Seth cocks his head at me, confused. “Dude, hookers are waaay cheaper than that.”
“She ain’t a hooker,” I tell Seth, arms crossed. Though Nat did say the same thing. “She’s an assistant.”
“She gonna assist you into her snatch?” Gage asks slyly. Knox elbows him, smirking at the joke.
I scowl at my brother, because that ain’t funny. They shouldn’t be laughing at Nat. She might be stuck-up and the one that broke my heart, but I won’t tolerate anyone talking shit about her. “Enough.”
Everyone looks surprised at my response. I’m normally the one to laugh off anything, but some things are off-limits. Nat’s mine, even if it’s just to get my revenge on her. And I’m not gonna allow that sort of thing.
“Surely there are better ways to ask a girl out,” Ivy begins, casting a helpless look in Boone’s direction.
“Don’t know, don’t care. This works for me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What good’s all this money gonna do if it just sits in a bunch of coffee cans buried in the woods?”
“Oh dear,” Ivy says softly. “You bank the same way your brother does.”
Boone just gives me a canny look. “This the one?”
I haven’t mentioned anyone’s name, but Boone knows exactly who I’m talking about. There’s only ever been one ex-girlfriend for me that ever counted. No one before her has a face—and there was no one after her. I just nod.
He rubs his chin. “Good luck. Don’t spend too much on ’er.”
“Boone!” Ivy sounds shocked.
My brother leans over toward his wife. “Now, baby, you know we’re not nice guys. His money, and he’s got more of it than he knows what to do with. Why can’t he spend it the way he wants?”
Ivy’s exasperated sigh echoes in the enormous dining room.
Boone’s got a point, though. It’s been seven years and I ain’t no happier with a shit-ton of money and no Natalie. Might as well give some of that money away and see if I can get Natalie out of my system.
Ruthless, I remind myself. Hold nothing back. Give it everything I’ve got, because you never know when it’s going to be gone.
I’ve fucked around enough. Seven years is entirely too long to wait. Natalie’s gonna be mine. I don’t care how much I have to pay.
Chapter Seven
Natalie
When Monday rolls around, I pack my suitcase and quietly wait for Clay to arrive. My palms are sweaty with nerves, and I can’t stop wiping them on my jeans. Even though I’ve been obsessing over what I’m going to wear when he arrives, I’ve settled on a black cardigan over a pale pink blouse and jeans. My hair’s pulled into a simple tail over one shoulder and I curled the ends. Makeup? I might have spent two hours perfecting my “nude” and “barely there” look. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m trying too hard, after all.
In reality, I want him to think I’m pretty. I don’t want him to look at me and think I’m fat or over-the-hill. One of us changed for the worse since high school, and it wasn’t him. I shouldn’t care what he thinks . . . but realistically, I also shouldn’t be signing a contract to give myself to him, and I’m doing that, so I feel like logic has gone out the window anyhow.
Waiting around after I’m done with my makeup and hair makes me restless, so I go upstairs and check on my dad. He’s asleep, his face peaceful, and I fight back a surge of emotional tears at the sight. I’m doing this for him. I’ve done everything for him, just how he wants it. I could wake him up and tell him that I’m going to be leaving for a while, but I don’t know that he’ll remember even if I do tell him. It’s hard to think about leaving, though—will my dad be taken care of correctly? Will the nurse that’s hired be any good? Will he miss me? Will he be all right if I’m not here to sit with him when he’s upset or confused? My heart squeezes a little at the thought and I have to fight hard not to cry. It’ll ruin all the eye makeup I’ve spent an hour laboriously applying.
I head back downstairs on quiet feet and notice that there’s a couple of trucks parked in the museum’s small gravel parking lot. One looks like it’s for roofing, and another for carpentry. Huh. It’s not unusual for us to get people that came down the wrong exit and use our parking lot to turn around, but these are parking as if they intend to stay. Curious. As I watch, another truck pulls up.
