Dirty Scoundrel

by Jessica Clare

  Chap Weston’s gaze moves over the room and fixes on me. He squints in my direction, frowning at the sight of me leaning casually on the doorframe. “Who is that?”

  “That’s the man I’m working for,” Nat says vaguely. “Now, Dad—”

  “Clay Price,” I call out. It’s clear he didn’t recognize me, and it’s clear that Nat’s not going to volunteer the information, so I’m going to. I want to see if he remembers who I am and how he dicked me over.

  The old man’s eyes narrow. “The trashy boy? The one that tried to steal my daughter away?”

  “That’s the one,” I drawl before Natalie can respond. Trashy boy. Fuck him.

  “Dad,” Nat scolds. “Clay’s a billionaire now. He’s a good man and he’s not trash. He’s helping me out of the mess we’re in by hiring me.”

  “He’s probably just hiring you to get under your skirts, Natalie. I know what men like him are like.” The scowl on his face isn’t that of a father as much as that of a child being robbed of his favorite toy. “You should spend time with me and not him.”

  “I’m working for Clay,” Nat says again, her voice firm, and I’m fuckin’ proud of that. At least, for a moment I am, because then she continues with, “I’ll be back at your side again shortly. It’s just a temporary contract.”

  Temporary, my ass. Does she not want to make a go of this thing we have? I try to keep a neutral expression on my face, but I’m gettin’ frustrated.

  “I see.” Chap Weston’s tone is disapproving. “So you’d rather spend your time with trash than your ailing father.”

  “That’s not it at all—”

  “No,” I cut in. “That’s exactly it. She’d rather be with me.”

  Everyone shoots a glare in my direction. I don’t care. I’m gettin’ annoyed that this old man’s whining and they’re all fallin’ for it.

  “He’s not good for you, Natalie. Haven’t I warned you about men like him in the past?” Chap Weston shakes his head. “You’re going to have to pick between a man that’s using you and your father.”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit,” I explode. “You’re the one using her!”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Alice the nurse says. “Let’s not do this.”

  I wait for Nat to say somethin’. To defend me to her father. But she just gets this helpless look on her face and gets to her feet. “I have to go, Dad.”

  Well, at least she’s choosin’ to leave with me. I suppose that’s somethin’. Still kinda wish she’d put her dad in his place, though, and told him that she loved me.

  When she gets to my side, I pull her close and whisper in her ear. “Not again, all right? He’s doin’ this to make you dance like a puppet on strings. I ain’t havin’ it.” Maybe I’m selfish, but I want Nat to myself. “Long as we’re in this contract, you’re my assistant, not his.”

  She nods.

  Natalie

  NAT: I hated seeing that the house was almost finished, Lex. What’s wrong with me?

  LEXI: You’re getting some good D and you don’t want that to change? I don’t see a problem with that.

  NAT: It’s my home, but every time I go back there, I start to feel trapped. But Clay hasn’t said that he wants me to stay, either.

  NAT: I asked him if he wanted me to get on the pill the other day and he said there was no need.

  LEXI: Ouch. So he’s got an exit strategy. That’s gonna leave a mark.

  LEXI: There’s this lady online that does Santeria if you send her some Bitcoin. We could ask her to sacrifice a chicken to give him bad luck.

  NAT: Be serious. I’m hurting here.

  LEXI: Okay, sorry. :(

  LEXI: I’m not good with the touchy-feely shit. You need someone to wear all black and glower in the shadows, I’m your girl.

  LEXI: You need someone to stand at the back of the room and mock everyone normal, I’m your girl.

  LEXI: You need a shoulder to cry on and I make Santeria jokes. Sorry.

  NAT: I just . . . wish I knew where I stood.

  LEXI: Ask him?

  NAT: And say what? Hey, you know this contract we have? I really like being with you and I’d be happy to stay even if you didn’t pay me!

  LEXI: Works for me?

  NAT: But that doesn’t mean I can, you know? What about my dad? What about the upkeep on the business? Everything costs money and that’s the one thing I don’t have. I don’t want Clay to think I’m staying with him because I see him as a wallet.

  LEXI: If only there was some way you could tell him how you really feel . . .

  LEXI: Oh wait!

  LEXI: How about you—wait for it—tell him HOW YOU REALLY FEEL.

  NAT: Har de har.

  NAT: I think I’m terrified of what he’ll say.

  NAT: Our contract is terminated at any time at his discretion, not mine.

  NAT: What if I press him and he thinks I’m clingy and gold-digging and boots me out the door?

  LEXI: Then . . . you have your answer?

  I want to throw my phone across the room.

  I hate that Lexi makes sense. She’s basically telling me to be brave. To tell Clay how I feel—that I’m in love again—even if it’s fast. Even if he isn’t. Get it all off my chest so I can be at peace with however things go between us. If it was just me? I would, I think. I’d do my best to be strong and to sit Clay down and have a serious conversation with him about where we’re going.

  As it is, I don’t have any leverage in this relationship. I don’t feel like I’m the one that can make that conversation happen. I’ve got too much baggage—my father, his failing business, my past with Clay where I didn’t believe in him. Things are different now, and I’m the one with my hand out. I feel like no matter how I approach Clay with my true feelings, it’s going to seem calculating and suspicious.

