Dirty Scoundrel

by Jessica Clare

  I had my chance with him and I threw it away. He wanted to marry me and I laughed in his face.

  Oh god.

  I lie back on my bed and press my hands to my face, determined not to cry.

  Try as I might to forget, I know the exact moment my life turned to shit. It was that night that Clay Price and I broke up.

  Not that my life has ever been perfect or even normal. The fact that my father was sixty-two years old when I was born starts things off on a weird foot, and my mom died when I was five. After that, my father married wife number five and she proceeded to spend my father’s fortune, give me a complex about how much I eat, and basically made me and my father miserable. She left when I was sixteen and my father decided he’d had enough of Hollywood, so he took me and the new girlfriend (who was only four years older than me) to Luka, Texas, to restore the ranch he’d bought so many years ago after making his first movie. I hadn’t known anyone, and everyone at school hated me. They thought I was a rich Hollywood snob. No one talked to me. No one was my friend.

  No one except Clay Price, a football player and a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Everyone loved Clay almost as much as they hated me.

  It felt like fate bringing us together. The moment we met, we were hot and heavy. At least, he was. I thought he was teasing me by showing interest, and so I pushed him away for an entire semester before he was able to make his move. One night I was at a party with a bunch of popular kids, seated on a couch in the corner and wishing I was far away. A guy had come up and started harassing me, and Clay moved in and put his arm around my shoulders, and that was that.

  By the end of the evening, we were necking.

  By the end of the week, I was his girlfriend.

  For the next year and a half of school, we were inseparable. I was Clay’s girlfriend, and he made me so incredibly happy. I didn’t care that he drove an absolute beater of a car. I didn’t care that his family lived in a trailer or that his four brothers were all from different mothers. Who was I to judge? My dad was old enough to be my grandfather, Hollywood weird, and wife number six was barely older than me. I kept Clay and my dad separated, though, because I knew my dad wouldn’t understand him. Chap Weston had been in Hollywood for so long that he was a snob. Didn’t matter that we were living in the middle of nowhere, Texas. He still had champagne taste, and that extended to people.

  Things came to a head after graduation.

  I still think of that night with a sick knot in my stomach. At the time, I was madly in love with Clay Price, and I’d intended on giving up my virginity to him very soon. We’d fooled around for months—lots and lots of fooling around—but had always kept it above the belt. I needed to be sure of everything before I went further, I’d told him, and he’d been content to wait, though it’d been more difficult for both of us lately. Our phone calls had gotten dirty, and our kissing had taken on a new intensity that both scared and excited me.

  It all went to hell that night. I watched the light die in his eyes and he turned his back on me.

  Even now, seven years later, I feel like puking just thinking about it. That had been the worst moment in my life. And I knew it was a mistake and I still did it.

  I haven’t loved anyone since then. I’ve been alone and lonely and missing Clay. It’s been seven years of misery without him, and I’d give anything to go turn back time. To send a text the next morning and tell him we need to talk, no matter how crazy my life was with my father’s stroke. To go even further back and stop the awful, stupid argument we had before it ever started.

  But I can’t go back. And since I can’t, I don’t want to go forward, either. It’s why I’ve never looked Clay up online, never decided to hunt him down and apologize. I’m ashamed of how we split, and I don’t want to see what he’s been up to.

  I don’t want to move on. I still want him. And it hurts.

  I press my palms to my eyes, trying to will back the tears that threaten. If I didn’t know what happened to him, in a sense, he was still mine. Knowing that he’s moved on to someone else means that he’s gone for good. I feel . . . gutted.

  My phone buzzes with an incoming text. Then another. Then another. I’m sure Lexi’s thinking I’ve died, so I dash away the tears that slipped out and pick up my phone again.

  LEXI: $$$$$$$$$

  LEXI: $$$$$$$$$$$$

  LEXI: $$$$$$

  Huh?

  NAT: Is your key stuck?

  LEXI: No dumbass

  LEXI: He rich yo

  LEXI: Silly rich

  LEXI: Go google him. I’ll wait.

