Dirty Scoundrel

  Is that who I am? Just a happy-go-lucky piece of shit who’s miserable on the inside? I don’t think that’s me, but then again, this ache in my belly might be telling me otherwise. I look over at Boone and Ivy. She’s got her head on his shoulder, and I know when they leave here, he’s probably gonna rub her feet or rub her belly or, hell, just rub her all over. And she’ll fuss over him and they’ll end up doing it on the sofa in the foyer and someone will catch ’em. Again. And they’ll just laugh like it’s funny and Ivy will blush, and they both won’t be able to stop smiling. They’re so goddamn happy.

  I look over at the widow and her boys. She’s herding them out of the building, tears streaking her face. She’s sobbed through the entire ceremony. Loved Eddie to pieces.

  And I think of Nat again. Nat, and the way she curled her lip at me the last time I saw her. Nat, and how I wasn’t good enough for her. Nat, who chose her daddy and her family money over me, when I would have given her the moon if I’d have had two nickels to rub together.

  Nat, who I still jerk off to because I’m a sick son of a bitch with a massive hang-up.

  “Gotta be ruthless,” Knox says. “That’s the only way you’re gonna get what you want.”

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time I nut up and use some of this ridiculous money and be ridiculous with it. I glance over at Boone again. He threw around all kinds of money to push Ivy into dating him. Maybe I need to throw my weight around and act like the big man. Buy my way into the heart of the girl I always wanted but I could never have.

  And then, once I’ve bought her heart, I can hold it in my hand and decide if I want to crush it or keep it.

  Gotta be ruthless, after all.

  Chapter Two

  Seven years earlier

  Clay

  It’s time.

  I can’t say I’m not nervous, though. Any guy would be. My palms are sweaty as I shove them into my jeans, but I’m determined. Tonight’s important. High school is over, and that means that it’s time to move on to the next phase in my life. I stand in front of the diner that I’ve agreed to meet Natalie’s father at, and try not to fidget.

  I’m dressed up—well, as much as a guy like me can be. There ain’t much money for fancy clothes, but I borrowed one of Dad’s old dress shirts and tucked it into my best, least worn-out jeans. The shirt’s a little big but ain’t much to be done about it now. Nat wouldn’t care, though. She’s never cared that my T-shirts are about to fall apart or that my shoes come from Goodwill. She don’t care that I share a room in my dad’s shitty-ass trailer with my younger brothers. She’s never cared about any of that shit.

  That’s why I love her.

  That’s why I want to marry her.

  A car pulls up to the restaurant I’m currently pacin’ in front of and my heart hammers in my chest. Tonight, me and Nat and her Dad are supposed to be havin’ dinner. I’m gonna meet Mr. Weston and do my best to charm him, and then tomorrow, I’m gonna go over and let him know I wanna propose to his daughter.

  That I love Natalie Weston with all my heart, and that I might be poor right now, but I’m determined to give her a good life. That I’ll treat her like fuckin’ gold.

  My mouth goes dry when the sedan idles in front of the restaurant and a driver hops out, then races around to the side of the car and opens the door. A moment later, Chap Weston steps out. I recognize the guy. Anyone would. He’s famous in a way that a lot of Hollywood actors will never get. In the fifties and sixties, there were some really big names in Hollywood royalty—Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart . . . and Chap Weston. Even though he’s more’n twice the age he was in those movies, he’s still got that famous smile and tall, strong shoulders. He’s wearing an expensive, fitted suit that makes me feel a little self-conscious in my too-baggy dress shirt and jeans, and his hair is immaculately combed. Shit. I didn’t even think to do somethin’ with my hair. I bet it’s stickin’ up in all kinds of cowlicks like Natalie teases me over. Ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now, though.

  I still wither a little inside when Mr. Weston strolls forward and gives me a scrutinizing look. “Are you Clay Price?”