  If he’d just give me a hint of how he truly feels . . .

  That’s the thing with Clay, though. He’s so good at hiding his feelings behind a smile. He never lets anyone see what he’s truly thinking. He can hide his emotions better than anyone. Every time I’ve fished for hints about our future, I’ve been met with zero emotion or turned away.

  I feel like I should know the answer—that we don’t have a future together—and maybe I’m just being blind to it. All I need is a sign, I tell myself.

  Just one sign that Clay is coming to care for me again. We have great sex and we enjoy being together. We’re friends and fantastic sex partners and . . . and I want more.

  I don’t know if Clay does.

  So a sign from the universe would be great about now.

  * * *

  Clay and I are curled up on the couch the next day, watching House Hunters. “Maybe you need a house like that,” I tell him when a couple rejects a lovely four-bedroom ranch because it doesn’t have granite countertops. “It’s not that fussy. It’s spacious, and way nicer than your trailer, but not so big that you couldn’t take care of it yourself.”

  “Mmm.” That’s Clay’s answer whenever he doesn’t necessarily agree with me, but doesn’t want to contradict me. My legs are in his lap and he begins to run a finger up and down the arch of one foot, tickling me as a distraction.

  “What?” I ask, giggling and trying to squirm out of his ticklish grip.

  “What about my maid?”

  I sputter. “You have a maid? In your trailer?”

  “Well, yeah. You didn’t think I was that tidy myself, did you?”

  “I did,” I protest. “I mean, who has a maid and lives in a single-wide?”

  “Me.” Clay grins.

  “You’d be better off with a house. And you can afford one. Even the one on TV is a huge upgrade to what you have.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t ‘mmm’ me,” I tease. “What’s wrong with that house?”

  “You heard them,” he says, nodding at the TV. “No granite countertops.”

  I snort. “Dude, you live in a trailer right now. And you can’t exactly live in this hotel
forever.”

  “Couldn’t we?” he asks, a lazy grin on his face.

  I stare at him, not sure if I need to interpret that “we” as something other than what it is. Did he misspeak? Or does he mean he’s thinking about the both of us in the future?

  At that moment, my phone rings. Frustrated, I grab it and leap off of the couch, because I recognize the number—it’s Alice. Clay’s phone rings a scant second later, and he frowns at the screen before picking up the call. “What is it?”

  I turn the TV off and tuck the phone against my shoulder as I answer it, trotting out into the hall to get a little privacy. I don’t want Clay overhearing the conversation about my dad, because I don’t know how it’s going to go. He gets really touchy when it comes to Dad. Ever since my visit the other day, he bristles at any mention of my father. It makes things awkward. “Hello?” I say softly. “This is Natalie.”

  “Natalie? Oh good. I’m glad I caught you.” She sounds a little stressed.

  “What’s up?” I shut the door to the suite behind me and pace down the hall in the hotel, barefoot.

  “It’s your father. He’s having a really bad day today.” She pauses, and for a moment, I can hear soft sounds of crying.

  My heart squeezes. “Is that him?”

  “Yes. He’s been like that for hours. He doesn’t recognize anyone, and he keeps looking for a Janelle. Do you know who that is?”

  “It’s my mom,” I murmur. “She died when I was five.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He must have loved her very much.”

  “I think he did.” Sometimes I think Janelle was the only one he did love. I know a lot of the time it feels like Dad tolerates me rather than cares for me. And then I feel like that’s a terrible thing to think, so I push the thought away. It’s likely due to the age difference, I tell myself. By the time I was born he was sixty-two and didn’t know how to handle a young child. At that age, the only thing he knew to do with women under twenty was date them. Which is also gross to think about, and not helping the situation. “He’s had these spells before. It takes a while, but he’ll eventually calm down.”

  “He’s worked himself up quite a bit, actually,” Alice tells me. “I’ve called in the night nurse but we can’t get him to calm down and stop crying. He’s been hysterical all afternoon. I have a call out to his doctor asking about possibly sedating him, but no one’s gotten back to me yet.”

  “It’s that bad?” I ask, surprised. Alice normally seems so unruffled.

  “Pretty bad,” she admits. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come by tonight and see him? Maybe a familiar face would help shake him out of it.”

  “I don’t know,” I begin.

  I hear Dad’s voice calling out in the distance. “Natalie? Are you talking to my Natalie?” he demands of Alice. “Tell her I need her here! Right now!”

  Oh gosh. “I’ll be there in an hour or so. I just need to let Mr. Price know.”

  “Thank you. The sooner the better.”

  I hang up. It takes me a moment to realize that Dad was aware that it was me on the phone, and if that was the case, he can’t be as lost in his memories as he normally is. Strange. I don’t know what to think—he’s faked before to try and get my attention, but the crying seemed genuine. Either way, I don’t think I can ignore it, not without a bucket-load of guilt. I head back toward the suite I share with Clay. I need to think of a way to phrase things that doesn’t make it seem like I’m abandoning him to go sit with my dad again. I am, but I want him to feel like I’m not bailing out. That it’s only for tonight. That I’m not racing to my dad’s side just to coddle him.

  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 tow
ard 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?”