Dirty Scoundrel

My heart squeezes. “Is that him?”

“Yes. He’s been like that for hours. He doesn’t recognize anyone, and he keeps looking for a Janelle. Do you know who that is?”

“It’s my mom,” I murmur. “She died when I was five.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He must have loved her very much.”

“I think he did.” Sometimes I think Janelle was the only one he did love. I know a lot of the time it feels like Dad tolerates me rather than cares for me. And then I feel like that’s a terrible thing to think, so I push the thought away. It’s likely due to the age difference, I tell myself. By the time I was born he was sixty-two and didn’t know how to handle a young child. At that age, the only thing he knew to do with women under twenty was date them. Which is also gross to think about, and not helping the situation. “He’s had these spells before. It takes a while, but he’ll eventually calm down.”

“He’s worked himself up quite a bit, actually,” Alice tells me. “I’ve called in the night nurse but we can’t get him to calm down and stop crying. He’s been hysterical all afternoon. I have a call out to his doctor asking about possibly sedating him, but no one’s gotten back to me yet.”

“It’s that bad?” I ask, surprised. Alice normally seems so unruffled.

“Pretty bad,” she admits. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come by tonight and see him? Maybe a familiar face would help shake him out of it.”

“I don’t know,” I begin.

I hear Dad’s voice calling out in the distance. “Natalie? Are you talking to my Natalie?” he demands of Alice. “Tell her I need her here! Right now!”

Oh gosh. “I’ll be there in an hour or so. I just need to let Mr. Price know.”

“Thank you. The sooner the better.”

I hang up. It takes me a moment to realize that Dad was aware that it was me on the phone, and if that was the case, he can’t be as lost in his memories as he normally is. Strange. I don’t know what to think—he’s faked before to try and get my attention, but the crying seemed genuine. Either way, I don’t think I can ignore it, not without a bucket-load of guilt. I head back toward the suite I share with Clay. I need to think of a way to phrase things that doesn’t make it seem like I’m abandoning him to go sit with my dad again. I am, but I want him to feel like I’m not bailing out. That it’s only for tonight. That I’m not racing to my dad’s side just to coddle him.

When I reenter the suite, it’s quiet. Clay’s sitting on one end of the couch, his hand on his jaw, staring off into space. His mouth is a flat line.

“Before you say anything,” I begin, positive that he’s upset at me already. “Dad’s having a really bad day. I promise I won’t be more than a few hours, and then I’ll be back.”

“A bad day, huh.” His tone is flat, and the smile that curves his mouth has a hard edge to it.

“Yes,” I say softly. “I know I said I wouldn’t go back again but he needs me—”

“Just go.” Clay gets up from the couch and walks away.

That . . . that didn’t sound like he’s fine with it. Anxious, I follow behind him. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “You always go back to him. Go. We’re done.”

I feel like I can’t breathe. “We’re . . . done? What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re done,” he says flatly. “Contract’s over. You can go home to dear old Dad and not have to worry about me any longer.”

My heart hurts. I feel numb. Just like that, I’m cast aside? He won’t care that I’m gone? He won’t ache and miss me again? Did he “get me out of his system” like he said he would? I stare at his back, waiting for him to turn around. Aching. Needing. Show me that you love me, I mentally beg. Tell me that there’s hope for us. That I’m not the only one that feels like this.

But he doesn’t turn around. He just picks up his phone, stares at the screen, and then pockets it again.

“That’s all I get?” I ask hoarsely.

“That’s all I’ve got to give right now.”

Wow. I feel as if I’ve been slapped. I’m beyond hurt. Tears blur my eyes, but I swipe them away. I don’t want Clay seeing me cry. He doesn’t get that. I want to be angry. I want to be furious.

But I can’t be, because I knew this was coming. I knew it was too good to be true—that he was too good to be true. I was a fool to think that we might be able to start where we were again. That his heart might not have changed in the last seven years and he could still love me as much as I loved him. That it wasn’t just a contract that involved sex.

Guess I’ve been fooling myself all along.

I move to where my purse is resting on the table. I should get my clothes, my extra shoes, my toiletries—but right now they don’t seem important. Right now I just want to gather up the pieces of my broken heart and scurry away. I feel empty and alone and so, so hurt. So I just take my purse and head to the door. I can buy new clothes to replace the ones I’m leaving behind.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the feeling of being discarded.

