Page 2 of Clayton (Bourbon & Blood #2)

One

CLAYTON

(SIX MONTHS LATER)

I t’s not a good morning. After spending half the night pouring over my asshat father’s bank records and reviewing the files from the attorney that were not actually supposed to be given to me, I’m under the gun.

If I don’t get Samuel to give up guardianship of my mother before the next portion of her trust matures, it’s over.

He’s blown through millions already, spending her money on disposable women and keeping up his image as southern aristocracy.

None of it has been used to provide for her care.

That’s been Mia, Quentin and myself working our asses off to pay for her caregivers.

But we’re drowning. We can’t keep it up.

And if he gets his hands on this, the only option left will be to put her in a nursing home. That is not going to fucking happen.

With my tie hanging loose and my jacket draped over my arm, I grab my briefcase and open the front door. Immediately, I stop. My morning went from being bad to being blown straight to hell. My soon-to-be ex-wife is standing on my doorstep, her hand raised as she was about to knock.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she says, like we’re polite strangers. “I was hoping to catch you before you left for work.”

Clearly she did. The fact that I’m standing there is all the confirmation she needs.

I’m usually pretty good at keeping the anger at a simmer.

There’s nothing happening between the two of us that isn’t a direct result of all that I’ve done.

I know that, but when you’re hurting, those kinds of rational thoughts just aren’t as satisfying as being a total dick.

“Why?” That’s as close to civil as I can get.

She blinks at me. “I need you to pick Emma Grace up after school. I have to go to Louisville this afternoon.”

“You could have texted that.”

Her lips firm and a little line appears between her brows. I used to piss her off on purpose, pick a fight just to get the amazing make-up sex. There’s no percentage in it now, but old habits die hard.

She steps inside the door and shuts it softly behind her. “Clayton, I know this isn’t easy, but do we really have to snap at each other like this?”

So on top of being stressed, angry, hurt, now I get to feel guilty, too. Fan-fucking-tastic. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just in a shit mood. Yes, I will pick up Emma Grace after school.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “I won’t be home until around nine or so. If you want, she can just stay the night here.”

“That’s fine. I’ll drop her off at school in the morning.” Look at us. Being all reasonable and adult-like. Son of a bitch.

I realize that something isn’t quite right with Annalee. She looks nervous. And she hates driving in Louisville. She wouldn’t go there without a damned good reason.

“Is everything okay? You only ever go to Louisville if you need to see a doctor.”

“No. It’s nothing like that. I’m having lunch with a gallery owner there to discuss showing some of my art…and then afterward I’m meeting someone for coffee.”

Coffee. If it was Brit, her best friend, they’d be meeting for cocktails, not coffee. “Who are you meeting for coffee?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asks. Then changing the subject, she says, “By the way, I passed by your mother’s house on the way here and you might want to let Mia know that having Bennet Hayes crawling out of her bedroom window after daylight is not going to end well.”

Fuck. Add it to the list. “Who are you meeting for coffee, Annalee?”

Her chin comes up. “I’m allowed to date, Clayton. Just because you didn’t want me doesn’t mean someone else might not!”

I knew it was coming, but I didn’t expect it to cut that deep. It just sliced into me like a goddamn horror movie. “Have you seen him before?” I’m a glutton for punishment.

She sighs. “It’s not like that. He works with Brit’s husband, Dylan. This is just an introduction to see if we want to go out. And for the record, I didn’t ask her to set me up. She wouldn’t stop hounding me until I agreed to it. Happy?”

Is my fist plowing through his front teeth? “No, I’m not happy. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? I’ll talk to Mia.”

“I didn’t come here to rub that in your face…but I can’t lie to you,” she says softly. “I never could.”

The implication is obvious. She can’t lie to me, but that’s clearly not a two-way street. The secrets that put us in this mess are still there, hovering between us like ghosts. “I know.”

She doesn’t say anything else, not because we have nothing to say to one another, but because nothing we say right now will change a damn thing.

Turning, she opens the door and steps out into the dim morning light.

I watch her walking to the mom-mobile that she loves to drive.

It’s usually filled with at least four girls and their dance gear at any given time.

I don’t even know this son of a bitch. He might be the nicest guy in the world, but I fucking hate him.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I hate her a little bit right now, too.

