Hung

by Holly Hart

  "What happened to the baby?" I asked, fearing I knew the answer already.

  "They couldn't save it," Mike said with a sense of overwhelming sadness. "I think that's what changed Clay. The death of his sister was bad enough, but he'd promised her when she went into hospital that if anything ever happened to her, he'd take care of her kid. When he couldn't, he took it hard."

  "But there was nothing he could have done…" I said sadly.

  "I told him the same," Mike agreed, "but grief isn't linear, it's not logical, and it affects everyone differently. For Clay, that meant getting into drinking, drugs, women…"

  "And that's when his career took off?" I asked, surprised. I couldn't figure out how Clay had managed to build a hugely successful music brand for himself in the midst of such sorrow.

  "He didn't get famous for his singing." Mike laughed sadly. "He got famous for the fact that he could stand up on stage in the first place. Clay was one of the first Internet stars. Every scrap of gossip about his wild lifestyle fed into his legend and made him the global star he is today. Clay didn't care about any of it. At least I was there to pick up the pieces, hold things together as best I could and squeeze enough money out of his antics that if he ever healed, he wouldn't be flat broke."

  "You've done a stand-up job," I said into the handset pressed to my ear. "I never knew any of this."

  "You wouldn't," Mike said. "In the brief moments when he was lucid after her death, and not strung out on whatever cocktail of booze and pills he’d taken the night before, Clay was clear about one thing – he never wanted to exploit the memory of his sister."

  "You said that you thought Clay might be going back to his old self," I said hopefully. "Did you mean that?"

  Mike sighed. "I don't want to give you false hope, Alicia – and I'd feel terrible if I gave you advice that later turned out to be wildly incorrect."

  "I can take it, Mike. I'm a big girl – in more ways than one." I chuckled.

  "The answer is yes. He seems more grounded, more caring. I've not seen him look at a woman before in the way he looks at you – not even before Sarah died. He’s cut back his drinking, I haven't seen him smoke a cigarette in weeks," that gave me a slight shock – because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that nor had I, "and he's managed not to get himself in a fight since he met you."

  "That's what I hoped you'd say," I said, a smile dancing on my lips. But Mike wasn't finished.

  "But, Alicia, it's been years since Sarah died. Can I honestly put my hand on my heart and promise you that he's changed for good? No."

  I groaned. "Mike, you had to go and make it difficult, didn't you?"

  "I had to say it—"

  I cut him off. "I know. I'm glad you did."

  "You'll keep all this to yourself, won't you?" Mike asked seriously.

  "Of course. Thank you, Mike. I know reliving all that can't have been easy."

  "No problem."

  I put the phone down, head spinning from the dump of information I'd just received. This put Clay into an entirely new perspective. He wasn't a liability – he was just damaged. Still, I had no idea whether that changed my stance on whether or not to try for a kid with him. Clay was right about one thing, though – if we were going to attempt it at all, I needed to make my mind up fast.

  I walked to the kitchen, eyes fixed on the floor as I considered my options. I needed a cup of coffee, and preferably one with a stiff shot of rum in it to steady my nerves. The one thing I didn't need, though, was to run into Clay. But of course, it was bound to happen.

  "Hey, Liss," he said solicitously, "how you doing?" I saw his eyes searching me, probing my expression to try and determine whether I'd made up my mind or not. They flicked away, disappointed. He leaned in for a kiss, and I gripped his hips, holding them for support. He smelled clean, fresh, and there was a hint of aftershave – sandalwood and pine needles. It was spicy and autumnal, and I could have breathed it in all day.

  "All the better for seeing you," I replied, looking up at him and seeing him in a new light. And in that moment, looking at him and seeing nothing but interest in my well-being in his eyes, I made my mind up. "I'll do it."

  "Do what?" Clay asked absentmindedly. "Wait, are you talking about the baby? Are you serious?" He grabbed my hips and spun me round in elation.

  "Whoa, boy," I giggled, "slow down. First things first, you've got to stop calling it the baby, okay?"

  He put me down, face still wreathed in delight. "You got it, boss. Why?"