I head down the hall of the hotel, toward the elevator. I’m shivering with cold, even though it’s not that chilly. It’s like my entire body has shut down at the realization that Clay Price doesn’t love me. I’m just . . . shocked that he can turn off his emotions like a switch. Isn’t there anything there? His reaction was just so vacant.

I can’t believe he’s breaking up with me because I’m visiting my dad. He knows that my dad isn’t well. He knows that things will come up. He knows that my dad is manipulative, but he’s also elderly and I can’t be cruel to him. I can’t imagine Clay would want that, either. Not after shelling out so much money to ensure that he’s comfortable despite things.

It’s not adding up. I don’t understand why he was so cold. So . . . empty to me. Like he had nothing to give me.

The longer I think about it, the angrier I start to get. I stare at the elevator doors, not pushing the button that will call the elevator itself and take me away from Clay and our happy little nest.

How dare he?

How dare he just use me and make me think we could have a chance? After the weeks we’ve spent together—happy, wonderful weeks full of joy and lovemaking and just enjoying each other’s company—all I get is a “we’re done”?

I clench my fists, making a sound of frustration in my throat.

No.

I deserve more than that. I deserve an explanation of what I did wrong. I deserve to hear how he truly feels. I deserve a real conversation, like two consenting adults would have when they’re breaking up. Instead, all I’m getting is a stiff, closed-off response . . . just like I did seven years ago.

Well, fuck that.

I march back toward the room, full of righteous fury and indignation. Didn’t we laugh over how this went down seven years ago? How silly we were? I’m not going to let him do it again. Not this time.

I get to the door, and I realize I’ve left my keycard inside. I can’t let myself back in. Damn it. I knock on the door. Quietly at first, and then insistently, banging my fist on the elegant wood.

My father can wait. It’s probably just a ploy to get me to see him again. Even if it isn’t, he’s got nurses there. I’m not letting my heart take a back seat again. If this isn’t meant to be between me and Clay, I can accept that . . . after I get a real conversation.

I continue knocking furiously, my knuckles bruising under the stress. It’s taking Clay an eternity to answer, but I’m not giving up. After what seems like forever, the door opens and Clay answers.

“What’s wrong with you?” I immediately spit at him.

He flinches. It’s then that I notice his eyes are stark. His face is as blank as ever, but there’s something . . . missing. Something wrong. He’s really pale. And he’s still got his phone in his hand.

“You’re back,” he says dully.

“I am,” I say, pushing my way inside. My indignation over our breakup is receding in the wake of real concern. “Clay, something’s wrong. I know I’m being all pissy but I know you well enough to realize that something’s not right and . . .”

I go silent as he grabs me as I walk past and then enfolds me in his arms. He buries his face against my neck and just holds me close. So close.

Is he . . . regretting our breakup?

“I’m sorry,” he says a moment later, and there’s a strange tightness in his throat. “You can go see your dad. I ain’t gonna make you pick between us because I’m not good company tonight.”

I hesitate, then slide my hand up and down his back. “Clay? What is it?”

One hand goes to my hair and he curls his hand in it, anchoring himself against me. He doesn’t lift his face from my throat, and after a moment, I can feel wetness there. Tears.

“Gage called. Seth’s dead.”

Oh, my poor Clay. That’s why he’s been so stone-faced, so alone. His youngest brother’s dead. I hold him close, feeling his pain and wishing I could take it away. How I feel in this moment doesn’t matter nearly as much as what he’s going through.

He can break up with me some other time.

Chapter Fifteen

Five Days Later

Clay

Still hasn’t sunk in.

Don’t feel real. Feels like at any time, I’m gonna turn around and see my little brother fidgeting on the sofa. He’d hate somethin’ like this, I think. Seth was always uncomfortable at formal gatherings. Didn’t like to wear a tie. Didn’t like how solemn everyone was. He liked it best when people were laughin’.

No one feels like laughin’ right now, though.

I sit in a chair in the parlor of Boone’s big honkin’ house as people slowly trickle in for the wake. The stair banisters are hung with black crepe, and there are wreaths of flowers everywhere. A big portrait of Seth is on an easel near the entrance, and Boone’s doin’ his best to be host and somehow managin’ to keep his shit together. Ivy’s at his side, her hand tight on his arm, and I’m not sure if she’s proppin’ him up or if she needs the support herself. Maybe a little bit of both.