  Not . . . married? He might be, and maybe she just didn’t mention it. Even though my stomach feels like it’s in a knot, I pull up the browser on my phone and type in Clay’s name and “Texas.” I’m a little startled when a full page of links appears. And even more startled when a lot of them lead back to money and investing articles. I click on one, skimming it. I see Price Brothers Oil mentioned several times, and then a side business Clay’s working on financing called IntelligentCamo. There’s a Forbes article showing all five brothers, and a bunch of pictures of them on oil rigs or wearing hard hats.

  I . . . I don’t understand. I thought Clay went to go work roughnecking on a rig. How did he become an oil tycoon? He’s only twenty-five.

  It explains the limo they drove off in, though.

  I Google again, this time looking for a different sort of answer—“Clay Price” and “wife.”

  No names pop up.

  He’s not married. Never has been.

  Some small part of him is still mine.

  I’m overwhelmed at how much sheer joy courses through me at that small realization. To think that Clay hasn’t married after all this time. To think that he’s returned . . . and he’s coming back to the museum tomorrow. I switch back to the text window.

  NAT: He’s not married!

  LEXI: Did you miss the part where he’s rich?

  NAT: I don’t care about that. Now tell me how I can lose five pounds overnight so he’s not grossed out how fat I got after high school.

  LEXI: Wrap your body in Saran wrap and sweat all night.

  NAT: What??

  LEXI: You asked! Now tell me what you’re going to wear tomorrow for when he shows up again.

  Chapter Five

  Clay

  Today on my hand, I’ve written a big H for “hard.”

  Not my dick, although it’s been hard ever since I saw Nat’s curvy little self yesterday. It’s for my heart. I’ve got to be hard. Ruthless. Cold. I can’t fall for a pair of big blue eyes, no matter how much she wrapped me around her finger in the past. I need to remember that Natalie was cold as ice when we broke up seven years ago. She acted like I was trash.

  Now she’s the trash and I’m a billionaire. And that means I get what I want, no feelings attached.

  Funny how I still want her after seven years and all that fucking heartache. But I always have. I’ve never stopped dreaming of her body, of her gasping kisses, the way she felt against me. There’s never been anyone for me but her.

  Since I’ve got all this money, I’ve decided I’m going to fuck Natalie Weston. Not mentally—just physically. I’m going to take her in a bed, pull off her panties, and fuck her . . . and hopefully get her out of my head forever.

  Back in high school, I never got to fuck Natalie Weston. At the time, I thought it was because she was a shy virgin, and I was content to wait. I loved Natalie, and she was my girlfriend. It didn’t matter how long it took for her to decide that it was time to have sex, because I knew she was going to be mine forever. She was worth waiting for.

  But then Natalie dumped me. I never got to claim her, never got to make her mine. Never got to sink into her and become one. Never got to bust my first nut inside a girl, either, though that was less important to me than losing Nat. As time went on, I figured I’d eventually forget her, meet someone else, and then lose my virginity. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with waitin’.

  E
xcept I’ve never forgotten her, so I’m still a virgin at twenty-five. Seems wrong.

  All of this seems wrong, actually.

  With my money, though, I’m going to make it right. I don’t care if it costs all my billions, I’m going to fuck Natalie Weston and get her out of my head for good. Maybe once I’ve had her, I won’t care about her any longer.

  I trace the H on my knuckles again, thinking.

  Hard. Yeah.

  I can be hard. I can be ruthless. I just need to remember how she dicked me over. How she gave me blue balls for almost two years when we were dating . . . and then decided I was too filthy to touch her precious Hollywood-royalty panties.

  I can’t wait to touch ’em now.

  I get out of the limo, indicating that my patient driver should wait awhile. Today, I ditched Knox and decided to fly solo. Having my brother there, light-fingering all the stuff in the rundown gift shop, hovering and listening in on the conversations? Just made me all nervous and weird. I don’t need nerves—I need to be focused.