  “Yessir.” I stick my hand out, surprised at the booming resonance of his voice. Guy looks damn good for being eighty. Still weird that he’s the dad of my seventeen-year-old girlfriend, but Hollywood’s weird like that. Nat’s told me she’s the daughter of wife number four and he’s on number six right now. “I’m real pleased to meet you—”

  “Spare me the pleasantries,” Mr. Weston says in a cold voice. “This won’t take long.” He glances over at his driver and gestures. “Wait in the car.”

  The driver nods and shuts the door, then hops back into the driver’s seat.

  I try to hide my frown. “Natalie not coming tonight?”

  “You’re not going to see Natalie again,” Mr. Weston says, with that polite smile on his face. His teeth are bright white in his tanned face, and perfect.

  I can feel my back stiffening. My muscles clench and alarm pounds through me. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not an idiot, boy. I know exactly what this is about.” He continues to give me that charming smile, even though his words are hateful. “You’re interested in my daughter. I’m here to tell you she’s not interested in you. I’m trying to let you down easy.”

  Huh? I just talked to Nat on the phone a few hours ago. We texted not long after that. “I’m not sure what you mean—”

  He holds up a long hand, indicating I should be silent. “You’re here because you want to meet with me. Get to know me a little better. Best-case scenario, you want to move in with my daughter. Worst-case scenario, you’ve gotten her pregnant and I need to step in.” His eyes narrow at me.

  Move in with her? “Sir, I want to marry Natalie. I love her—”

  Chap Weston shakes his head at me, interrupting me once more. I’m all flustered and unable to think clearly, even as he continues. “That’s a nice thought, but what do you have to offer her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve looked into your family, son. They’re not exactly what anyone would dream of for a son-in-law.” He gives me a pitying look.

  I grit my teeth. It ain’t a secret that the Prices are trash. There’s five of us—all from different moms—livin’ in our shitty trailer while Dad roughnecks it out west. My brother Boone just joined him this last year, and I’m about to head off and do the same. “I’ve got a job lined up. I’m gonna work real hard.”

  “And what, move my Natalie into a trailer? Don’t you think she deserves better than that?”

  I clench my jaw, because he’s right. Natalie does deserve better than that.

  “Son,” he begins again in that grating tone I’m startin’ to hate. “My daughter is smart. She’s got great connections. I want her to go to Stanford, just like I did. You know she’s been accepted, right?”

  Huh? Stanford? I don’t even know where that’s at. And Natalie hasn’t mentioned college, not once. I thought we’d make plans now that we’ve graduated. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  The look he gives me is pitying. “I see. Well, that doesn’t change things. Natalie will be attending in the fall and working on her degree. She’s got the world in front of her—that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’d only bring her down.”

  This can’t be true. Natalie loves me. Just last night, we kissed for hours and she promised me that she loved me as much as I loved her. It can’t all be lies. “I think you’re wrong, sir—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe, son. Look in your heart. You think you can offer Natalie the kind of life she deserves?” He gives me a long, up-and-down look again, eyeing my clothes.

  And I feel . . . ashamed. He’s not wrong. The job I’ve got lined up is roughnecking—hard, dirty work that pays well enough, but not like what Natalie will be used to. I know her dad lives on an enormous ranch out in the country. I know he’s got all kinds of Hollywood money coming
in. Natalie wears name-brand designer clothing. She’s gone on fancy vacations with her dad and her stepmom to places I can’t even find on the map. All I’ll have to offer is my starting salary as a roughneck “worm”—the lowest guy on the totem pole—and hope I can move up.

  And love, of course. I can offer her so much damn love. But now I’m starting to think that won’t be enough. Natalie Weston is . . . well, she’s perfect. Shy, soft-spoken, sweet, and caring.

  I’m just a crude Price.

  Still, I can’t give up on the girl I love. “I might not be the best guy for her, Mr. Weston, but no one will love her more than me. No one.”

  “That’s a nice sentiment,” he says, glancing back at his driver. “But I can tell you all about how fleeting love is, and so can my five ex-wives. And it’s hard to have love when you don’t have money.”

  My heart squeezes somethin’ fierce and I begin to feel despair. I’m losing. Somehow I’m losing and I’m gonna lose . . . everything. “This isn’t what Natalie wants—”

  “You so sure about that? She didn’t tell you about Stanford.” His voice gentles. “My Natalie’s got a soft heart. She wouldn’t want to hurt you more than is necessary, son.”

