Struck from the Record Page 4

  “Now, you piece of shit!” the guy next to him yelled. He pressed the gun harder against Clay’s temple, and sweat collected on his brow. “Keep going! What? You think your life is worth shit? It’s not. You’re fucking nothing. It’d be a motherfucking mercy to pull this trigger and put this bullet where it belonged. Now, move.”

  Clay tossed the wallet in the direction he’d heard the other guy move. He heard the guy pick it up and start rifling through it.

  “Nice. You must think you’re untouchable if you’re walking around the streets with fifteen hundred dollars in cash on you. He was just asking for it. We should put him out of his misery.”

  Clay clamped his mouth shut. He wanted to think that he’d be a badass vigilante in this situation and get the drop on these fuckers. But, with the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple, he was keenly aware of his own mortality.

  “What else you got, pretty boy?”

  The second guy patted him down and stripped him of the Rolex on his wrist, his iPhone, the keys in his pocket, and even the cuff links on his shirt. They were worth a fortune even if these idiots didn’t know it.

  “Okay. I’ve done everything you said. Now, let me go.”

  The first guy laughed. “Let you go? So, you can go run to the police?”

  He didn’t even see the sucker-punch coming. It hit him square in the jaw, then the kidney, the stomach, and his chest. He doubled over, fighting for breath, as pain exploded in his vision. One guy pushed him over, and Clay dropped to his knees as the other one joined in. They both cursed his very existence as they proceeded to beat the ever-living shit out of him.

  Clay curled into a ball on the ground as they kicked his stomach and ribs and back over and over. He felt something break and couldn’t keep from crying out. He couldn’t get enough air in.

  Karma had never struck so true.

  For a split second, he thought they’d leave him there like that. He couldn’t get up to go to the police. They’d done what they came for. They needed to just slink back into the dark depths from where they’d come from.

  Then, the gun pressed into the back of his head. Clay groaned and looked up into the eyes of his attacker.

  He memorized every feature in that split second—dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin, a scar on his left cheek, tattoo on his neck, a bird, jagged edge to his eyebrow—as the guy screamed in his face, “This is what you deserve, you piece of shit!”

  Clay was sure this was the end. After everything, this was how he was going to go, mugged and beaten to within inches of his life, lying in a dirty alley.

  Fuck.

  Then, the gun landed heavily on his temple. His skull crunched against the gravel, and he fell into darkness.

  Chapter 4

  WAKE ME UP

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Ugh,” Clay groaned. He had a splitting headache, and everything felt fuzzy.

  “Clay!” a girl cried. “You’re awake!”

  He cringed at the volume before slowly cracking his eyes open. A gorgeous blonde was leaning over him.

  “Hey, sexy,” he croaked.

  The woman shot him an exasperated look. “Is that any way to talk to your future sister-in-law?”

  “Sorry, Liz,” he ground out. “Wanna fuck?”

  Liz laughed and shook her head, as if she’d expected nothing less. “Well, at least we know there’s no more damage done than what was already wrong with your head.”

  Everything else slowly came into focus. The bright lights of the hospital room, the itchy blanket lying across his torso, the gentle thrum of the equipment surrounding him.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  Liz frowned. Her blonde hair swished over one shoulder, drawing his eyes lower, lower, lower, and then they quickly shot back up to meet her baby blues.

  She was chewing on her bottom lip. “What exactly do you remember?”

  He strained to remember how he had gotten here, but he was drawing a blank. “Andrea left with Bad Suit.”

  “Right. She mentioned she’d left the bar you were at.”

  Though Liz’s eyes said that Andrea hadn’t said she’d left with someone else. The extent of their game wasn’t common knowledge. He wasn’t surprised she’d left that part out.

  “I should probably go get her. She’s really been beating herself up about all of this.”

  “Wait,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Tell me what happened.”

  “You were robbed,” she said plainly. The corners of her mouth turned down. “Someone found you unconscious in the gutter without your ID or anything. You didn’t even have your coat or shoes, and you were so messed up.”

  “Bastards took my shoes!” he growled as everything slowly came back to him. He grimaced as he remembered the brutal beating he’d taken in the alley.

  “You were brought to the hospital, and they IDed you here. Brady’s trying to keep it all quiet and out of the news.”

  “Oh, of course he is,” Clay drawled. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Liz reached down and squeezed his hand. “He cares about you, Clay. This isn’t about him.”

  “It’s always about him.”

  Liz sighed, and then she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Some things never change, do they?”

  Clay shrugged.

  “Well, the police will want to hear your story. Plus, everyone else is out in the lobby, waiting for you to wake up. I’ll go get them, but…”

  “Why you?”

  “What?”