  I even have a speech I practiced just for this moment.

  Natalie, I’m offering you a bargain. I’ve done the research on your father’s fortunes, and it’s clear that he’s spent every last dollar that he ever had from his movies. I know you’re broke. I know the upkeep on this ranch costs more than it brings in every month. I know exactly how much you owe the banks, and I’m prepared to make you a deal. I’ll save your family and your business, but you’ve got to give me what I want.

  Seems pretty cut-and-dried to me. No emotions, no relationship. Just a contract for business. She has something I want, and I’m willing to pay for it.

  I enter the front of the museum, even though it’s a full half hour before scheduled opening time. The bell on the door clangs obscenely loudly, and the front of the place is empty. Somewhere in the distance, a vacuum is running and immediately shuts off the moment I enter.

  “Coming!” someone calls out, and my dick immediately responds at the sound of the female voice. I know who that is. I surreptitiously adjust my junk in my jeans, not wanting to be obvious.

  A moment later, a figure comes rushing out, swiping her hair back from her face. Her skin is dewy with a hint of sweat, but it doesn’t detract from the fact that Nat Weston still takes my breath away every time I see her. Her cheeks are pink, making her blue eyes seem even bluer, and her pretty mouth is highlighted by a bit of lipstick. Instead of pigtails, her dark hair is loose and tumbles around her shoulders in a wavy curtain. She wears a black top with a low-plunging, deep neckline that shows off her fantastic cleavage, and a pair of tight jeans that are just begging for me to rip ’em off of her.

  Nat blinks wide, and then a little smile curves her mouth. For a moment, she looks truly delighted to see me. “Hi again.”

  I rub my mouth, because this wasn’t what I was expecting. I thought maybe she’d be all wary of me coming around again. Or angry. I could deal with angry. This smiling beauty’s throwing me off my revenge game. “Hi.” I hesitate, then offer her my hand to shake. Seems like it’s either that or a hug, and I don’t know if I can hug her without getting hard.

  She looks surprised at my gesture and hesitantly puts her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers delicate as they brush over my skin. “I didn’t picture us shaking hands when we met again,” she murmurs.

  The H on my knuckles stands out like a brand as I stare at our clasped hands. Hard. Ruthless. As cruel as she was to me. I need to remember. The thought makes my tone a little harsher than anticipated. “How did you picture it, then?”

  Nat pulls away, composing herself. She seems surprised by my harsh tone. “I don’t know.” She puts that fake, overly bright smile back on her face. “How can I help you, Clay?”

  She’s still close enough that I can see into the deep vee of her cleavage, and a bolt of lust fires through me at the sight. I need to not ogle her tits. I need to keep my cool if I want to get my way. No regrets. I resist the urge to rub the H on my knuckles and decide to launch into the speech I’ve prepared. “Natalie, I’m offering you a bargain.”

  Her brows furrow. “Huh?”

  “I’ve done the research on your father’s fortunes, and it’s clear that he’s spent every last dollar he ever made from his movies. I know you’re broke.”

  Natalie reels as if struck. “You what? You came here to throw that in my face?” She gapes at me, clearly shocked. “Are you serious?”

  “I didn’t come to do that,” I say swiftly. I need to regain control of the conversation. Somehow when I ran this through my head, I didn’t picture the hurt look on Nat’s face. I thought she’d be angry. Indignant. Sneering. A wounded Natalie makes it harder to do this, and it shouldn’t be hard. She crushed me beneath one of her dainty heels seven years ago. Why can’t I do the same? I launch into the next section of my speech. “I know the upkeep on this ranch costs more than it brings in every month—”

  “You don’t know shit,” she retorts furiously, taking a step backward. Her hands go to her hips and she glares at me, clearly angry. “How dare you?”

  Good. Her anger makes this easier. I straighten, keeping my cool as I continue to speak. “I know exactly how much you owe the banks,” I say calmly. “And I’m prepared to make you a deal. I’ll save your family and your business.”

