Struck from the Record Page 10

  As far as Clay was concerned, the only things that had changed were that he had wheezed for a few weeks, and he was fifteen hundred dollars poorer.

  This shit with Andrea felt the same as it had every day before it. Did he care about her? Of course. He always had. He always would. She was that person to him. The one he’d never walk away from, who always totally got him, no explanation necessary.

  But that didn’t mean they were on the same page. Because Andrea was talking about mushy feelings that he, as a grown-ass man, was not interested in thinking about. Shit had been fucking fine for too long to shift the paradigm of their relationship.

  He hadn’t thought that claiming her in front of Bad Suit would have this kind of reaction. Has she already been thinking like this, and the night at the art gallery has just solidified it?

  What he did know…was that he was freaking out.

  He was trying to control it. They still had to get through the ball tonight. But the idea of a relationship, a real goddamn relationship, made him want to turn tail and run in the other fucking direction.

  Andrea kept shooting him curious glances in the short limo ride to the inaugural ball. He probably should have said something to ease her anxiety. It wasn’t like he was leaving, but they needed to have another conversation about this new direction. He just figured that having that conversation right before they were about to go out in public wasn’t the best idea.

  They arrived at the inaugural ball in style. Their limo dropped them off at the front entrance, and Clay helped Andrea out of the car before they walked into the room. It was a giant space, big enough for the enormous crowd that was supposed to arrive tonight. Cash bars were sporadically placed around the room, and there were light hors d’oeuvres on tables. Clay knew the after-party was where the real action would happen, but this event allowed lobbyists to schmooze with politicians in a fluid manner since dinner wouldn’t actually be served. He couldn’t wait to get shit-faced at the after-party. It was like the Vanity Fair Oscars after-party for politicians.

  Andrea wrapped her hand around his elbow and smiled. “Shall we?”

  He nodded, and they meandered through the room. They found Brady in a more secluded area with Liz on his arm. As Clay and Andrea approached, Brady was chatting with some of his fellow politicians.

  Liz extended her left hand to the group. “Yes. This June. We’re both very excited,” she said.

  “A wedding for the ages,” one woman said, leaning forward and examining the ring.

  Clay knew that he should be able to recognize most of the people here, but his thoughts were back in Andrea’s apartment.

  “It’s going to be beautiful,” Andrea said.

  “It’s going to be sweltering,” Clay corrected. “Asheville in June. Even with the mountains, it’s going to be hot and humid.”

  “You wear a suit every day. It’ll be fine,” Andrea said.

  “Oh, don’t complain, Clay,” Liz teased. “It’ll be you next anyway.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Clay,” Andrea warned.

  Brady laughed and clapped his brother on the back. “Don’t take everything so seriously, Clay. She just meant that you and Andrea have been together forever. You’re clearly a match. It’s not crazy to think that you’d be next getting married. God forbid, it’s Savannah!”

  The rest of the group burst into laughter, as if what Brady had said was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. Of course, Clay knew that Savannah wouldn’t be getting married anytime soon. She was seven years younger than him. There was no way. Over his dead body.

  So, that technically made him next on the list. But that didn’t mean right now. And it certainly didn’t mean anytime soon with Andrea talking about changing their relationship. Marriage and babies weren’t high on his list. Actually, they’d never even touched the list.

  “I need a drink,” he said before turning and walking away.

  No one followed him. He was better off. He needed to get his shit together and figure out what he was going to say to Andrea later.

  A few minutes later, he returned with a whiskey in hand and a glass of champagne for Andrea. He hoped, after a glass or two of this, he would be able to relax a little. He certainly needed it.

  Andrea intercepted him and took the champagne from him. “How thoughtful.”

  “Mmm,” he said, taking another sip of his whiskey. He’d asked the bartender to pour him a shot before he got this one, but apparently, that was in poor taste. So, he’d had to down one of these before collecting her champagne.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Let’s talk about it later.”

  “Clay…”

  “Later, Andrea.”

  “You can’t admit something is wrong and then not tell me what it is,” she insisted. “I do have emotions, you know?”

  “You made that quite clear.”

  “What does that mean?” she snapped. Her eyebrows rose sharply.

  “It means that, because you have developed those emotions out of nowhere, you should not ask me to talk through them with you in public,” he said plainly.

  She narrowed her eyes and then tossed back the champagne like it was a fucking shot. Damn! That’s impressive. He’d practically cringed, watching her do it.

  “You think, because I’ve decided to tell you how I feel, I’ll just let you walk all over me? I’m not, nor will I ever be, one of those girls you can treat like shit and ignore, Clay Maxwell,” she said evenly. “I’ve known you for fifteen years. I’ve been in your bed for nearly as long. I know you inside and out. I’m not an idiot. I know that what Brady said back there freaked you the fuck out.”

  “And?” he snapped.

  “And what?”

  “And what do you think? Do you think this is leading us to that shit? Is that what you meant when you said we were like Brady and Liz?”

