Dirty Scoundrel

“Oh,” Nat says, distractin’ me from my filthy train of thoughts. “It looks so good. Look, Clay!” She reaches out and takes my hand in hers, squeezin’ my fingers.

As we pull up to the front of the museum, I have to admit, it does look a hell of a lot better. The house itself has been given a fresh makeover, lookin’ clean and new. The grounds have been landscaped into a pretty impressive set of gardens. One section is covered in flowers and has a sign stating that it’s straight outta a scene from Little Tiki Princess. There’s one long row of hedges that’s been shaped into a submarine from another Chap Weston movie. There’s even a bunch of sculpted bushes set up to look like the Hollywood Hills with a smaller-scaled Hollywood sign nestled in ’em. Nearby, there’s a bunch of cutouts of scenes from Chap Weston movies that people can put their faces in and have photos taken of themselves. It’s touristy crap, but Nat looks so pleased. She keeps makin’ these happy little gasps every time she sees things.

Even the parking lot gets a happy exclamation. “Look at how many spaces there are! Oh my goodness. If we had this many people show up, Dad wouldn’t be in debt anymore.” When the car stops, she takes my hand in hers and gives me an eager smile. “Come on, Clay. Let’s go see what else they’ve done!”

How can I refuse? I can deny this gorgeous woman nothin’. Even today, I’m supposed to be meetin’ with my brothers to go over plans for the purchase of new land that has the potential for oil, and I’ve still gotta catch up with Fred about the IntelligentCamo production. Doesn’t seem as important as makin’ Natalie smile, though. Everythin’ pales next to that.

I adjust my too-hard cock as we get out of the car and head up the walkway to the new “front” of the museum. I have to admit it looks vastly different than it did before. The signs are bright and new, the roof and paint have transformed the place, and everything looks clean and invitin’. Even the sidewalk has been freshly poured and has horseshoes peppered in the cement to give it a charmin’ kinda feel.

I can tell from the look on Natalie’s face that she loves it, too. She turns to me and the expression on her face is nothin’ short of joyous. “My father’s going to love this.”

Like I care what that old bastard thinks. I like him even less now that I know he deliberately drove me and Nat apart. She might be willing to look past what happened, but it still burns in my gut. Only reason I haven’t gone and punched the lights out of the old man is the fact that he’s eighty-seven, out of his mind . . . and is probably gonna be my father-in-law someday.

Natalie squeezes my hand as she leads me up the sidewalk, and when she opens the door to the ranch home, she gasps. “Oh my! Look at how beautiful and clean everything is!” She drags me forward, exclaiming as we go room by room through the areas designated as the museum proper. There are mannequins in gowns and posed in scenes, props well lit with a spotlight instead of relegated to a dusty corner, and it all looks like a real museum instead of just stuff in the front of someone’s house. I make a mental note to give Slocum a bonus, because he did a real good job and my Natalie is so damn happy. She holds tight to my hand as we go through the tour area, and then has to go through all the new items in the gift shop, exclaiming over mugs with printed sayings or new postcards like they’re somethin’ special. I endure it, even if I don’t see what the big fuss is. I know it’s important to her.

She turns to look at me after a time, and there are more tears shinin’ in her eyes. “Oh, Clay,” she breathes. “This is just how I imagined it would be when we tried to set up a museum. It’s so perfect.” Her hands go to the front of my T-shirt. “Thank you so much, truly. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

That’s the thing. I do know just how much it means to her. It means she has a fightin’ chance of bein’ able to support her dad with this place instead of scrapin’ pennies together. It means less to worry about. It means she might be able to have a life instead of givin’ everythin’ up to a cranky old man like some kinda martyr.

But all I say is, “Glad you like it.”

“I love it.” Her enthusiasm fades a little as she looks around the expanded gift shop. There’s a section that sells baked goods and coffee and has a few tiny tables set up like a miniature cafe. Slocum thought she might get more traffic through the gift area if she had a reason for them to linger, and I think it’s a good idea. “I’m just not sure how one person is going to manage all of this, though. I’ll need to be in three places at once.” She thinks for a moment, and then adds, “Four, actually. I’ve still got to look after Dad.”