  Her expression goes soft again. “Wait, what? You will?” She reaches out and puts a hand on the wall, as if bracing herself.

  I nod. “But you’ve got to give me what I want.”

  Nat goes still. “I don’t understand. What . . . what is it you want?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, and I know I’m looming over her, just a little. Not in a threatening way, I hope. Just want to exude authority instead of feeling like a slobbering schoolboy around her. “You agree to become my personal assistant for as long as I want you.”

  Her lips part and those big blue eyes blink up at me. “An . . . assistant? Like filing paperwork?”

  Damn, that’s such an innocent reaction. I can’t help but smile. Clearly my thoughts go to much dirtier places than hers. “I ain’t wanting that kind of assisting.”

  One dark brow arches and I watch as her jaw almost imperceptibly tightens. “So hand jobs in the back seat of the limo, then.”

  “If that’s what I feel like, yeah.” Actually, the mental image of Natalie putting her hands on my cock in the back seat of the limo is now being added as jerk-off fodder, because damn, that’s hot. “You’re going to accompany me and see to all my needs.”

  “You’re asking me to hook for you, you bastard.” She looks outraged, her breasts heaving magnificently against that low neckline.

  I give a casual shrug. “Maybe I am.”

  “Are you trying to take me down a peg for what I said to you?” The hurt has left her face, and all that remains is anger. Good. She looks like she’s itchin’ to slap my face, and that makes me grin. She’s cute when she’s angry.

  “I’m not taking anyone down a peg. I just know what I want, and I’ve decided I’m going to go after it. I didn’t get it seven years ago and I figure now with our fortunes reversed, I’ve got money and you don’t. Maybe that’ll get me places I wasn’t able to get to seven years ago by being a nice, patient guy.”

  Nat gasps. “I can’t believe this! You are such a dick. I can’t believe this is what you’ve come to talk to me about.”

  “What, surely you don’t think I would marry you?” I sneer, throwing the hated words back in her face.

  She flinches, going quiet.

  And not for the first time today, I feel like the bad guy. Like I’ve done something wrong. “Nothing to say?” I bluster, because I don’t like feeling like this.

  “I’ve got something to say, all right.” Nat recovers quickly and her chin lifts. “I could take you to court and sue the hell out of you for what you’ve just said to me.”

  For some reason, I love that she’s responding so fiercely to my admittedly shitty proposal. I can’t stop
the grin that’s spreading across my face, and it only widens the angrier she gets. “And I could hire the best lawyers possible, settle the case outside of court for a pittance, and then you’d be back to square one. You’d still be broke and need bailing out.”

  “So your suggestion is that I just spread my legs for you and close my eyes!”

  “I would prefer that your eyes be open when you spread your legs for me,” I murmur, liking the mental image. “And I’d much rather you be into it. I seem to recall a time when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

  “Th-that was seven years ago,” she stammers, clearly flustered by my change in tone. Her cheeks are turning pinker and she won’t meet my eyes. “Long before you and I split and then you came to me with this horrible deal.”

  “Is it such a horrible deal?” I ask. “We both get what we want.”

  “You’re asking me to sell myself to you,” she whispers. “How can you possibly think that’s a good deal for me?”

  “Once upon a time, you loved it when I touched you,” I tell her, stepping a bit closer. I want to reach out and touch her—her arm, her cheek, her chin, anywhere—but I force myself to shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans, not trusting myself to not grab her and just kiss the hell out of her. “I wanted to offer you this. Help me help you.”

  I expect her to retort that my deal isn’t helping her much at all, and that it helps me more than her. But she only gives her head a little shake. “Doesn’t matter what I think. It could be the world’s best deal or the world’s worst deal. I still can’t take it.”

  “Because of me?” I don’t know if I’m disappointed or angry. Or both.

  She crosses her arms under her breasts, and it’s less angry and more like she’s hugging herself. “No. I have to take care of my father. He’s eighty-seven now and . . . not well.” Her expression grows distant.