, my father’s walking back into the house and putting his hat on its normal peg. I frown to myself. It’s almost like he’s just returned. I’ve been so distracted with Johanna I didn’t notice he’d gone. “Did you leave? And have you seen my phone? I can’t find it anywhere and I need to let Clay know we’re going to be late. Johanna—”

“I went and talked to your young man,” Dad says in a stern voice. “Come sit down, Natalie.”

“You did?” Why does that sound so ominous? But I follow my father into his grand study quietly, a thousand questions buzzing in my mind. I watch as he sits at his desk, one that Marlon Brando sat at in one of his big movies. I sit in a chair opposite him, one from a John Wayne film. My dad loves props and has spent a fortune on buying set pieces from the movie lots. Our entire home is filled with things from famous movies, and as a result, the atmosphere is a little . . . well, “eclectic” is probably far too kind a word. “Scattershot” is more like it. But my dad is old Hollywood, and we’re not exactly a normal family anyhow, so I don’t mind. I smooth my skirt and try not to show my nervousness. “You saw Clay?” I ask again. “Is he going to wait for us a bit longer? Johanna—”

Dad shakes his head. “I’m afraid our dinner is canceled.”

“Canceled?” I echo. “But why?”

He pulls an envelope off his desk and pushes it toward me. “You got accepted to Stanford, by the way.”

I ignore it. Dad’s been pushing Stanford on me for all my life, because he went to college there for a brief time before heading to Hollywood. I haven’t made any decisions about college . . . well, because I wanted to know where Clay and I were going. “What about Clay, Dad?”

“He’s breaking up with you.”

My father delivers the words so casually, and yet they hit me with the force of a sledgehammer. I grip the carved wooden arms of the chair. “Wh-what?”

Dad nods. “You’re planning on going to college, right? He said he didn’t want to wait around. Said that he had better things to do with his time. I suspect his family is the type that likes their women barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.” My father shakes his head.

I stare, unable to believe what I’m hearing. My Clay said this? “I . . . know that he was going to take a job with his father this summer,” I say, though it’s hard to speak around the knot in my throat. “But I thought . . .”

“Oh, he said he’d marry you, but he made it quite clear that if you went to college, it would be over.”

What the hell? Does Clay really want me sitting around twiddling my thumbs, waiting to have his babies? I did want to go to college but wanted to discuss where with Clay first, hoping it could be someplace near where he’d be. How could Clay make me choose? Crap, it was even worse than that—he chose for me!

When my father nudges the envelope toward me again, I pick it up. I feel numb. I don’t even recall applying to Stanford, so one of his assistants must have done this. Not surprising, given that my dad has a crew to run everything in his life. He doesn’t like to be alone. I gaze down at the letter, the words blurring before my eyes.

Everything feels like it’s dying. All the things I’d hoped for, all the joyful dreams I’d made—they’d all involved Clay. Surely . . . surely I have more ambition than that? More than just being some guy’s wife?

Or is that all that I truly want? I’m so confused. I don’t know what to think anymore. “He’s never said . . .”

“My darling, why would he? I learned this the hard way in Hollywood—the more options you give someone, the less likely they are to take the one that you want them to take. The best way to get someone to do what you want is to give them as few options as possible. You never offer your leading man four scripts. You offer him the one you want him to take and go from there.”

“This isn’t Hollywood, Dad,” I say bitterly.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Everything in this world is run like Hollywood. It’s a game of who you know and what face you wear.”

I bite back my retort and clutch the Stanford letter desperately in my hand. Is he right? Is this what Clay wanted? To trap me into a marriage so I’d stay at home and have kids and just . . . hang around and cook him dinners? Yesterday, I wouldn’t have even minded if he’d said that! But to give me no other options, like I can’t make my own mind up? That hurts me deeply. “I need some time to think, Dad.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need, and then when you’re ready, we’ll talk Stanford.” As I stand, he turns his chair a little and holds a hand out to me. That’s what Dad does—he doesn’t hug—he just takes my hand and squeezes it. I know my Dad loves me in his weird, eccentric way, but right now I really, really need a hug.

Clay would hug me.

The thought hurts so much that I break into a sob.

“Now, now,” my father says in a soothing voice. “Trust your daddy to know what’s good for you.”

I nod through my tears. Dad may want us all to dance to his weird little tune, but I know he’d want what’s best for me. I give him a teary-eyed smile, and then when I can’t hold it in any longer, I rush up to my room, tears blurring my vision. I can’t bear it. It hurts too much. I curl up on my bed and bawl my eyes out, and I don’t even get up when Jenny, the maid, slips in and places my phone on my desk. What do I need a phone for anymore? Clay’s the only person I ever want to talk to. He’s my only friend and my boyfriend—everyone else in this stupid town hates me.

And now it seems that Clay—my sweet, loving, handsome Clay—thinks I should just stay home and be his little woman.