by K. A. Linde
“Well, I’m sure that mixes well,” Andrea’s slow drawl carried down the stairs of their second-story house in the suburbs of northern Virginia, just outside of D.C. They both had their own apartments in the city, but when they wanted to leave that behind, they came here to their place.
Clay finished off the scotch and set it back down on the bar. “It does.”
“Are you already drunk?”
“Course not. Do you know how much liquor that takes?”
“Yes.”
Clay’s eyes traveled the length of her shimmery champagne floor-length dress that hugged every tiny curve on her body. He wished the pain meds would kick in right about now, so he could rip that dress off without wheezing through the activity.
“Don’t drink that much tonight,” Andrea told him. She walked forward and brushed her fingers over the bow tie of his fitted Armani tuxedo. “There. Perfect.”
“Thanks, babe.” He grinned.
It was good to see Andrea all done up again. Even if it was annoying that she’d spent the last several hours upstairs with a personal stylist doing her hair and makeup, he couldn’t argue with results. It was night and day from the Lululemon and Nikes she’d been wearing around the house as she insisted on taking care of him.
Smothering him was more like it. Sure, he had been beaten up and had a few broken ribs, but he could still handle his life like a man. Frankly, he was glad to be getting out of the house even if it was for this stupid party.
At least most of the worst swelling had gone down, and he was okay on his feet again. The doctor had said he would have another month to recover before he should be doing any physical activity, but he was too stir-crazy to listen.
Andrea must have seen something change in his expression because she frowned. “Are you feeling okay? We don’t have to go.”
“When you look like that, you might be right.”
She looked like she wanted to fight him on that, but instead, she just trailed her hand up into his hair. “You’re thinking about fucking me, aren’t you?”
“It’s been two weeks,” he groaned. He pulled her body up against his and tried not to wince at the contact.
Andrea simpered exaggeratedly. “And you miss me?”
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll show you how much.”
“Another night, lover. Need to make sure you’re…up for it.” She raised her eyebrows.
“I’m sure you’ll take care of that.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Clay leaned forward and planted a kiss on her lips. This felt good and right. Andrea hadn’t been this flirtatious since the night she’d left without, opting to go home with Bad Suit. He still hadn’t fucking figured out what had happened with that douche, but he knew better than to bring it up when she was finally in a better mood.
They took the waiting limo into the city. Andrea popped open champagne in the backseat and was sipping from a crystal flute as she absentmindedly browsed on her phone. Clay stared out the tinted window. He liked to act like the attack hadn’t been bothering him at all, but now that he was faced with his first public appearance, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He swallowed hard and tried to drown it out, but his aching ribs were a constant reminder.
“Are you excited to see your sister?” Andrea asked. She glanced up at him and frowned. “You look a little pale, Clay.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure it’s okay to take those pills with alcohol?”
“We both know it’s not, Andrea. Just drop it.”
She returned to her phone. “Fine.”
“And, sure…I guess I’m excited to see Savannah.” Clay shrugged.
“Do you know if she’s bringing her boyfriend? What’s his name again?”
“Easton, I think.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t finally started dating Lucas.”
“What?” Clay sputtered. Savannah and Lucas? Chris’s younger brother?
Andrea looked up from her phone with an amused turn to her lips. “Surely, you know they’ve been hooking up on and off for years. It’s rather obvious.”
“I’ll murder him.”
Andrea giggled. “I like when you turn all alpha, but I don’t think any murdering is going to happen, especially if she brings the boyfriend. Try not to do anything stupid tonight, okay?” Her words seemed to carry more weight than just in reference to his little sister’s love life.
“Do I ever?”
She quirked an eyebrow in response.
The rest of the car ride was a natural silence as they traversed the hellish D.C. traffic. The pain meds kicked in about halfway to their destination, and already, he could feel the slight buzz helping to numb the pain.
They pulled up in front of a swank hotel on the water that was bustling with people. A red carpet was rolled out in front of the location, and Clay half-expected paparazzi to be hounding the elite guests entering. But it seemed to be just the standard fare for the evening.
Clay removed the gold monogrammed tickets from his suit jacket to hand to the man at the front door.
“Clay and Andrea Maxwell,” the man said, checking off his list. “Right this way.”
Clay opened his mouth to tell him that they weren’t married, but Andrea gently nudged him, and he closed his mouth. She smiled up at him a little dreamily, and he was afraid to know what that look meant. She wrapped her arm around his elbow, and they walked inside.
The ballroom was dimly lit with posh gold and silver decorations. Clay beelined for the bar and ordered a whiskey and another glass of champagne for Andrea. He swore, she was worse than he was. She’d had three glasses in the limo.
He sipped the contents and searched for Brady in the crowd. It was easy to find him. He just had to look for the gaggle of people who wanted to kiss his ass.
Andrea followed Clay over to the group of supporters that somehow always seemed to find Brady, even at exclusive events such as this.