  "Because we have to face up to the truth – either way I'm probably not getting pregnant."

  "Trust me," he replied with a grin, "with swimmers like mine, that won't be a problem."

  I liked his confidence, and getting to sleep with him without a condom again would be amazing, but I had to set him to rights. "It's not your swimmers I'm worried about."

  "You worry too much, Liss. You've never had an unquenchable stream of semen at your disposal. We'll put the hose on this fire until we put it out. Or start it back up, whatever metaphor you like. Now, find me a pen; we aren't leaving this room until you've signed on the dotted line." He kissed me hard and ran a finger down to my plump ass. "Because I can't wait to get you into bed."

  "I'm not signing it," I said. "I don't want you to think I'm doing this for your money. I’m doing it because I think you have changed. And I'm doing it because I trust you."

  Clay smiled broadly, like I'd made his day, but he shook his head regardless. "You're signing them, Liss. I know you aren't out for my money, but this is the best way. If we get into a legal battle with Atlantic and I lose, I might lose everything. If we put it in a trust fund for our kid, you'll both be set for life, and I won't lose sleep worrying about you."

  He looked down at me with a dead certainty in his eyes that he had the right course of action. "Are you sure?" I asked earnestly. "Are you sure there isn't another way? Seriously, Clay – I don't want your money."

  "And I don't care," he said easily. “You're getting it either way."

  He opened a drawer in the kitchen, pulled out a thin sheaf of legal papers and set them down on the granite kitchen island.

  "You got them done already?" I asked, eyes widening with surprise.

  "You better believe I did," he replied. "I called a lawyer the moment we got home yesterday. He couriered them over within a couple of hours."

  "Efficient," I commented, smiling. I bent my head to look at the contract and almost got whiplash as I flicked it back up to stare at Clay in abject shock. I hadn't even made it past the first section. "Twenty million dollars, Clay – have you lost your mind?"

  "Is it not enough?" he replied, looking worried and reaching into his pocket for his phone. "I can call up the law firm now and have them draw up a new one…"

  He flinched as I flung a pen at him, but caught it effortlessly. "No, you idiot – it's far too much! What the hell is a baby going to do with that much money?"

  Clay closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, swaddling me in his giant, muscular arms. "It's not the baby I'm worried about, Liss. It's making sure he never wants for anything his whole life. I can give him that, so I'm going to. Trust me, I won't miss it."

  "This is crazy," I muttered to myself as I buried my head in his broad chest, settling myself by taking a deep draw of his aftershave through my nostrils. He relinquished the hug slightly, loosening the grip of his arms, and waved something in front of my eyes. It was too close, they couldn't focus. "What's that?"

  "The pen, Liss. Sign the damn contract, because I want to tear these clothes off you and you're making it difficult." He was still hugging me against his body hard enough for me to feel the truth of that statement pressed up against my stomach…

  "Fine," I grumbled, snatching the pen from his hand and wriggling free of his grasp. I scribbled my signature on the last page, noticing he'd already signed in black ink, and initialed where Clay had.

  "Happy?" I pouted.

  "You have no id
ea. Now, about that baby…"

  21

  Clay

  The last six weeks had been a haze of uninterrupted, filthy, primal sex.

  I'd taken Alicia in every room in the mansion, laid out blankets in the courtyard and made love to her under the stars, and we'd even done it like teenagers in the passenger seat of my black Aston Martin – where it all began. We'd had sex on every day of the calendar month, even on the days where biology dictated it was impossible for Alicia to conceive, just in case.

  I had plenty of faith in my little swimmers.

  I was worn out, but there was no way I was stopping. Alicia's chocolate skin was like a drug to me, and I was showing no signs of building up a tolerance. The merest look, the wiggle of her perfect bubble butt as she walked by was enough to put my cock into a delirious spiral of excitement, and I'd taken her against the wall more than once.

  It was a marvel that we'd got any recording done at all, especially since my home studio had a couch… But we'd managed to fit at least some recording time in between our periodic bouts of animalistic desire, and the EP was as good as done. It was good – damn good.