The thought makes me ill. She still thinks she has to do all this herself? “Actually,” I drawl, “I’ve hired an actress to sell tickets at the front and give tours. She’ll take care of that aspect. Got a script memorized and everythin’.” I don’t mention that I’ve agreed to finance a movie she’s writin’ that will star her and it’ll end up costin’ a pretty penny. Nat would be upset. “And then there’s an employee to run the gift shop, and I talked to Slocum and a local baker is gonna use this section over here”—I point at the cafe—“to sell fresh goods. She runs the counter and charges a markup and you get fifty percent of the profits because you have a place for her to run her business. Works out for both of you. And then, of course, there’s a cleanin’ crew that’ll come by nightly to tidy the place up. It’s all taken care of.”

Her eyes widen. “Then all I have to do is take care of my father.”

Or me, I want to say. Or you can spend your time with me. “Mmm.”

“How much is this all going to cost you, Clay? I worry you’re getting a bad deal here.” Her pretty blue eyes look worried. “We need to talk about this, because I know it’s not an open-ended agreement and I don’t want you to think I’m raiding your wallet—”

“Well, now,” I tease, pulling her against me. “Anal’s still on the table, you know.”

Her face colors bright red.

“Maybe not that, then,” I murmur, leaning in to nibble on one of her tasty little ears. “Maybe we find a quiet corner and I lift up your skirts and explore your pussy with my moustache, hmm? Been workin’ real hard to regrow it for you.”

I can feel her tremble against me. “My bedroom is upstairs,” she whispers.

Even better. I like the thought of pushin’ deep into Natalie on her girlhood bed. Makes me feel like a dirty scoundrel, all right. “Lead the way.”

She takes my hand in hers again and leads me through the back of the house, to a set of stairs along the back wall. We head up, and it leads into a long hallway that stretches across the second floor. She turns immediately toward the first door, giving me a small smile over her shoulder that promises naughtiness.

“I want to see my daughter,” calls out an imperious voice. “I know you’re keeping her from me!”

Natalie hesitates, and I know the moment is gone. Damn it. She looks back at me, concern on her face. “I should go see what’s going on.”

“You should let the nurses handle it,” I tell her, but it falls on deaf ears. Nat’s soft heart isn’t going to let her ignore her elderly father.

She releases my hand and heads further down the hall toward the massive set of double doors that clearly leads to Chap Weston’s room.

I sigh and cross my arms over my chest, followin’ behind her. Like I got a choice. I’ll go wherever this girl leads, if nothin’ else to protect her from anyone that’d try to take advantage of her.

She knocks on the door, and then waves me back, indicating I should stay out of sight. Well, fuck that. I stroll forward as she enters the room. “Hello?” she calls.

“Natalie?” Her father’s voice is strong despite his age. “Why did you leave me with these terrible people?”

I move toward the doorway, leaning casually just in sight so I can survey the situation. It’s easy to see that Chap Weston hasn’t deprived himself despite being broke. There’s a massive TV on the wall, his bed is a carved monstrosity on a raised dais, and there’s expensive lookin’ furniture all over the enormous room. Off in one corner is a minibar and a refrigerator, and a ten-foot-long fish tank full of colorful, exotic fish. Somethin’ tells me that if I went and checked out Nat’s room, it’d be plain and sparse. But that’s how things have always been with Chap Weston and his daughter. He treats her like she’s one of the staff—unimportant and there for his convenience—and she lets him.

“Mr. Weston,” one of the nurses says, patience in her voice. “All I’m trying to do is get you to change into your day clothing. It’s not a good idea to sit in bed all day. You need to get up and move around. It’s good for your heart.” It’s clear from her tone that she’s had this conversation with him plenty of times before.

“I don’t want to get up,” Chap Weston snarls at them. “I want to wallow in bed like the forgotten old man that I am.” When that doesn’t elicit a response from the nurse, he turns to Natalie. “You see how they are? They act like it’s a crime for me to lie in bed. They harass and poke until I’m exhausted.”

“Dad,” Nat says in a gentle voice. She moves to his side and extends her hand to him. “The nurses are just trying to do what’s best for you. Alice is right. It’s not good for you to lie in bed all day. You’ll feel better if you get up and move around—”

He slaps her hand away feebly. “Don’t tell me what to do! You’ve abandoned me!”

“I haven’t,” Nat protests. “You know I’ve been busy, Dad. We talked about this last week. I have a new job and my new boss has been very understanding, but he needs me to spend my time with him.”