Whoever’s running this place needs his ass fired yesterday.
Me and Knox head through the front door, and immediately, Knox makes a sound in his throat. The place is . . . well, it’s hideous. There’s old Hollywood memorabilia, along with kitschy decorations from movies and pictures of Chap Weston everywhere. Cheesy music plays overhead. It’s an assault on the senses.
Off to one side, there’s an old-timey signpost that has two arrows, both pointing in the same direction. One says TICKETS, and the other says GIFT SHOP. I glance in that direction . . . and my heart stops.
It’s her.
Nat.
She looks . . . different but the same. The girl I remember from high school had the prettiest little round face with big blue eyes, a plush mouth, and a dimple that peeked out when I made her smile. I remember those things about her, and those aren’t any different. This Natalie is dressed like an extra in one of the corny movies her dad used to star in, though, and she’s behind the counter at the gift shop, talking to a couple. Her shiny dark hair is pulled into two girlish pigtails and she’s wearing an ugly-ass pink cowboy hat and matching fringed vest. She’s heavier than I remember, too. The Nat I remember was always dieting in high school, obsessed with her figure. This one’s given up on that, I think. She’s all lush curves and rounded breasts, and I gotta say, I like the change.
Not that I should be liking anything about her, but I do.
I rub the R on my knuckles again, because I feel a stab of anger and frustration. I should be pissed as hell that Natalie thought she was too good for me and ended up here. This is the same damn town we grew up in, and she’s working at a gift shop? How is that “too good” for a Price? Ain’t we at the same level? Even as I simmer with seven years of resentment, I note that she looks tired, though, and the interior of this place looks just as worn around the edges as the outside did.
“You gonna do this?” Knox asks as we step into the tiny gift shop. He fingers a postcard, and I imagine it’s gonna end up in his pockets before the day is over.
I nod, swallowing hard. Damn. Seven years and it doesn’t matter—one look at her and I still feel like that dumbass schoolkid, thinking with his pecker. No amount of writing on my knuckles is going to erase that. I need to remember how she treated me. How she stomped on my heart and turned her back without giving a shit about how I felt.
If she’d ever loved me like I’d loved her, she’d have never acted like that. I was the only one in love. I need to remember that.
So I step forward and move toward the counter, where she’s listening intently to a family that’s talking to her. They’re tourists, obviously, wearing khaki shorts and T-shirts, and two bored kids moving through the gift shop like mini tornadoes.
“I was under the impression we could get our picture taken with Chap Weston,” the woman is saying, and she’s got a stern frown on her face. “We came here specifically for that.”
“Mr. Weston’s schedule depends on the day,” Nat says in a cheery voice that doesn’t sound like her at all. She gestures at a blackboard on the wall that has CHAP IS written across the top and a scribbly UNAVAILABLE written underneath in chalk. “I’m afraid he’s not going to be able to visit guests today. I really do apologize.”
“Well, is his daughter here, then? I was under the impression she ran this place. Maybe I could talk to her and explain how we’ve driven all the way from Nevada and we won’t be here tomorrow.” The woman’s tone is severe.
“I’m his daughter.”
“I . . . Oh.” The tourist laughs. “You don’t look like what I pictured.”
“Too young?” Nat replies. “I get that a lot.”
“No, that’s not it.” The woman makes an uncomfortable noise in her throat and Nat’s face looks strained. I wonder what the hell she thought Nat would look like. She’s as pretty as she ever was, and her blue eyes still haunt my damn dreams. If anything, she looks better now, because those full breasts of hers are makin’ the buttons on that white blouse strain hard, as if it’s a struggle to stay together and it’s just itchin’ to bust open and show the world her pretty tits and—
And I’m gonna be spankin’ to that mental image tonight, I suspect. I scratch at my beard, frustrated at myself. I came here to put Nat in her place, not feed my jerk-off fantasies.
“We just need one photograph with Chap Weston,” the mom is pleading. “Can’t you talk to him?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Natalie’s voice takes on a sugary sweet tone. “I really wish I could help, but I can’t.”
“Fat bitch,” the woman says, glaring at Nat. “We’re leaving. Come on, kids.” She turns on her heel and storms past us.
I crack my knuckles, grinding my teeth. No one talks to a woman like that. Especially not my woman.
But when I turn, Knox shakes his head at me.
Right. Nat’s not my woman. Never was. She just used me. I scratch at my beard again, nervous. Shit. It’s harder to be a ruthless asshole than I thought. I wanna be an asshole to the wrong people.
I glance over at the counter, and Natalie’s counting postcards, and then making notes in a ledger. She hasn’t bothered to look up at us. Her expression is blank, and I don’t know if it’s because of that monster of a mom that just left, or because she realizes it’s me. Maybe she just doesn’t give a shit at all if she’s driving customers off.
Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving until I’ve had my say. I’ve been bottling this up for weeks now, ever since Eddie’s funeral.
Actually, I guess I’ve been bottling this since the night she told me I was dirt beneath her feet.
That’s fine. All of this is fine. Cold, emotionless Natalie is the one I can deal with. I rub the R on my knuckles one more time and step forward, my jaw set.
