Page 4 of Clayton (Bourbon & Blood #2)

“This isn’t good for you.” There are tears in her eyes. Mia, in spite of her stoic resolve and her usually calm demeanor, is a softie on the inside. She’s got a tender heart. I know, because I watched our father break it.

“No, but he isn’t good for anyone. And if I can build a life here, for all of us, that he doesn’t get to taint with his presence, it’s worth the cost…so just be smart. Be discreet. And let me handle Samuel when the time comes.”

Mia doesn’t say anything else. She just stands there looking at me quietly for a moment before turning and heading out the door, presumably to her own office.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I finish up payroll, handle some complaints from distributors because they don’t have the product they need.

Bourbon production cannot be rushed. The four-year mark is a guideline, not a hard and fast date. The barrels aren’t ready yet. Maybe another month, maybe another four, but I can’t say. It’s simply done when it’s done, and if they don’t want to wait for it, then we’ll just find new distributors.

I leave the office and drive to the elementary school to wait in the purgatory that is the pick-up line. There’s another car beside me, and I know the woman behind the wheel. She’s recently divorced and I can feel her eyes on me while I sit there, trapped.

She rolls down her window. “Clayton Darcy, is that you?”

Fuck. I roll down my own window. “Hello, Gina. How are you?”

She smiles flirtatiously. “You ought to come over sometime and I’ll show you.”

That is never going to happen. “It was good talking to you, Gina. I’d prefer to keep our conversation and our interactions G-rated, if possible.”

She huffs out a breath, clearly insulted. “It’s your loss.”

“I’m sure it is. Have a good evening.” And that is why I hate to pick up Emma Grace at school.

Every single, almost single, and unhappily married woman in Fontaine is looking at me like a fat kid looks at cake.

I’m not stupid enough to think it’s because I’m that hot.

In this town, the name Darcy equals money, at least to people who don’t realize we’re all teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

And since Annalee cut me loose, they’re looking at me as a reasonably attractive meal ticket.

The line moves steadily forward. I’m close enough to the front door now that I can see Emma Grace. My heart melts. That’s the only way to describe it. Every time I look at her, it just gets me. She’s wearing a pink dress and a white sweater and the ugliest fucking cowboy boots I’ve ever seen.

I can picture her and Annalee fighting over those boots in the morning. Emma Grace usually wins out just by sheer force of will and the overwhelming use of the word why . People underestimate the power of the word until they’re dealing with a stubborn child. Then it takes on a whole new meaning.

She runs forward, ignoring the teachers telling her not to, and opens the car door.

“Daddy, I don’t like boys,” she says as she climbs into the back seat and buckles herself in.

“Boys in general, or a boy in particular?” I don’t really care. I just pray for a few more years of reprieve. The thought of some god-awful, horny ass, disgusting teenage boy ever looking at her makes me want to increase the size of my gun collection .

“Most boys. Some are okay. But Cody Blevins picked his nose…and then…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “He ate it, Daddy. He’s soooo gross.”

I’m laughing as I finally escape the school parking lot. “That is pretty gross, baby,” I agree. Really that’s all I have to do with Emma Grace. She tells me about her day, I agree as needed. If only all relationships with women could be so simple.

“I’m hungry,” she announces.

“Pizza?”

She’s dancing in the back seat now. Pizza is always a winner. I turn the car toward Main Street and the only pizza place in town. It’s been there forever. Hell, I used to hang out there in high school.

When we arrive, Annalee makes a beeline for the ancient Pac-Man machine and I grab one of the cracked vinyl booths where I can keep my eye on her.

She’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.

In all the rest of the craziness, I know that when she sees me, her face will light up.

There’s no anger or disappointment there.

Did any of us ever look at Samuel that way ?

I don’t think so. Even searching my childhood memories, all I can recall is the sense of dread, of knowing that when he walked in, whatever we were doing wouldn’t be good enough, would be messy, or sloppy and reflecting poorly on the Darcy family name.

“Daddy, can I have some quarters?”

I dig in my pocket for change and give her the few quarters that are in the mix.

I want this back. Not weekends. Not random nights when Annalee is sitting in a bar having martinis with some asshole I don’t even know. I want us. Me, her and Emma Grace coming to this shithole for pizza on the weekend, or driving up to Newport to the Aquarium.

I see Emma Grace’s face fall as she fails epically at Pac-Man. It’s a common occurrence. When the last of her quarters are gone, she comes back to the table just as the waitress is there to get our order.

“Pepperoni?”