  “God! Why do you have to jump to conclusions?” she demanded. She grabbed his arm and pulled him farther away from the crowd. “Did I say I wanted us to get married and have kids?”

  “No, but…”

  “No. I didn’t say that. I said I wanted us to be a couple. So, why can’t we act like that?”

  “Because this isn’t us, Andrea!”

  “What isn’t us?” she asked. “This is exactly us. This is what we do. We go to functions together. We play boyfriend and girlfriend. We pretend to be just like everyone else. How is this any different?”

  “Because we’re not pretending. You actually want us to be like that,” he told her. “And I don’t know if I want that.”

  Andrea took a small step back. “You seemed like you wanted that when we talked at my place. You seemed on board. Why won’t you just try with me, Clay? Just try? I mean, you claimed me as your girlfriend to Asher. You pushed him away, fucking ran him off, so that he’d never even look at me again, but you don’t want me?”

  “I want you,” he said. He dropped a hand onto her hip and pulled her closer. “I really, really want you.”

  “Ugh!” she snapped. She pushed him away from her. “Not like that. That’s not what I meant at all, and you know it!”

  “What? So, now, you don’t want to have sex with me?”

  “This isn’t about sex. This is about you being terrified of having a relationship. I mean, I would understand if it were someone you had just met. If you were so afraid of doing this because you didn’t really know the person and had no clue how they would treat you. But this is me,” she said. Her voice dipped down, and she sounded so vulnerable. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, and she closed them to try to keep them at bay. “This is me, Clay.”

  “I know it is.”

  “I know everything about you. I like that you’re a scoundrel and a sarcastic ass. I like that you value your family as much as you get frustrated with the entire process. I know you. If you can’t let me past your guard, like I’ve let you past my guard, then you’ll never let anyone in.”

  Clay co
uldn’t hear any of this. Of course Andrea knew him. She always had. That was why their arrangement had worked. That didn’t mean they needed to change it.

  “But why would you want to change something that works? What we have works,” he told her. “It was always has.”

  Andrea feebly shook her head. “It doesn’t work for me anymore. I want more. I deserve more. I’ve grown up, and I need something more than this.” Her blue eyes were sad. “Honestly, Asher was willing to give me more.”

  “You’re really going to bring up that douche like that?”

  “Yes! Don’t you see what I’m saying? I could have more. I could have a real relationship, but I want it with you.” She reached out and laced their fingers together. “I want to make this work with you.”

  “I don’t need this.” He pulled away from her.

  “What? You don’t need what?” Andrea reached for him.

  “This,” he said calmly.

  How could I keep having this conversation without her understanding? He didn’t need this argument. She was asking for more than he was willing to give. He wasn’t ready for that. He just wanted to keep things the way they were.

  “This,” she repeated. She gestured between them.

  “Yeah.”

  Andrea glanced off, away from him. She seemed to be trying to collect her thoughts. Her face hardened. Something in her shifted. He had no idea what she was thinking. Couldn’t she tell that she was ruining everything?

  “Have you fucked anyone else since the night of your attack?” she asked. Her voice was hard, lacking all the emotion that had been there moments ago.

  “What?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. Have you fucked anyone?”

  “I’ve fucked you.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Clay stared into her eyes as he realized…no, he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d had the opportunity. Gigi had thrown herself at him. The girl at the bar had offered herself up. There’d been several other occasions where he could have easily taken someone home with him, but he hadn’t.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “No. Just you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I see. So, we live in the same house. We go to all the same functions. You call me your girlfriend. We haven’t played any games since the attack, and you’re only fucking me. Please explain to me how we’re not already in the relationship that you so desperately claim not to want to be in?”

  Well, when she put it that way.

  He took a step back, balking at the thought. “Just because I haven’t slept with anyone doesn’t mean I never want to sleep with anyone else ever again.”

  Andrea swallowed at his words, but otherwise, she gave no sign that what he’d said had hurt her. “So, you want me to be yours, but you don’t really want me?”

  “What? Of course I want you.”

  “Right. Because, of course,” she spat, rolling her eyes, “you want me. You want to run other guys off. You’re jealous at the thought of me being with someone else. But you won’t admit that we’re really dating and really together. You want the opportunity to fuck someone else even if you never do. You want to keep our relationship stagnant for selfish reasons. You want your cake and to eat it, too.”

  “I’m not jealous—”

  “I’m not cake, Clay!” she snapped. “If you really don’t want this, then go and fuck someone else tonight!”

  He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “You want me to fuck someone else?”

  “If that’s what you really want, then go ahead. Go find someone here. Just break all the stupid rules. Show me how much I mean to you.”

  Clay shook his head. She had gone insane. But isn’t she telling the truth? He wanted to continue screwing around and doing whatever he wanted. He wanted to keep things just the way they were because it worked for him. And, now, she was getting pissy because he’d told her the truth.

  “Fine!” he shouted, anger bubbling up to the surface.

  “Fine!”

  “Enjoy your evening.”

  “I hope she’s worth it,” Andrea barked.