Brady’s fame had only risen after the public declaration of his relationship, followed by engagement, with Liz. They’d been in the middle of a heated reelection campaign for his House of Representatives seat in North Carolina when it came out that Brady had slept with a college reporter. Shit had hit the fan, miring him in months of bad press right before the election. But Brady and Liz had ridden out the wave, despite the nasty things thrown their way—some in an attempt to unseat the Maxwell political dynasty and others just jealous that Liz had snagged the most eligible bachelor in both D.C and North Carolina. It just proved that any press, even bad press, could work in his brother’s favor.
“You made it!” Brady said with a genuine smile when Clay pushed through the throng of people.
He firmly shook his brother’s hand. “Yep. Just like you’d requested, Congressman.”
Brady looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but he just kept that smile on. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. You, too, Andrea.”
He pulled her into a hug, but she quickly stepped away.
“So, was it you who put our tickets under the same name?” Clay asked Brady.
“What are you talking about?”
“Clay and Andrea Maxwell,” Clay said pointedly. “You’re the only one around here getting married.”
Brady’s eyes found Andrea’s, and she smiled and then hurried over to Liz, who was wearing a knockout dress.
“I didn’t secure the tickets. Andrea did,” Brady told him.
“What?” Clay asked.
Why would Andrea have put our names down together like that? She had never done that before, and she was the last person he knew who would even want that.
Brady shrugged. “Maybe she’s finally starting to like you,” he joked. “How are you feeling anyway?”
“Perfectly fit as ever.”
“Look who finally showed up,” Savannah said, when she wandered over with her boyfriend, Easton.
“Just your favorite brother.”
Savannah wrinkle
d her nose. “That’s debatable.”
“Are you drinking?” Clay asked, staring down into her clear glass.
“I’ve been drinking since I was fifteen. You were the one who used to sneak it out for me,” she said, as if remembering a fond memory. “At least now I’m legal.”
“God, you’re twenty-one? You’re so old now, Savi. What are you going to do with your life?”
“If I’m old, what does that make you two?” Savannah raised her eyebrows at her two brothers. “Seven and ten years older than me…you both must be ancient!”
Brady and Clay laughed. And, for once, it felt like family bonding. Clay didn’t know the last time that had happened.
“Congressman, do you mind if I spare a minute of your time?” a woman said, coming up to his side and interrupting the moment.
Oh right. That’s why.
Clay didn’t bother excusing himself. He just slumped away from the obnoxious intruder and wandered toward Andrea. He wanted to know why she had put their names together like that. It shouldn’t have bothered him that much, except she’d never done it before. Coupling that with the smothering after his accident, and he really didn’t know what was up with her.
But, when he got near her, she just took his hand and led him out onto the dance floor. When she pressed her body against his, he decided to let it drop for now. It wasn’t that important. They would figure it out.
After a couple of dances, he hated to admit that he was winded and aching. His ribs were throbbing, and a headache was burning in the back of his head. He found an empty seat at a table and watched his friends mingle. Liz came to check on him at some point, but he waved her away and held up his drink. His best friend. His one true solace.
The night wore on with the practiced ease of the D.C. elite. The pain in his side kept him on the outskirts of a crowd he normally reveled in, but tonight, he watched them differently. Maybe it was the obscene amount of alcohol he had been consuming, but something in the scene had lost its luster.
“Darling,” Andrea crooned into his ear. She snaked her hand around his neck. “You have to come out and enjoy the party. It’s almost midnight.”
“I’ll enjoy the party later when I have you back in my bed.”
“If you can’t even party,” she said, coming around to sink into his lap, “then how will you fuck me properly?”
“My dick is fully functional.”
Andrea ran her nails down his face and planted a soft kiss on his lips. “You are mine, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are mine, Clay Maxwell, and no one else’s.”
“I like to think I belong to myself,” he said cautiously.
“We’re not playing games tonight. How do you really feel about me?”
“I don’t know where all these questions are coming from,” he said.
He stood and easily deposited her to her feet. She was a good head or more shorter than him, but something in her eyes made him feel small.
“I just want to know what I am to you. It shouldn’t be so difficult to discuss,” she said crisply.
“Yeah, well, I thought we already knew the answer to that. You’re my girl.”
A triumphant smile played on her lips.
“But we’re still the same as we always were.”
Then, it drained from her face.
“What? Do you want to change the way things are?”
“No,” Andrea said immediately. “Why would I want that?”
Clay didn’t feel like delving any deeper into that conversation. He grabbed Andrea’s hand and pulled her back out onto the dance floor. He just wanted to get to midnight, get home and pop some more pain meds, and then ring in the New Year properly.
They found Brady and Liz in the crowd. Liz was standing next to a small woman with a black bob and blunt bangs, who was gesturing animatedly. She looked oddly familiar.
“Oh my God!” Andrea cried when she saw whom Liz was talking to. “Jamie!” She flung herself at the girl.
“Andrea!” Jamie said, returning the hug.
“Clay, you remember Jamie Lane from the art exhibit?” Andrea said by way of introduction.