Natalie
Fat bitch. The words roll around in my head, ruining what little good mood I had. I’m used to the customers being cranky when they’re told they can’t meet Chap Weston. I’ve been argued with plenty over that one, but “fat bitch” is a new one. It’s not like I owed her an explanation, either. My dad’s having a bad dementia day, sorry. He can’t sit with you so your kids can crawl all over his eighty-seven-year-old lap for a crappy photo.
Sad thing is, my dad would sit with them. He loves having his photo taken and loves meeting fans. It’s just that today, he wouldn’t know where he was or who anyone is, and I don’t like for that sort of thing to get out to the public. Pride is everything to my dad. If his name was ever “sullied” in his eyes, it would destroy him. I’ve always been very conscious of that.
And, well, damn. I’m not that fat, I don’t think. At least, I hope not. I mentally stab a fork into the rude woman’s face. Of course she’d had to say that in front of other customers. Figures. I’ve ignored them for long enough, trying to compose myself. Nothing else I can do about it, so I glance up from the ledger where I’m pretending to take inventory and paste on my “customer service” smile. “Welcome to . . .”
The words die in my throat.
I know that guy standing in front of me. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a big bushy beard, or that his hair’s overgrown and sticking out from underneath a ratty baseball cap. Doesn’t matter that he’s wearing an equally ratty T-shirt, and it sure doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen him in seven years.
I’d know Clay Price anywhere.
My heart pounds at the sight of him.
God, he looks good. His shoulders are broader than ever, and even though he’s scruffy with that beard, he’s got a tan and his eyes are that same intense green they ever were. I can’t stop staring at him as he takes a step toward the little counter. What’s he doing back here? I’d heard that he’d left our small hometown a few days after I’d dumped him and he’d never returned.
But here he is, looking delicious and so close I can touch him.
And . . . a cu
stomer just called me “fat bitch” in front of him. Oh god.
I can feel my face heating with shame. I’ve packed on a few pounds since high school, when I struggled with constant diets thanks to my overbearing stepmothers. I’ve decided that I prefer eating to starving, but as he gazes at me, I wish I was still that skinny size-two instead of a size eighteen. “C-Clay,” I stammer out. “Oh my god.” I glance behind him, and there’s a dark-haired, dark-eyed guy about the same age with a bored look on his face. One of his brothers, maybe, judging by the way he holds himself. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Driving through.” His voice is as sultry and slow as I remember, and I can feel parts of me warming up that haven’t felt warm since he left. “Surprised you’re still in town.”
Him and me both. But I guess he doesn’t know what happened after he left. “Yeah,” I say lamely. A thousand excuses spring to mind, but all that screams through my head is the fact that I never texted him.
Never, never. He still thinks I hate him. That I never wanted to marry him. That I was fine with him walking away. I want to scream at the awfulness of it.
“Heard this place was a museum.”
“Yeah.” I grab a postcard from the turnstile, my hands shaking, and hold it out to him. “Want to buy an admission ticket? They’re five dollars. Or a cookie? Oatmeal-walnut.”
He just stares at me with that intense gaze. I feel like an idiot. I’m offering him cookies and a ticket to view my dad’s furniture. He must think I’m insane.
But he’s polite enough. Clay glances around, then back at me. “Nah. Just wanted to come by and see if it was true you were here.”
My mouth goes dry and I lower the postcard. I’m not sure what that means. “If I’m here?” I echo, confused. “You were looking for me?”
Clay nods, and then glances at his hand. He rubs his knuckles absently. “Seem to recall you saying you were gonna leave for Stanford.”
Oh god. I remember that. Funny how it seems so long ago. He hasn’t forgotten, though. My stomach gives a queasy little lurch. “Long story.”
“I’ll bet.” He studies me for a long moment, and then a hint of a smile curves his mouth. It’s not his regular smile, with its wide, white-teeth-displaying mischievousness. This one is something else, and it throws me for a loop. So much that I almost miss what he’s saying. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a proposal for you, if you’re interested.”
And before I can ask what that means, he turns and walks back out of the gift shop.
Chapter Four
Clay
“You didn’t ask her?” Knox states, giving me a curious look as we head back to the limo. “Why not?”
“Need a night,” I tell him. I rub my knuckles, over and over again. I don’t feel ruthless. Hard to feel ruthless when she looks so pretty and soft and vulnerable. Fuck, now in addition to my regular dreams about Nat, I’m going to be dreaming about fucking those big tits of hers. Seeing her again was the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me.
She didn’t look like I expected. Gift shop didn’t, either. The whole placed reeked of desperation and of someone that’s been forgotten, and that’s not something I associated with Nat. I remember her from high school, quiet and aloof in the crowd, always dressed in demure designer sweaters and wearing elegant jewelry, like she was going to a garden party instead of class.
And I remember how much she liked kissin’.
Somehow if I’d have seen her with two kids hanging off her skirts and as the trophy wife of some small-town lawyer, that’d been all right by me. I could have offered my shitty deal and been done with her. If she’d have accepted it, I’d have known right then that she wasn’t the person I remembered. And if she didn’t, well, it’d be done one way or another.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t say anything.