  What was far less clear, however, was whether there was a label out there willing to take a chance on it, and so far, Mike had maintained an ominous radio silence.

  I greeted him at the door, and he looked uncharacteristically disheveled. "How you doing, buddy?" I asked airily. I wasn't blind – I could see how he looked, and I wasn't stupid – I knew he was unlikely to be bearing good tidings, but there was something about getting laid three times a day for a month that had a way of making little things like that seem kind of irrelevant.

  "Not good, Clay," he sighed, "not good at all. Can I get a coffee?"

  I led him to the kitchen and poured him a steaming cup straight from the machine. "It's still hot." He accepted the cup with a grateful smile and sank onto a stool.

  "Thanks, Clay. Sorry I haven't called – been busy."

  "It's not good news, I take it?" I said, still hoping that perhaps I'd misread the situation, or like he often did, Mike was going to spring a pleasant surprise on me. It only took him a few words to dispel that hopeful notion.

  "No, not at all. Where's Alicia? She should probably be here for this."

  "At the florist." I smiled. "Said this place was lovely, but needed a feminine touch."

  Mike looked around the kitchen and chuckled. "Yeah, I can see that. This place is a bit of a bachelor pad."

  I laughed. "It's worked for me. So, what's the news, Mike?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you so eager to talk shop? I remember when I had to practically tie you down to get you to talk about anything that even resembled work."

  "I've been doing some growing up, Mike," I said reflectively. "It was about time."

  Mike chuckled. "And I suppose that gorgeous girl you’ve been sleeping with had nothing to do with it?"

  I smiled ruefully. "Okay, okay – she's had a bit of influence on the decision… But, Mike, I can tell when you don't want to tell me something. Just spit it out."

  "You've known me too long," Mike smiled, his turn to look rueful, "but you're right, you've got me. Here's the deal – none of the other major labels are interested in picking up the record; they're too worried about bad press."

  Mike looked at me expectantly, as though he assumed that any moment now I was going to blow my lid and let the anger flow out of me. I couldn't blame him – for years, that was how I would undoubtedly have reacted. But I was a different man now – or at least, I was trying to be. The rage was still there, but I had a lid on it. I hoped I did, anyway.

  "Understandable," I sighed. "So there's no one interested in picking it up?"

  "You aren't going to like this," Mike replied, wincing, "but Atlantic's still sniffing around…"

  I balled my hand into a fist and slammed it down on the granite island so hard that Mike's coffee cup shook. "No way, no how," I said forcefully. "Let me guess – he's offering a shitty deal?"

  "You got it, Clay. Thirty percent less than he offered two months ago."

  "No way that bastard gets it," I snarled.

  "It might be them or nobody, I'm afraid." Mike sighed, leaning forward onto his elbows and massaging his temples. He looked stressed, and I felt terrible for making him work so hard – especially as it was my fault he was having to look for a new label in the first place.

  "The way he spoke to Alicia," I said, still smoldering over the memory, "was unacceptable. The only way I'd ever go back to Atlantic would be if Fred Peters apologized to her."

  Mike laughed bitterly. "Yeah, like that's going to happen."

  "Then that's it," I said. "We’re screwed."

  "It's all right for you, Clay," Mike said, gesturing around the huge kitchen we were sitting in, "but I've got kids to feed. And this was Alicia's dream, wasn't it? Look, I don't need you to make a decision now, but at least think about going back to Atlantic, alright? I'll support you either way, but if I have to take another client to pay the bills…"

  "But you're my manager, Mike," I said stupidly, barely able to process the idea of Mike working for someone else as well as me.

  "And I don't want to work for anyone else, Clay," Mike said honestly, "but it's not managing if I'm just hanging out with you at home, you know?"

  I joined Mike with my head in my hands. "Thanks for coming over, buddy." I groaned. "I'll think about it, okay?"

  He stood up, ready to leave. "Clay – one last thing."

  "Yeah?"

  "It’s nearly the anniversary of Sarah’s death – don’t think I’ve forgotten. I want you to take care of yourself, okay?" He looked worried, like I was a child that needed protecting. On this topic, I guessed, I was.