I’m . . . confused. Are all these contractors coming to visit our museum? They don’t seem the type. Normally we get tourists, not . . . handymen?
I’m even more confused when yet another truck pulls up, this one with an attached trailer. When a riding lawnmower starts up and several men get out of the back of the truck, it’s time to head outside and see what’s going on.
As I go outside, more people emerge from their trucks. It feels like there’s a swarm of handypeople descending on me.
“This the roof?” one asks, squinting up at the house.
“Do you see another?” I ask, incredulous.
The men chuckle, even as another one moves past me on the walkway with buckets of what look like paint and rollers. The lawn crew fire up edgers and machinery roars to life while someone else hands me a clipboard. “Do you prefer this look for your gardens or this one?”
I glance down at the pictures attached to the clipboard. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Mr. Price sent us,” says another man, coming forward. He’s balding with glasses and has a friendly look on his face. He’s also wearing head-to-toe denim, and offers me a big hand to shake. “I’m Bill Slocum and I’m going to be overseeing this particular project.”
“Project?” I echo.
“Yes’m. Mr. Price wants this place cleaned up. The grounds are to be revamped, the parking lot poured with concrete, the building reroofed, repainted, the lighting improved . . .” He releases my hand and taps the clipboard tucked under his arm. “Among a few other things. As I said, I’m the project manager and I’ll be overseeing everything. If you have questions, just let me know.”
“Oh, I have a question,” I say. “Who’s paying for all this?”
But I know that answer already. This wasn’t part of our agreement, and I’m half angry that he’s being so high-handed . . . and half relieved that the problems are going to be taken care of. I didn’t ask for any of this, but Clay’s always been thoughtful. He must have seen how the place was falling apart and decided he needed to step in.
“Mr. Price is handling all the bills. Is there anything in particular we need to focus on?”
“I . . . ah . . .” I get distracted when I see someone post a big CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS sign at the far end of the parking lot. “Who says we’re closing?”
“I’m afraid with all the things we’ll be doing to improve the building, the business will need to be closed for at least a week.” Bill Slocum holds a business card out to me. “I will be on call constantly and on-site at all times, so you feel free to let me know if there’s something you want us to tackle that we’re not already handling.”
“Plumbing,” I blurt out, and then feel myself blushing. “And, um, is Mr. Price going to pay for my lost revenues?”
“That’s my understanding, yes, ma’am. And the plumber’s already here. We’ll get him to take a look at everything.”
I bite my lip. I don’t want to give in to this tidal wave of people, but at the same time, I know the ranch is in disrepair and half of the stuff that should be working doesn’t. The stove hasn’t heated for months, and there are certain lights that I don’t turn on anymore because I worry about the wiring. I should mention all of this, of course, but what comes out is, “My father. He’s not leaving.”
Mr. Slocum nods. “I understand that there is an elderly gentleman that lives in the house. Mr. Chap Weston, is it?” He grins. “I loved his movies as a kid.”
“I don’t know about all these repairs,” I confess, worried. I bite
down on a fingernail, thinking. “Dad gets easily confused and he can’t leave the premises. He’s comfortable here.”
“We’re well aware of the situation, Ms. Weston, and we’re going to work around your father’s schedule, I promise. If he takes a nap, all the equipment goes off. My boys already understand how it’s going to be and they’ll be well compensated for their time. Don’t you worry.”
This all sounds too good to be true. “I see.”
“Once we’re finished with the renovations, I’m told that Mr. Price will want to move on to stage two of the project.”
“Stage . . . two?”
“A grand reopening and a relaunch of the museum.” Mr. Slocum looks pleased at the thought. “I’m in charge of that, too. I’ll be working with the marketing people and the inventory folks. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Inventory folks . . . ?”
“For the gift shop, of course.” He steps aside as a crew of men hustle past us up the narrow walkway to the house. “And I know the museum is filled with Hollywood memorabilia. My crew’s photographing and cataloging as we speak. Everything is going to be in the shape it was when we arrived, I promise.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless. It’s like Clay’s thought of everything.