  I can’t believe this is true. I can’t. I think of Natalie, with her big blue eyes and her soft smile. Feels like my fucking heart is being ripped in half. “Why wouldn’t she say anything to me?”

  “Why do you think I’m out here?” The smile he gives me is genuinely full of remorse. “She needed some way to break this to you easily. She knew what was coming and she didn’t know how to get out of it.” He gives me a rueful grin. “Dear ol’ Dad to the rescue.”

  No way.

  She sent her dad to break up with me? I know Natalie hates conflict, but this is fuckin’ ridiculous. “I need to talk to Natalie.” This doesn’t make sense. I thought . . . Just last night . . .

  I thought we were going to marry. I even have a ring in my pocket. I’ve carried it every day since I bought it. Granted, it’s only from the pawnshop, but I thought we could joke about how I’d buy her a better one once we got on our feet. I thought Natalie would think it’s cute.

  Maybe I don’t know her like I thought.

  “I understand,” Mr. Weston says. “Of course you will. She’s a little upset tonight, so maybe hold off until tomorrow morning, hmm?”

  “Sure,” I say dully. “Whatever.”

  Natalie

  “Dad, have you seen my phone?” I race down the stairs, flustered. We’re already late for my big evening with Clay, and I know he’s going to be frustrated. I can’t call him to tell him that my stepmother’s been locked up with her emotional-support cockatoo for the last hour, weeping and feeding the poor fat bird crackers.

  Everything’s always drama with my family. Not surprising, I guess, given that Dad still treats everything like it’s Hollywood. But jeez, it can be exhausting.

  I straighten my sundress, pulling my favorite white cardigan over my shoulders. Johanna—my stepmom—isn’t going to be able to make dinner but we can hopefully still meet Clay. I’m excited about tonight and what it might mean for Clay and me. Meeting the family—that’s step one along a more serious commitment, isn’t it? My heart flutters happily in my chest at the thought. I know I’m only seventeen, but I also know I won’t ever love someone as much as I love Clay Price. Just the thought of his boyish smile and the way his brown hair is always shaggy and slightly overgrown makes my heart hurt with all the intense emotion I feel.

  Clay’s not rich, but he’s the best. I know if my dad gets to meet him, he’ll love him as much as I do and see how happy he makes me.

  But when I get downstairs, my father’s walking back into the house and putting his hat on its normal peg. I frown to myself. It’s almost like he’s just returned. I’ve been so distracted with Johanna I didn’t notice he’d gone. “Did you leave? And have you seen my phone? I can’t find it anywhere and I need to let Clay know we’re going to be late. Johanna—”

  “I went and talked to your young man,” Dad says in a stern voice. “Come sit down, Natalie.”

  “You did?” Why does that sound so ominous? But I follow my father into his grand study quietly, a thousand questions buzzing in my mind. I watch as he sits at his desk, one that Marlon Brando sat at in one of his big movies. I sit in a chair opposite him, one from a John Wayne film. My dad loves props and has spent a fortune on buying set pieces from the movie lots. Our entire home is filled with things from famous movies, and as a result, the atmosphere is a little . . . well, “eclectic” is probably far too kind a word. “Scattershot” is more like it. But my dad is old Hollywood, and we’re not exactly a normal family anyhow, so I don’t mind. I smooth my skirt and try not to show my nervousness. “You saw Clay?” I ask again. “Is he going to wait for us a bit longer? Johanna—”

  Dad shakes his head. “I’m afraid our dinner is canceled.”

  “Canceled?” I echo. “But why?”

  He pulls an envelope off his desk and pushes it toward me. “You got accepted to Stanford, by the way.”

  I ignore it. Dad’s been pushing Stanford on me for all my life, because he went to college there for a brief time before heading to Hollywood. I haven’t made any decisions about college . . . well, because I wanted to know where Clay and I were going. “What about Clay, Dad?”

  “He’s breaking up with you.”