“And extra cheese,” she says, grinning for added effect.

“And extra cheese,” I agree. “Water to drink. ”

“I want a pop.”

“Your mother doesn’t let you have pop,” I reply. She’s tried this before, seeing if I’ll bend the rules. “It rots your teeth and then I’ll be in trouble.”

She makes a face, but doesn’t say anything. Emma Grace is the one thing that Annalee and I have done completely right. She’s a good kid—even with the mess our lives are in, she’s a happy kid.

“So what happened at school besides that kid eating boogers?” I ask her.

She wrinkles up her nose and looks so much like Annalee, it’s a punch in the gut. “Allison told me her parents are getting a divorce like you and Mom.”

Do eight-year-olds really sit around talking about divorce? What the hell? “Is she okay with that?” Are you? I’m afraid to ask that question.

“I don’t think so,” she replies, twirling a straw on the table. “But she said her daddy moved in with his girlfriend. Are you going to do that?”

“No. I’m not moving in with anyone else.” If I can’t have Annalee, there’s no one else I want.

“I want you to come back home.” Her expression is so serious, so solemn that it’s just fucking torture. This may be the only time in my life that I can’t give my daughter what she wants.

I shake my head. “It’s not that easy. Your mom is really mad at me…and she has a good reason to be.”

“Tell her you’re sorry and you won’t do it again.” She offers that sage bit of advice with complete conviction.

“I’ll try that. It might not work for me the way it does for you…

I think you need pigtails for it to be truly effective.

” I reach out and tug one of her braids to make the point.

It has the desired effect and sets her giggling.

That’s the sound I want to hear. No more talk about divorces and people’s parents moving out.

She shouldn’t have to think about these things.

ANNALEE

I’m sitting at a bar that I don’t want to be in, listening to a man that I absolutely despise. Somehow the coffee date had switched to cocktails and I’m actually grateful. I need the dulling effect of alcohol.

This is not a two-person support group. It’s a one man show.

We’ve talked about his work, his house, his boat.

We’ve talked about his ex, his workout regimen, which incidentally is puny.

I could kick his ass three ways from Sunday in the gym.

But the bottom line is, we haven’t talked.

He has talked. And I have sipped way more of my wine than I meant to, because I haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise.

“You know you’re much prettier than I expected,” he says, and the way he smiles at me makes my skin crawl a little. Is this seriously who my friends see me with? Have I pissed Brit off without knowing it?

“That’s nice,” I respond lamely. “Thanks, I think.”

He clearly doesn’t get that my response wasn’t genuine flattery as he’s now resting his slightly sweaty hand on my knee. “You know, Annalee, we could go back to my place. Kick back and relax on the couch, maybe watch a movie?”

No, sir. There will be no Netflix and chill. What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with men? Are they all this damn dumb?

“I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, Steve, but I need to be going now.” At great personal cost, I force myself to be polite, to say something other than take your paws off me, you reptilian scumbag.

“Are you sure you have to go? It’s still early,” he says, and checks his very expensive watch for the umpteenth time that evening.

Yes. I saw your Omega. Yes. I get that it’s super expensive and means you’re loaded with credit card debt.

No. I’m not impressed. All this asshole has done is make me miss Clayton, which in turn makes me even madder at Clayton.

I wouldn’t be here putting up with this self-important dick if my almost-ex-husband weren’t such a high handed, know it all asshole!

“It is early,” I agree. “But I’m ready to go home…alone. Have a nice evening.”

Apparently, he’s not completely obtuse. Just mostly. He picks up on the unimpressed tone and the clear lack of infatuation with him that time. He sneers at me. “It’s no damn wonder your husband left you.”

“He didn’t leave. I threw him out…but on that same note, if I’d been married to you, I would ha ve cheated.

I would so have cheated. The fact that your wife stayed faithful for seven years should get her nominated for sainthood.

” I pick up my wineglass and drain the rest of it.

“Thanks for the drink and the reminder that my ex isn’t so bad after all. ”

I march out to my car, leaving several people snickering in my wake.

I’m too drunk to drive and if I take a cab to Brit’s house, I’ll spend the rest of the night getting the third degree on why I didn’t like him, and how impossibly high my standards are.

Or worse, she’ll tell me the truth, that I came on this date wanting to hate him because he’s not Clayton.

Well, to hell with that. I’ll just sit in my car and sober up.

I pull my phone out of my purse and open the reading app on it. There’s a smutty novel I’ve been meaning to get to and there’s no time like the present.