Of course, Andrea only ever got this excited about art. He was pretty sure this was actually the sister to Liz’s ex-boyfriend, Hayden. Small fucking world.
“Yes. You bought all of her paintings at her last exhibit. Cost a fucking fortune,” he drawled.
Jamie colored slightly and looked between Liz and Andrea. “It’s so good to see y’all.”
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Liz said. “I didn’t even know you ran in this circle.”
“My artwork has been getting around to some big names, and those people like to dole out favors.”
“Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!” Liz said.
“Thank you so much!” Jamie cried. “I’m just, you know, so happy to see you happy, too. Oh, and, Andrea,” she said, as if remembering something, “did you get ahold of that art gallery owner I introduced you to when you were looking for new pieces?”
Andrea’s lips thinned. “Um…which one?”
“It was, like, a month ago, I guess. Maybe six weeks? You know, the one from that last exhibit I saw you at. Asher McWalter.”
Andrea hadn’t mentioned that to him. Strange.
“Oh, right,” she said, glancing away, as if she wanted to be anywhere but in this conversation. “Yes. We, uh…we spoke. Briefly.”
Fuck. He knew what that meant. But why the hell is she nervous? If she’s fucked the guy, then why is she purposefully avoiding my gaze? That meant something was wrong. Something that he wasn’t supposed to know about.
“Who is Asher McWalter?” Clay asked, forcing her to look at him.
She frowned. “Nobody.”
“He runs this amazing art exhibit downtown,” Jamie said.
Sensing the building tension between Clay and Andrea, Liz put her hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “How about I buy you a drink?”
“Oh. Sure,” Jamie said with a frown.
Then, they disappeared.
“Well?” Clay prompted.
Andrea met his gaze. Christ, she was so strong. Even though she didn’t want to say whatever was about to come out of her mouth, she still looked him in the eyes and crushed him.
“He’s an art gallery owner who I met about a month before your attack. He’s the guy you saw me with the night of your…robbery.”
Clay’s mouth went dry as the crowd started counting down to midnight. Bad Suit. “You mean to tell me that you’ve been fucking that douche bag for over a month?”
She nodded minutely.
“You told me to come fight for you in that bar, knowing you were going home with him. He wasn’t some stranger you’d picked up. That was planned,” he growled. “You let me show up and you let me finger-fuck you in the restroom,” he spat.
“Clay…”
“You broke the rules, Andrea. No wonder you want to end the game. Why the fuck did you leave with that douche?”
“Fuck, isn’t it obvious? I wanted to make you jealous,” she cried.
Clay’s eyebrows rose. “You left me alone, pissed off and horny, only for me to get jumped and have the shit beaten out of me…because you wanted me to be jealous?”
She gritted her teeth. “I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t want it to happen.”
“Five, four, three, two, one!” the crowd cheered all around them as they watched the ball hit the ground in Times Square, the festivities being shown on a giant projection screen on the wall.
But Clay and Andrea just stared at each other, as if in a duel.
“Well, are you going to kiss me?” she demanded as everyone made out around them.
He was so pissed. Unbelievably, horribly pissed. He couldn’t think straight; he was so angry. A rage filled him to his core to know what Andrea had done.
Their game was simple. It had worked for ten years until Asher McWalter had walked into h
er life.
Clay let his anger feed him as he grabbed her roughly by the back of her neck and kissed her like it would be their last breath.
Chapter 6
LIMOS
In the back of the limo, Clay shredded Andrea’s expensive dress between his hands. Whatever had passed between them during that midnight kiss hadn’t dissipated in the time it took them to get out of the ballroom and into their waiting limo. In fact, it had only heightened their emotions. All Clay wanted was to rip Andrea’s clothes off and claim her body.
Fuck his ribs. He was getting laid. Right here. Right now.
“This dress cost a fucking fortune,” she murmured.
Not that she gave a fuck. He could see it in her eyes. She’d rather have the material in pieces on the floor of this limo than around her body.
“Tell someone who gives a fuck, baby.”
“Well, you’ll have to buy me another one.”
He bore down on her, sliding his hands up her bare calves. He grabbed the slit he’d torn into the dress between his hands, deviously grinned up at her, and wrenched it into two until it hit her upper thigh.
Andrea exhaled loudly and squirmed. He knew she was trying to seem unaffected, but he wouldn’t have any of that fucking shit.
“I’ll do as I please, and you’ll like it,” he told her.
She raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you all domineering?”
“Shh,” he said. “You broke the rules, baby. It’s my turn.”
Her eyes widened, and then he saw it—the fire that he so craved from her. She was crazy if she thought she was getting off scot-fucking-free for her part in what had happened to him. Yeah, he wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t responsible for him getting jumped, but what she’d done pained him more. It went against the foundation of their relationship. And he was fucking pissed.
“You think I’m just going to lie here and let you do whatever you want?” she demanded, sitting up onto one elbow. “You said yourself, nothing has fucking changed between us.”