  “Why were you waiting in here for me to wake up?” he asked.

  Liz smiled. “Because I could handle it.”

  He furrowed his brow. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Honestly, Clay, everyone else was too distraught. You looked really bad when you first got here. Andrea burst into tears and fled…literally fled. I said I’d stay and look after you.”

  “Oh,” he said, surprised by this revelation. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime. You’d do the same for me.”

  “Would I?” he asked with a grin.

  Liz shook her head. “I’m going to get everyone now. Is there anything you need?”

  “Aim the next kiss a little lower?”

  She stood and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Clay…”

  Liz left the room, and he caught sight of her long, lean legs. It was a nice sight even if he had to see it after waking up in a goddamn hospital.

  He still couldn’t believe those fuckers had jumped him. He’d made himself an easy target—drunk, stumbling, on his phone, not aware of his surroundings. He might as well have asked them to put that gun to his head and strip him clean. Didn’t make it any fucking better though. At least he knew what one guy looked like. That was his only shred of hope in all of this. He’d gotten one solid look at his attacker before he’d blacked out.

  When the door opened, a doctor entered the room, followed by an older nurse, and started checking on him. “Good to see you’re awake. You were in pretty bad shape when you were brought in last night.”

  “I still feel like I’m in shit shape,” Clay said.

  “You sustained two cracked ribs, significant bruising, and a concussion. I didn’t think you would be in great shape.”

  “Ugh,” he groaned. “How long is all that going to take to fucking heal?”

  “I would say at least six weeks for those ribs.”

  Clay laughed and wheezed at the pain. “I don’t have six weeks.”

  “The first two weeks will be the most important for you to manage the pain at home and try not to do anything that would damage it further. Unfortunately, there isn’t much more we can do on that front, except help make it manageable.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You should feel very lucky that you didn’t sustain worse injuries. I hope the cops find the person responsible.”

  The doctor left after they’d run a few tests that hurt like a motherfucker. Who knew breathing tests could hurt so fucking much?


  The door opened again, and in came Clay’s parents. His father was tall and proud with salt-and-pepper hair and wrinkles on his forehead from the strenuous task of running the country into the ground—otherwise known as being a US senator. His mother was as beautiful and serene as ever with her short blonde hair and soft smile.

  Clay was surprised they were even here.

  “You gave us quite a scare,” Marilyn said, taking his hand.

  His father stood on the other side of the bed. His hands were at his sides, and he looked uncomfortable.

  “We’re both just glad you’re all right,” Marilyn said. “Aren’t we, Jeff?”

  A look passed between them. It was a signal Clay had seen a lot growing up. Show some emotion to your child!

  “Of course we’re happy you’re all right,” Jeff said with a rare smile. “You had us all worried.”

  “I’d hate to do that,” Clay managed. His ribs were hurting worse than ever, and this conversation wasn’t helping.

  “How are you feeling?” Marilyn asked.

  “Like shit.”

  “I’ll see if I can find the nurse and have her come in and up the pain medication.” She turned and left the room, leaving him all alone with his father.

  He was a daunting man. Always had been to Clay. Brady had always gotten along better with him. Clay had always been teased for being a mama’s boy. Just lying here made him want to stand up because that was what was proper in their house. But he couldn’t move.

  Jeff cleared his throat. “Did you decide which law firm you’re going to work with now that you’re not clerking any longer?”

  Straight to business. “No,” he said flatly.

  “Well, you’ll have to decide. Not much time left.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” he said dryly.

  “They’ll want to know by New Year’s,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard the sarcasm in Clay’s voice. “I think you should probably take the Cooper and Nielson offer. Their reputation is solid, and you can quickly move up the chain.”

  “Just what I want.”

  “Good, good. Well,” he said with a fucking politician’s smile, “I’ll just check on your mother.”

  “Great. You do that,” Clay said.

  Jeff turned and started walking toward the door. Clay wanted to make some snide remark about him leaving without even really asking if his own son was okay, but it wasn’t worth it. Years of this wall between them wasn’t going to come crumbling down from one particularly gruesome mugging. Clay expected no more, no less.

  Andrea peeked her head in the door. Finally, the moment he had been waiting for.

  “Hey,” she whispered.

  She looked like a total wreck. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair was in a messy ponytail. She wore expensive yoga pants and a tank top with a running jacket and all black Nikes. She didn’t have a scrap of makeup on, and she was chewing on her manicured nails as she entered.

  And, despite all that, she still looked gorgeous. He was so used to her being all dolled up under several layers of makeup with perfect supermodel platinum-blonde curls, wearing Jimmy Choos and an endless assortment of those tacky Lilly Pulitzer dresses. But her walking into his hospital room, distraught as hell, was the sexiest he’d ever seen her.