  "Thanks, Mike. That goes for you too, buddy. You know she loved you more than anything, right?"

  Mike smiled wanly, the heartbreak of loss inscribed on his face. "I know."

  * * *

  Self-doubt had always been other people's problem – not mine. After all, a decade of relentless success didn't leave much room for introspection. Perhaps that's why Mike's revelation that, barring a miracle, he'd have to look for another client hit me so hard.

  The more I thought about it, the less I could keep my mind off it, and soon the idea was all that I could think about. The idea that I might no longer be a music star – the only thing I'd ever wanted to be, and the thing I'd spent my life dedicated to pursuing – wasn't too troubling. The worry hung over me loosely, in the same way an elderly man might from time to time contemplate his impending mortality.

  What really worried me was not that Mike would no longer be able to manage me – because I knew we'd been through far too much not to remain friends. It was the fear that I might have cheated Alicia out of the only career that she’d ever wanted.

  That hung over me like a black cloud of depression. I paced the mansion for what felt like hours, but was undoubtedly far less before deciding I either needed a drink or a fight to work off my growing tension. I had my car keys in my hand and was walking into the basement to pick out a car when my eyes passed over the black Aston Martin in which Alicia and I had spent so much quality time, and the memory of Alicia hit me like a hammer.

  I stopped in my tracks, realizing that what I was doing was wrong – it was self-sabotage. I tossed the keys away, watching them slide headlong under a row of expensive cars, and growled into the empty concrete room.

  "Fuck!" I screamed into the silent air.

  I couldn't do it to Alicia, I knew that much. But I had to work off this anger somehow. I walked straight to my home gym, lights flicking on automatically as I walked down the long basement corridor into a room I hadn't used in a while.

  Boxing had once been a hobby – the kind of hobby rich people indulge in from time to time. I'd gone to a fight in Vegas and become, for a brief period, enamored with the sport. There was nothing, as far as I could tell, more noble than two men standing in a ring and hitting each other until only
one came out. After all, there was nowhere to hide, and I liked it.

  The good thing about being a multi-millionaire was that it only took a short call to my assistant to get a full-size boxing ring, several punching bags and more kit than I could have used in two lifetimes installed in my basement. Of course, I'd used it for a few months and then quickly bored of it, but the place was spotless – at least the cleaner came down here, even if I didn't.

  I propped the door open with a dumbbell to make sure there would be enough air flowing through that I wouldn't choke on the smell of my own sweat, kicked my shoes off and cracked my neck.

  I grabbed a couple of lengths of white tape from an open set of shelves and wrapped it around my knuckles. It wasn't the best job I'd ever done, but I wasn't in the best mood I'd ever been in, so it was about par for the course.

  "Fucking piece of shit," I shouted at the punching bag, working myself up into an aggressive, violent mood by picturing Fred Peters' face drawn on it at eye level. I pulled on a pair of boxing gloves that hadn't been used in a year, fastened them, and kicked the bag for good measure.

  All the darkest thoughts in my head kept running through my brain – my failure to make good on my promise to impregnate Alicia, the fact that I was screwing up her chance at success in the music business, and of course, Sarah's death, like always at this time of year, was lingering in the background. It all combined to create the veritable crescendo in my brain of a thousand voices screaming at me for my failure.

  I watched the bag swinging gently in front of me, still swaying from my kick, pulled my shoulder back and punched it as hard as I could.

  "I."

  I hit the bag again, punctuating every word with a punch.

  "Am."

  The bag swung back towards me, and I hit it with a thunderous blow.

  "Not."

  I laid a sharp jab down with either fist.

  "A."

  I let swing with a haymaker, punching the bag back further than I'd ever managed before.

  "Failure."

  This time I let loose, punching and kicking and hitting and screaming at the bag for as long as I could. The blood was raging in my ears, and I'd beat the heavy, swaying, inanimate object until the sweat was trickling down my forehead and stinging my eyes, flowing down my back in streams, and pooling on the floor.