I wonder what all this “thoughtfulness” is going to cost me. Hand jobs?
Blow jobs?
Anal?
Eeek. I haven’t even given away my virginity and anal’s already on the table? I clench my butt cheeks at the thought, a little worried. I know I’m making a devil’s bargain, and the enormity of it is just now starting to hit me.
I’m going to be giving Clay Price everything. He’s going to own me until he’s tired of me.
I . . . wonder if it’s too late to back out. Scratch that. I already know it’s far too late. I move to one side of the walkway, mystified as a fleet of people continue to descend on the grounds of our ranch-slash-museum. All I can think about is what this is going to cost me. I promised to have sex with Clay in exchange for a bailout on my father’s bills and a few past-due credit cards. This wasn’t part of the plan, and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Ms. Weston?” A female voice calls out my name, and I turn. Three women approach, all dressed in scrubs. They look kind, and the one at the front beams at me. “I’m Alice, and I’m going to be one of your father’s caregivers.”
“One of?” I feel like I’m just echoing everyone right now, but this is all overwhelming me. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Price called in to our service and explained your father needs elderly care. We—all of us, including Mr. Price—feel that to ensure your father is as taken care of as can be, he should have round-the-clock care. He’s going to have a day nurse and a night nurse—”
“And a weekend nurse,” chirps a bubbly one at the back.
Alice nods. “So we can be sure that he’s happy and safe at all times.”
One of the nurses claps her hands, beaming. “Oh, this is such a privilege. I’m such a fan! I can’t wait to hear his stories. I bet he has hundreds of them.”
“He’s still living some of them, I’m afraid,” I say, and hate that my voice is getting thick in my throat. Damn it. “He has dementia, and he fell down the stairs six months ago, so his hip bothers him, and—”
“We’re used to that sort of thing,” Alice says, and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Now, don’t get all teary-eyed. I can’t believe you’ve been doing all this yourself and running the business. You must be exhausted.”
Exhausted doesn’t begin to cover it. I just continue weeping, because I feel like someone realizes how hard it is to keep it all together, and how much I’ve struggled. Three nurses. An entire crew of people. All because I can’t hold together all the pieces just by sheer will alone.
“Now, now, honey,” Alice says, pulling out a tissue from a pocket. She’s got a soft Southern drawl that my father will love. “You’re smearing your mascara. Can’t have that.”
Since I’ve been bought lock, stock, and barrel, no, I guess we can’t have that after all.
“Now, come, why don’t you tell me more about your father and give me a list of his medications?” Alice pats my back and gently steers me toward the house.
Clay
I tug at the collar of the suit Ivy suggested I wear today. I’d much rather be in a T-shirt and jeans, but after hearing all the details of my “grand” plan, Ivy’s stuck her nose in and made all kinds of suggestions. They sounded good at the time, but the longer these buttons cut off my air and suppress my will to live, the more antsy I get. This ain’t me. The suit, the tie, the jacket, the limo—none of this shit is me. The only thing Ivy couldn’t get me to do was cut my beard. I ain’t getting all “manscaped” like Boone just to impress a lady.
I threw enough money at Natalie that she’ll be impressed regardless. She’ll have to be.
Of course, it’s dumb that I’m nervous. This is Natalie. I knew her way back when. And now I’m throwing enough money in her direction to buy a city, not just a ranch museum. She should be grateful.
And then the moment that thought crosses my mind, I feel like an asshole. Nat ain’t a hooker. She’s cornered by debt and I’m using it against her.
I’m being a controlling dick to get what I want.
There’s a big S on my knuckles today. “Scoundrel.” Knox said the word at dinner and I decided I like it. It sounds nicer than what Ivy called me when she first heard about this plan. She said I was a bastard, and she ain’t wrong. This is definitely a bastard move.