My fist clenches, and before I can even think about what I’m doing, there’s a hole in the drywall and blood on my shirt.

Fuck it. I put my jacket on and head to the car.

I need the distraction of work, of the distillery, of one of the things I’m trying desperately to save.

Maybe it’ll take the sting away from the things I’ve had to let go of.

ANNALEE

My hands are shaking as I drive away from Clayton’s condo. I press the hands-free call button on the steering wheel and Brit picks up after only one ring.

“Tell me everything!” she squeals. “Did he plead, beg? Did he cry? I hope that son of a bitch bawled like a damn baby!”

I’m rolling my eyes, but I can’t help it.

I think Brit is angrier at Clayton than I’ll ever be.

But she doesn’t see that he’s hurting. I do.

Maybe I shouldn’t care. God knows, I’ve tried not to.

It won’t sway me. Whatever he has going on, he decided that it was more important to him than I was, and that’s what I have to hold on to when I feel myself weakening .

It took me a while to get to a point of being that forgiving toward him. For the first couple of months, every time I looked at him, I wanted to claw his eyes out.

“He wasn’t happy about it. I still feel like this is wrong.” Brit’s plan had been a little iffy for me from the start.

“Look, you want to know how he feels before it’s too late, right?”

I sigh. That’s the crux of it. I’ve yet to find whatever incentive it will take to get Clayton to just open up and tell the damn truth. We’re getting a damn divorce because I banked on the fact that I meant more to him than whatever it is that he’s hiding. Clearly, I was mistaken.

I’d been crying about it to Brit a few weeks ago.

Her insane plan, born out of two bottles of red wine and my desperation, had unfolded.

Maybe, she’d suggested, Clayton needed to be reminded that just because he didn’t want me, other men wouldn’t feel the same.

So here I sit, having just ‘inadvertently’ confessed to my husband that I have a date with another man.

The second part of Brit’s plan was to force me to go on an actual date with someone.

She said I had to, that I needed to dip my toes in the water.

I was less than thrilled about that part.

“Yes,” I reply. The attorneys are pouring over the final settlement and custody arrangements as we speak. It is most definitely now or never.

“So get your ass here. Meet with that damn gallery owner. You’ve been putting your wants and your dreams on hold for long enough while you played wifey!”

That wasn’t how it was. Clayton had never asked me to give up my art.

He’d supported it one hundred percent. I had made that choice in a dozen little ways every day.

I was the one who decided to become the dance mom, the carpooler, the cupcake baker.

I’d tied myself up in every aspect of Emma Grace’s life.

Mostly because I was trying to be the antithesis of what my mother had been—absent.

But I didn’t say that to Brit. She got pissed at even a hint of me defending Clayton.

“Do I really have to go out with this guy, Brit? Can’t I just cancel it?”

“You haven’t looked at another man in twelve years. Not since he walked out on that balcony and looked down at you dancing around a burning couch,” Brit accused. “Maybe he isn’t it, Annalee? Maybe there’s something out there that’s better.”

I don’t believe that. I never have.

“Besides,” she continues, “It would be a shit move to cancel on Stephen when he’s going through the same thing you are. This is his first post-split foray into the dating world too.”

And there it is. Guilt. No. I won’t stand the poor bastard up. I’ll go. We’ll talk. And then I’ll come home. It’ll be like a two-person support group meeting.

“Fine. I’ll be there. But it’s just coffee and I’m telling him up front that I am not looking for anything at all.”

“Fine. Do whatever. But just go. It makes it more real for you and for Clayton. You wanted to force his hand, Annalee,” she reminds me. “This is the best way to do it.”

“He’s never been the jealous type,” I protest.

“He never had to be. You looked at him like he was a god.”

I have no response for that. Instead, I lie. “I’m hitting a dead spot. I’ll probably lose service. I’ll call you later.”

I hang up the phone quickly before she can reply.

It was a chicken thing to do, but I’m tired of everything being a fight.

I also need to go home and get ready for my meeting with the gallery owner.

I don’t think there’s a single thing in my wardrobe that says “serious artist.” It’s soccer mom, all the way.

CLAYTON

I’m walking into the office, not so quietly fuming. Based on the wide berth everyone is giving me, I’d say it’s pretty obvious that I’m in a shitty mood.