Chapter Fourteen
One Week Later
Clay
“Quit squirmin’,” I tell Nat as she shifts on the seat next to me. I put my hand on her thigh, letting my fingers graze close to her pussy, because that usually distracts her. Today, not so much.
She just squirms even more, craning her head to look out the window of the sedan as we drive down the highway. “I’m just nervous.”
“What about?”
“Everything,” Nat tells me breathlessly. “You’ve poured so much money into this and I just want it to look right. I want everything to look good. I want you to get your dollars’ worth out of it. I want to feel like— Oh look! There’s the billboard!” She presses her fingers to her mouth and practically glues her forehead to the window as we pass by a large advertisement on the side of the interstate. It’s a black-and-white picture of her father in a sailor hat from one of his movies, and the new logo. The sign reads CHAP WESTON HOLLYWOOD MUSEUM AND MEMORABILIA—NEXT EXIT!
Doesn’t look like anything I’d ever be into, but Nat’s eyes gleam with happy tears and it makes me feel good.
Also makes my dick hard, but I don’t say anythin’ about that. Ain’t the time.
My sweet Nat worries about everything and I want her to enjoy herself today. It’s been real apparent to me that my Nat has been stressed. She worries about her father, who’s been increasingly demanding in his requests that she spend her time with him instead of passin’ him off to nurses. She worries I’ve thrown too much money away on this silly contract of ours. She worries my family’s gonna think she’s usin’ me for my money. She worries I’m not gettin’ enough out of this to make me happy. Nat’s always been a sweetheart who thinks of others before herself, but this constant state of agitation is worryin’ to me. She ain’t gonna make everyone happy, so I’m not sure why she even wants to try.
I’m happy. She’s happy. That’s all that matters to me.
I let my hand play on her thigh, rubbing my thumb back and forth over the soft floral material of her skirt. She’s wearin’ one of those typically “Natalie” light-colored sweaters over a little floral dress that falls to her knees, and it makes me wanna flip the skirt up and expose her pretty ass. Maybe I’ll distract her and joke that we haven’t explored anal yet, and it’s in the contract. Lord knows my poor baby needs distractin’.
Suppose I could always have the driver find the nearest hotel and distract her for a few hours in my favorite kinda way. I like that thought. So does my dick. I’m pretty sure Nat would like it, too—one of the things that’s so amazin’ about her is that she’s just as excited for me to touch her as I am, every damn time. I thought maybe once we got the initial torrid bouts of fuckin’ out of our systems, things would slow down.
Not so much, though. If anythin’, it’s been gettin’ worse. Now all it takes to get me hard is a whiff of her perfume, or a hint of her smile. Nat laughing? Dick hard. Nat sighing? Dick hard. Nat glancin’ over at me in the car like she just did? Dick instantly hard.
Doesn’t take much. I’m crazier about the girl than I ever was, and I thought I was insanely in love seven years ago. Doesn’t hold a candle to how I feel about her now. All of this has just kinda reinforced that she’s meant to be mine. That we’re meant to be together forever.
I slide my hand a little higher up her skirt, my pinky finger awful close to the promised land. Nat only sighs and shifts her weight in her seat, as if she wants my hand there, too.
And I think a bit harder about gettin’ that hotel room. Though I guess it ain’t a good idea—I don’t have condoms on me. I think back to her mention of the pill from the other day. Didn’t really think about it too much because every time it comes up, I’m wantin’ to be deep inside her. But truth of the matter is, I don’t want her on birth control.
I wanna be deep inside her, fillin’ her up with my seed. I want her belly to be rounded with my baby, like Ivy’s is with Boone’s. I want us to be a family. I want to make her mine permanently.
Birth control just seems like that’d delay things. So I shoot it down every time she suggests it. When she’s ready, we’ll discard the condoms and I’ll slide into her, as bare as anything, and fuck her the way she should be fucked.
Damn it, I’m getting uncontrollably hard just thinkin’ about that. Wish she’d let her hand wander over to my cock the way mine’s wanderin’ toward her tasty little cunt. Maybe she’d let me fling that skirt over my head and I could lick her for a while here in the back seat—
“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.”
“Do I have to hire my own daughter to look after me?” Chap asks in a cranky voice. “Is that what this is coming to? I’m going to have to pay my daughter to spend time with her father?”