But bein’ Nice Clay didn’t get me into Nat’s pants. Scoundrel Clay is ninety percent there already. I just had to figure out her price tag.
I rub the S and think about Natalie. Her lush curves and the rounded swell of her hips. I decide I like all them curves. I can’t stop thinking about ’em and what they’ll feel like to touch. What her full tits are gonna feel like when I palm them. What a handful her bouncy ass will be. Fuck, now I’m getting hard. I rub my face and try to think about other things as the limo parks.
Last thing I want to do is greet her with a handshake and a boner. Won’t be a show of much control there.
Someone taps on my window to get my attention.
Shit, I’m sweating. I wipe at my brow and tug at my collar again, feeling like a schoolboy. A quick glance shows me that it’s one of my lawyers, though. I roll the window down and glare at him. “What?”
The man purses his lips and leans in. “She wants a clause added to the contract before she’ll sign it.”
Oh? Digging for more money? I shoulda guessed. My spirits sink. I never thought Nat was a gold digger, but then again, I never thought she was a snob all that time she was leading me around by my dick, and I was sure wrong about that. “The money’s set in stone already. I ain’t goin’ up in price.” I’m already spending more than she asked for. Guess that was stupid on me for bein’ generous.
Had a moment of remorse. Won’t have another.
The lawyer looks all choked up, though. Like he’s swallowed somethin’ funny. “It’s not about money, Mr. Price.” He leans in closer, so close that his face is practically in my damn window. “She wants a ‘no anal’ clause in the contract.”
What? That’s the strangest thing. “Did she say why?”
“I would think that is obvious, sir.” The man’s face looks redder by the moment.
I think for a moment, amused. So she thinks that just taking her to my bed ain’t gonna be enough for me? That I’m gonna need to stake a claim in every hole? While the thought has merit—and makes my dick hard—I ain’t into anything that will turn her off. I know she likes to be touched. Anal wasn’t even on the table . . . until now. “Tell her no deal.”
The lawyer frowns. “It’s a deal-breaker for you?”
“It is now.” It ain
’t that I want it, but I don’t want her callin’ the shots. This is my show. And Scoundrel Clay don’t back down.
Plus, I kinda wanna see how she reacts. She gonna tell me no?
The lawyer looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon. “Very well. I’ll be back with her answer.”
“Come back when you’ve got signed contracts,” I tell him, deciding that I’ll be Scoundrel Clay today. Normally it’d kill me to be such a dick, but I’m tryin’ ta turn over a new leaf. I don’t want to end up like Eddie in that coffin, with a buncha regrets hangin’ over my head.
I’ve been the peacemaker for too long. The Price brother that never makes waves. The one that tries not to get ruffled feathers over anything. Fuck all that.
The next five minutes are the longest of my damn life. I sit there, drummin’ my fingers on the leg of my new Armani suit and waitin’ to see if Little Miss Natalie is gonna turn me down flat, or if she’s gonna decide she likes a dick in her ass more than bein’ broke. Seems to take forever for someone to come back to the car. I rake a hand through my hair, makin’ it all shaggy again instead of slicked down. Aw, fuck. Might as well give up on bein’ a scoundrel in a suit, then. I rip the expensive tie off my neck, glad it’s a clip-on, and then open the collar of the shirt. At least now I can freakin’ breathe.
Through the tinted glass, I can see someone approaching. The person’s not as tall as the lawyer, and the curves and bouncing hair tell me that it’s exactly who I want it to be. I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face, and I open the car door and get out to greet her, hoping I ain’t about to get a slap in the mouth.
But nope. Natalie pauses as the car door opens, then thumps my chest with a stack of papers—the contract—and then climbs into the car.
Guess that means she signed.
I hand the contract off to one of the nearby lawyers. “This is yours. Any changes made that I don’t know about?”
“No, sir. She signed.” The lawyer takes it as if I’m handing him a snake.
Dirty Scoundrel: Roughneck Billionaires 2 Page 7