Dirty Scoundrel(39)

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.

"It was a lovely funeral," someone says, passing by. The wife of an employee. Someone. Dunno who. Dunno that I care.

"Thank you," Nat says, taking the casserole dish that's shoved into her  hands. "I'll just go put this away. Won't you have a seat? The family's  in the main parlor." She hustles past, a flash of black in her dress,  her pretty legs set off by her heels. Feels wrong to be checkin' out my  girl's legs at my brother's funeral, but I don't know what else to do.

Just so fuckin' glad she's here at my side.

I pushed her away when I got the news, I think. I was in shock. Don't  even know half of what I said. I just know that she stormed away,  cryin', and then came back. She came back for me, and that's when I lost  it. Bawled like a baby on her shoulder and told her about Seth's-

Fuck. I rub my mouth. Can't even say the word. Can't. Doesn't seem real  that my youngest brother's gone. Doesn't seem right that I should be at  his funeral a little over a month after we were just at Eddie's funeral  and I decided to change my life.

At least now I've got Nat. I don't know what I'd have done if she wasn't here.

She's been amazing this week. Ivy's struggled, thanks to her own grief  and her pregnancy. Boone's been a mess. Me too, really. Knox has been  distant. Gage has been drunk. We're all miserable. But Nat just stepped  in and took over funeral arrangements. Wanted to make it easier on  everyone, so we let her. She and Ivy worked on it while me and my  brothers tried to figure out what to do with the Price Brothers now that  we're four instead of five.