Oh please. What a dramatic old bullshitter. “You couldn’t afford to buy her away from me,” I call out, a cocky drawl in my voice. Nat shoots me an unhappy look, but I don’t care. Maybe I’m lookin’ to pick a fight with the old bastard. Maybe I’m just darin’ the guy to keep treatin’ Natalie like she’s thoughtless, because I want her to see what an asshole he is.
Chap Weston’s gaze moves over the room and fixes on me. He squints in my direction, frowning at the sight of me leaning casually on the doorframe. “Who is that?”
“That’s the man I’m working for,” Nat says vaguely. “Now, Dad—”
“Clay Price,” I call out. It’s clear he didn’t recognize me, and it’s clear that Nat’s not going to volunteer the information, so I’m going to. I want to see if he remembers who I am and how he dicked me over.
The old man’s eyes narrow. “The trashy boy? The one that tried to steal my daughter away?”
“That’s the one,” I drawl before Natalie can respond. Trashy boy. Fuck him.
“Dad,” Nat scolds. “Clay’s a billionaire now. He’s a good man and he’s not trash. He’s helping me out of the mess we’re in by hiring me.”
“He’s probably just hiring you to get under your skirts, Natalie. I know what men like him are like.” The scowl on his face isn’t that of a father as much as that of a child being robbed of his favorite toy. “You should spend time with me and not him.”
“I’m working for Clay,” Nat says again, her voice firm, and I’m fuckin’ proud of that. At least, for a moment I am, because then she continues with, “I’ll be back at your side again shortly. It’s just a temporary contract.”
Temporary, my ass. Does she not want to make a go of this thing we have? I try to keep a neutral expression on my face, but I’m gettin’ frustrated.
“I see.” Chap Weston’s tone is disapproving. “So you’d rather spend your time with trash than your ailing father.”
“That’s not it at all—”
“No,” I cut in. “That’s exactly it. She’d rather be with me.”
Everyone shoots a glare in my direction. I don’t care. I’m gettin’ annoyed that this old man’s whining and they’re all fallin’ for it.
“He’s not good for you, Natalie. Haven’t I warned you about men like him in the past?” Chap Weston shakes his head. “You’re going to have to pick between a man that’s using you and your father.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit,” I explode. “You’re the one using her!”
“Gentlemen, please,” Alice the nurse says. “Let’s not do this.”
I wait for Nat to say somethin’. To defend me to her father. But she just gets this helpless look on her face and gets to her feet. “I have to go, Dad.”
Well, at least she’s choosin’ to leave with me. I suppose that’s somethin’. Still kinda wish she’d put her dad in his place, though, and told him that she loved me.
When she gets to my side, I pull her close and whisper in her ear. “Not again, all right? He’s doin’ this to make you dance like a puppet on strings. I ain’t havin’ it.” Maybe I’m selfish, but I want Nat to myself. “Long as we’re in this contract, you’re my assistant, not his.”
She nods.
Natalie
NAT: I hated seeing that the house was almost finished, Lex. What’s wrong with me?
LEXI: You’re getting some good D and you don’t want that to change? I don’t see a problem with that.
NAT: It’s my home, but every time I go back there, I start to feel trapped. But Clay hasn’t said that he wants me to stay, either.
NAT: I asked him if he wanted me to get on the pill the other day and he said there was no need.
LEXI: Ouch. So he’s got an exit strategy. That’s gonna leave a mark.
LEXI: There’s this lady online that does Santeria if you send her some Bitcoin. We could ask her to sacrifice a chicken to give him bad luck.
NAT: Be serious. I’m hurting here.
LEXI: Okay, sorry. :(
LEXI: I’m not good with the touchy-feely shit. You need someone to wear all black and glower in the shadows, I’m your girl.
LEXI: You need someone to stand at the back of the room and mock everyone normal, I’m your girl.
LEXI: You need a shoulder to cry on and I make Santeria jokes. Sorry.
NAT: I just . . . wish I knew where I stood.
LEXI: Ask him?
NAT: And say what? Hey, you know this contract we have? I really like being with you and I’d be happy to stay even if you didn’t pay me!
LEXI: Works for me?