Because I’m not ready to give up on my dream of Natalie Weston. She shouldn’t say yes to the deal I’m going to offer. If she does, I’ll know Nat’s changed and I can use her and get her out of my head.
That’s what being ruthless is all about: using someone until I’m done with them.
It’s what she did to me seven years ago, after all. She was fine with me as a boyfriend until Stanford came on the scene, and then she decided she was too good for me.
Who’s too good for who now, I wonder?
Natalie
I stare after his wide shoulders as he leaves, and it’s not until the doorbell jingles to signify that someone’s left that I race to one of the windows and peer out, watching as he exits. He’s casually talking to his brother, and as I watch, they get into a waiting limo.
A limo. Holy shit. Where did that come from?
What did he mean by a proposal for me?
Like . . . a wedding proposal? My heart thumps wildly. Surely not. He must have meant something else. If it was a wedding proposal, would he have acted so weird about it? Maybe it was business . . . but what could Clay want with my dad’s museum?
“Jenny!” my father bellows from upstairs.
Shit. I reach under the counter and pull out the sign I have made for such occasions, setting it on the counter. Be right back—we’re on the honor system! If you purchase something, please leave your cash in the jar. Not that anyone ever does, but I still have hope for humanity. It’s not ideal, but there’s no one that can watch the store but me. And there’s no one that can take care of dad but me. Since I can’t be in two places at once . . . it’ll have to do.
That done, I race to the back stairs and head up them as fast as my wobbling legs will carry me—
—Right into another warm puddle on the floor. My dad stands in the upstairs hallway, the back of his robe soaked. “Jenny?” he asks again. “Where’s that damn cat?”
* * *
My father has a pretty rotten day. His dementia is worse today than usual, and when he gets done looking for the cat, he spends a few hours crying over the loss of my mother, Janelle. It’s heartbreaking to hear his sobs, because sometimes his memories resurface and feel fresh and new. He’s crying like she just died yesterday instead of twenty years ago, and it rips me apart. I’m torn between staying at his bedside and racing downstairs to watch over the gift shop. It’s a harrowing day, but I can eventually flip the CLOSED sign and turn the lights off. By that time, Dad’s asleep, I’m mentally worn to shreds, and I’m too tired to fix myself dinner. Instead, I just snag a couple of the oatmeal-walnut cookies that didn’t sell and head upstairs to my room, my phone in hand.
I’m still reeling from Clay’s reappearance and what this means. I have to bounce this off of someone. I immediately pull up my best friend’s number and text her. Lexi’s the only one I still keep tabs with—we became friends a few years ago when she moved here and visited the museum. I think she’s the only person this small town finds weirder than me.
NAT: You are not going to believe this.
LEXI: Elvis stopped by the museum?
NAT: Almost. It was Clay Price.
LEXI: . . .
LEXI: I am shrieking at my phone over here. No Namaste on this end.
NAT: Ooops, did I call during class?
LEXI: It’s okay. I’ve lost my Zen . . . and my night appts canceled on me. Give me deets!
I feel a twinge of guilt—Lexi’s as permanently broke as I am because she has a small yoga studio, and because it’s such a small town, she doesn’t get that many clients. I shouldn’t interrupt her when she’s working, but I’m rattled enough to be relieved that she answered anyhow.
NAT: He showed up here at the museum. I looked up and there he was. He overheard a customer call me ‘fat bitch’ too. As if my day wasn’t bad enough.
LEXI: omg
LEXI: Did you punch that woman?
NAT: I let it go. People are dicks. It makes me more upset that he heard her tho!
NAT: I need
to know of a way to lose weight overnight because he’s coming back tomorrow.
LEXI: !!!
LEXI: I am missing so many details here! Start over!
LEXI: Clay Price showed up. He say why?
NAT: No. Just boom. I nearly fell over. One of his brothers was with him, I think.
NAT: He didn’t say much. Just asked me if this place was a museum. And then he said he was going to be back tomorrow with a proposal for me.
LEXI: Like . . . a romantic proposal?
NAT: I don’t think so? He said it just like that—‘a proposal for you’. Maybe business?
LEXI: Er okay. He a big fan of ur dad or something?
NAT: I don’t think so? I think he kinda hates Dad.
LEXI: Weird!!!
NAT: I’ve never talked to him since he left. Never even Googled him.
LEXI: Omg never?!?
LEXI: Facebook? Anything?
NAT: No. I didn’t want to know what happened to him. If I went on his Facebook and there were pics of him with the wife and kids, I think I’d die inside.
LEXI: Ur still in love with him, aren’t u?
NAT: I don’t have any right to be. I was the one that drove him off . . .
LEXI: Don’t beat urself up. He didn’t want u to go to college remember?
NAT: But I said the shittiest things.
LEXI: U were hurt.
NAT: I guess. I still should have texted him to talk, and I never did.
LEXI: U were occupied w/ ur dad. Stop beating urself up!
Dirty Scoundrel: Roughneck Billionaires 2 Page 4