  My father delivers the words so casually, and yet they hit me with the force of a sledgehammer. I grip the carved wooden arms of the chair. “Wh-what?”

  Dad nods. “You’re planning on going to college, right? He said he didn’t want to wait around. Said that he had better things to do with his time. I suspect his family is the type that likes their women barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.” My father shakes his head.

  I stare, unable to believe what I’m hearing. My Clay said this? “I . . . know that he was going to take a job with his father this summer,” I say, though it’s hard to speak around the knot in my throat. “But I thought . . .”

  “Oh, he said he’d marry you, but he made it quite clear that if you went to college, it would be over.”

  What the hell? Does Clay really want me sitting around twiddling my thumbs, waiting to have his babies? I did want to go to college but wanted to discuss where with Clay first, hoping it could be someplace near where he’d be. How could Clay make me choose? Crap, it was even worse than that—he chose for me!

  When my father nudges the envelope toward me again, I pick it up. I feel numb. I don’t even recall applying to Stanford, so one of his assistants must have done this. Not surprising, given that my dad has a crew to run everything in his life. He doesn’t like to be alone. I gaze down at the letter, the words blurring before my eyes.

  Everything feels like it’s dying. All the things I’d hoped for, all the joyful dreams I’d made—they’d all involved Clay. Surely . . . surely I have more ambition than that? More than just being some guy’s wife?

  Or is that all that I truly want? I’m so confused. I don’t know what to think anymore. “He’s never said . . .”

  “My darling, why would he? I learned this the hard way in Hollywood—the more options you give someone, the less likely they are to take the one that you want them to take. The best way to get someone to do what you want is to give them as few options as possible. You never offer your leading man four scripts. You offer him the one you want him to take and go from there.”

  “This isn’t Hollywood, Dad,” I say bitterly.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Everything in this world is run like Hollywood. It’s a game of who you know and what face you wear.”

  I bite back my retort and clutch the Stanford letter desperately in my hand. Is he right? Is this what Clay wanted? To trap me into a marriage so I’d stay at home and have kids and just . . . hang around and cook him dinners? Yesterday, I wouldn’t have even minded if he’d said that! But to give me no other options, like I can’t make my own mind up? That
hurts me deeply. “I need some time to think, Dad.”

  “Of course. Take all the time you need, and then when you’re ready, we’ll talk Stanford.” As I stand, he turns his chair a little and holds a hand out to me. That’s what Dad does—he doesn’t hug—he just takes my hand and squeezes it. I know my Dad loves me in his weird, eccentric way, but right now I really, really need a hug.

  Clay would hug me.

  The thought hurts so much that I break into a sob.

  “Now, now,” my father says in a soothing voice. “Trust your daddy to know what’s good for you.”

  I nod through my tears. Dad may want us all to dance to his weird little tune, but I know he’d want what’s best for me. I give him a teary-eyed smile, and then when I can’t hold it in any longer, I rush up to my room, tears blurring my vision. I can’t bear it. It hurts too much. I curl up on my bed and bawl my eyes out, and I don’t even get up when Jenny, the maid, slips in and places my phone on my desk. What do I need a phone for anymore? Clay’s the only person I ever want to talk to. He’s my only friend and my boyfriend—everyone else in this stupid town hates me.

  And now it seems that Clay—my sweet, loving, handsome Clay—thinks I should just stay home and be his little woman.

  Maybe . . . maybe I should go to Stanford.

  I cry until someone comes and knocks on my door an hour later. “Miss Natalie?” It’s Jenny, the maid. “There’s someone at the front door for you.”

  “Tell them to go away,” I call out, sniffing.

  “I told him you were unavailable but he says he won’t leave.” Her muffled voice is worried. “Should I call the police?”

  I fling myself off the bed, suddenly furious. I know exactly who’s waiting at the door, and how dare he think he can come over here and just try to smooth things over after dropping that bomb in a conversation with my father? Stay home with him? What about what I want? Did he never stop and think that maybe he should ask me how I feel? I storm past a bewildered Jenny and down the stairs, heading for the carved double doors that lead to our covered front porch.