  Clay shook his head at her bold statement and slammed her back with one of his own, “Oh, she will be.”

  Andrea recoiled at the words, and without a look backward, he turned with his drink in hand and went in search of the hottest fucking girl in the room.

  Chapter 12

  YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF

  Clay woke up the next morning to a wall of pain. He cradled his head in his hands as he rolled over in bed and tried to escape the light filtering in through the window. He flung the covers up to shelter his body, but it did no good. He couldn’t go back to sleep. Not with this massive hangover.

  What the hell did I drink last night to warrant this?

  He couldn’t remember.

  He opened his bleary eyes and glanced around the room. It was empty, save for him. The bed was mussed, but it didn’t look like anyone else had been in it. At least, he didn’t think he’d had anyone else here.

  Everything was a little fuzzy around the edges. The last thing he remembered was yelling at Andrea and making a fucking fool of himself at the inaugural ball. Apparently, he’d then drunk enough to black out. Whatever other shit had gone down last night, someone else would have to fill him in. He was too hungover to figure it out.

  He stepped out of bed.

  Naked.

  Buck naked.

  His tuxedo was a string of clothes leading out of the bedroom of his second-story townhouse and down the stairs, as if he had taken each piece off while making his way to the bedroom. But, normally, when that happened, he’d see a dress, followed by a red lace bra and finally the matching thong. A pair of high heels would be strewed across the floor. None of that was here this morning.

  Just him, completely nude. All alone.

  What a night!

  Clay rolled his eyes and headed to the bathroom to dig out some Tylenol. He chased it down with a glass of water and then hopped into a long, luxurious shower to chase away the aftereffects of what felt like an entire bottle of whiskey pounding against his skull.

  An hour later, he’d changed into a pair of dark wash jeans and a Carolina blue polo. He was starving but wanted to head over to the house. He probably needed to talk to Andrea about that shitty conversation they’d had. That wasn’t how he’d wanted to have that talk. It was definitely not supposed to go down like that. He’d just pop over to the house, and they could go out to brunch.

  He’d kill to be back in Chapel Hill right now and get some real Southern-style brunch. Maybe they could go back home for a weekend here soon. It’d be good to check on his house down there and just get out of the city for a while.

  He pulled out his phone, surprised that he didn’t have any other messages or calls from the night before, and then shot Andrea a text.

  Hey, can we talk? I’m stopping by the house. Brunch?

  Clay revved his Porsche and took off for the suburbs without an answer. He hoped she was there or else it would be a futile drive, but she usually got out of the city when it was this busy.

  He double-checked his phone when he was driving through their neighborhood. “Huh. Still no response.”

  He was surprised. She typically responded quickly. Maybe she was still asleep. She could be a late sleeper, especially after a long night.

  Ignoring the feeling of unease that crept over him, he parked in the two-car garage. Andrea’s Mercedes was missing, but it hadn’t been there last night either. She’d left it at her apartment in town when they took the limo. The limo had probably brought her back here anyway.

  He opened the door of the garage into the immaculate kitchen. Andrea had had it custom-designed. Not that either of them cooked. She would bake every now and again, but they’d both been too busy lately to play house.

  “Andrea!” he called.

  He stepped over the threshold and into the foyer. Then, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes roame
d the walls. The foyer, the living room, the hallway down to the dining room and den.

  Every single wall was empty.

  His stomach flopped. Shit.

  Normally, the walls were covered in priceless artwork that Andrea had collected over the years. The living room had had a landscape motif. The foyer, a welcoming branch of modern art that he’d never understood. The walkway had had portraits. She’d always said it was like greeting friends. The steps up to the second floor had been covered in floral paintings that complemented and mirrored each other.

  Now, they were blank.

  Stark.

  White.

  Empty.

  His heart thudded in his chest. A terror like he had never known before seized him. His hands shook, and he fisted them at his sides, as if he could will them to listen to him.

  But they betrayed him. His entire body betrayed him. How could something so simple… make everything feel so lost?

  The house felt too big.

  Too inhospitable.

  Too unwelcoming.

  Until that moment, he’d never once realized how much the artwork had breathed life into their place. How her hobby, obsession, career had brightened not just the house, but also their life together. How it had made a house, a home.

  He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, with only one thought in his mind. He needed to talk to Andrea.

  “Andrea!” he yelled. “Andrea!”

  No response. And he still didn’t have a response on his phone.

  Fuck.

  “Fuck!”

  He slammed the door open to the master suite. No artwork. Not a single goddamn piece. He turned and pressed the closet door open. He leaned heavy against the doorframe, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  The closet was bare.

  Not one single pair of Jimmy Choos. Not one designer dress. Not one ten-thousand-dollar handbag.

  It was as if Andrea had never been here.

  As if he had dreamed her existence into this place.

  He shuddered at the emptiness of the home that they had built.

  Clay choked on words. Andrea was gone. It was plain and simple. Clear as day before him. She had left. Not just the house, but clearly him as well. She had taken everything here that belonged to her and disappeared.