NAT: But that doesn’t mean I can, you know? What about my dad? What about the upkeep on the business? Everything costs money and that’s the one thing I don’t have. I don’t want Clay to think I’m staying with him because I see him as a wallet.
LEXI: If only there was some way you could tell him how you really feel . . .
LEXI: Oh wait!
LEXI: How about you—wait for it—tell him HOW YOU REALLY FEEL.
NAT: Har de har.
NAT: I think I’m terrified of what he’ll say.
NAT: Our contract is terminated at any time at his discretion, not mine.
NAT: What if I press him and he thinks I’m clingy and gold-digging and boots me out the door?
LEXI: Then . . . you have your answer?
I want to throw my phone across the room.
I hate that Lexi makes sense. She’s basically telling me to be brave. To tell Clay how I feel—that I’m in love again—even if it’s fast. Even if he isn’t. Get it all off my chest so I can be at peace with however things go between us. If it was just me? I would, I think. I’d do my best to be strong and to sit Clay down and have a serious conversation with him about where we’re going.
As it is, I don’t have any leverage in this relationship. I don’t feel like I’m the one that can make that conversation happen. I’ve got too much baggage—my father, his failing business, my past with Clay where I didn’t believe in him. Things are different now, and I’m the one with my hand out. I feel like no matter how I approach Clay with my true feelings, it’s going to seem calculating and suspicious.
If he’d just give me a hint of how he truly feels . . .
That’s the thing with Clay, though. He’s so good at hiding his feelings behind a smile. He never lets anyone see what he’s truly thinking. He can hide his emotions better than anyone. Every time I’ve fished for hints about our future, I’ve been met with zero emotion or turned away.
I feel like I should know the answer—that we don’t have a future together—and maybe I’m just being blind to it. All I need is a sign, I tell myself.
Just one sign that Clay is coming to care for me again. We have great sex and we enjoy being together. We’re friends and fantastic sex partners and . . . and I want more.
I don’t know if Clay does.
So a sign from the universe would be great about now.
* * *
Clay and I are curled up on the couch the next day, watching House Hunters. “Maybe you need a house like that,” I tell him when a couple rejects a lovely four-bedroom ranch because it doesn’t have granite countertops. “It’s not that fussy. It’s spacious, and way nicer than your trailer, but not so big that you couldn’t take care of it yourself.”
“Mmm.” That’s Clay’s answer whenever he doesn’t necessarily agree with me, but doesn’t want to contradict me. My legs are in his lap and he begins to run a finger up and down the arch of one foot, tickling me as a distraction.
“What?” I ask, giggling and trying to squirm out of his ticklish grip.
“What about my maid?”
I sputter. “You have a maid? In your trailer?”
“Well, yeah. You didn’t think I was that tidy myself, did you?”
“I did,” I protest. “I mean, who has a maid and lives in a single-wide?”
“Me.” Clay grins.
“You’d be better off with a house. And you can afford one. Even the one on TV is a huge upgrade to what you have.”
“Mmm.”
“Don’t ‘mmm’ me,” I tease. “What’s wrong with that house?”
“You heard them,” he says, nodding at the TV. “No granite countertops.”
I snort. “Dude, you live in a trailer right now. And you can’t exactly live in this hotel forever.”
“Couldn’t we?” he asks, a lazy grin on his face.
I stare at him, not sure if I need to interpret that “we” as something other than what it is. Did he misspeak? Or does he mean he’s thinking about the both of us in the future?
At that moment, my phone rings. Frustrated, I grab it and leap off of the couch, because I recognize the number—it’s Alice. Clay’s phone rings a scant second later, and he frowns at the screen before picking up the call. “What is it?”
I turn the TV off and tuck the phone against my shoulder as I answer it, trotting out into the hall to get a little privacy. I don’t want Clay overhearing the conversation about my dad, because I don’t know how it’s going to go. He gets really touchy when it comes to Dad. Ever since my visit the other day, he bristles at any mention of my father. It makes things awkward. “Hello?” I say softly. “This is Natalie.”
“Natalie? Oh good. I’m glad I caught you.” She sounds a little stressed.
“What’s up?” I shut the door to the suite behind me and pace down the hall in the hotel, barefoot.
“It’s your father. He’s having a really bad day today.” She pauses, and for a moment, I can hear soft sounds of crying.
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.