  “Clay,” she croaked, walking uneasily to his side, “I’m sure you don’t want to see me.”

  In fact, it was exactly the opposite. He distinctly remembered her leaving and wanted to know if she’d been with the douche while he had been beaten to within an inch of his life. Not that he blamed her for this shit, but still. It was a matter of pride.

  “Why?” he asked finally.

  “Why? Because this is all my fault.”

  “You hired two guys to beat me up and rob me?”

  She groaned. “No!” she grumbled. Her spine straightened, and she seemed to come back to herself a bit with his joke. “But I should have left with you, and then this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Obviously, you should have left with me,” Clay said flippantly.

  Andrea sniffled. “I know. I should have.”

  “So…did you fuck him?”

  “Clay, it doesn’t matter.” Andrea reached out and took his hand in hers. “I feel awful enough without recounting the rest of the night.”

  “You’ve never felt bad about the game before.”

  “It never resulted with you being in the hospital either.”

  “Some assholes robbed me, Andrea. That’s not your fault. That’s not my fault. That’s not the game’s fault.”

  She swallowed. “It feels like it.”

  He crooked his finger at her. “Come here.”

  Andrea leaned forward and softly pressed her lips to Clay’s. He wanted to breathe her in and take what belonged to him. He didn’t want to consider why she wouldn’t answer the question about fucking Bad Suit. It sent an unpleasant twist through his chest.

  “Maybe we should stop,” Andrea whispered against his lips.

  “No, I think we should definitely keep going.”

  She laughed humorlessly. “Your ribs are cracked, so we definitely have to stop this, but I meant…the game.”

  Clay’s eyes widened. “How hard did that gun hit me?”

  “I’m serious, Clay.”

  “We’ve had an open relationship like this since college, Andrea. It doesn’t make sense to stop just because of one bad incident. This works for us,” he earnestly told her. It always had. What would we do without our games? Without our open honesty about what we wanted from the other?

  She looked down, as if considering his words. “You’ve never been…jealous?” she whispered the last word, glancing back at him.

  Clay recalled the fiery anger that had built inside him last night when Andrea left the bar without him. But he just shook his head. “No.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She looked uncertain as to how to proceed. “How about we just be us for New Year’s? As long as you’re okay to move around.”

  “Don’t worry about me, baby. I’ll be on my feet today. Something like this can’t hold me down.”

  He smiled confidently, but she didn’t look half as confident as he felt. It was unsettling, coming from her.

  “Well, if you think you’ll be ready, then I’ll tell Liz that we’ll be with her and Brady and Savannah then. Okay?”

  He gingerly brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her. “Okay.”

  She cracked a halfhearted smile. Damn, she was taking this hard. Even harder than him. This wasn’t like Andrea at all. He’d never seen her shaken before. She was as quick with a snide remark and sexual gesture as he was. She’d been as into their agreement as he was…maybe more so. She had fucking initiated it after all.

  Just when Clay was about to open up and ask her more about it, Brady stepped into the room. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said with a smile for Andrea’s sake.

  Clay nodded his head at his older brother, the bright light that always overshadowed him. “Look who showed.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier. I was on the phone with Heather, trying to handle some damage control. I didn’t think you’d want this getting out everywhere.”

  Clay felt like this incident was another part of the political machine he was locked in.

  He knew he should be appreciative that Brady had phoned his press secretary, Heather Ferrington. She was a hot fucking blonde, and Clay couldn’t figure out why Brady had never banged her.

  “I’m sure,” Clay retorted.

  With Brady in the room, Andrea sat up straight. None of the vulnerability she had just revealed to Clay showed through when she addressed his brother, “I’m going to go see how your mother is doing. Good seeing you, Brady.”

  He nodded at her as she passed him to exit the room. Clay hated her absence but appreciated the fact that she knew he had to face Brady alone.

  “Quite the predicament you’ve found yourself in,” Brady said. He walked to the end of the bed and drumm
ed his fingers on the plastic footboard. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I need another dose of morphine.”

  “Mom is looking into that,” he said dismissively. “Want to tell me how you ended up in that alley?”

  “What are you? The fucking PI?”

  “I’m simply interested in what happened, Clay. The doctor said your blood alcohol level was through the roof. It had to have been for you to wander the streets, away from the bar Andrea said you’d been in.”

  “Fuck you,” Clay growled.

  Brady frowned. “I’m not interrogating you. The police want to speak with you after this. They’ll do the interrogating I’m sure. I’m just trying to understand. Why didn’t you just call a cab?”

  “Why don’t you go to hell?”

  Brady’s politician mask fell away, and for a split second, Clay saw how shaken Brady really was. He just looked like his older brother again. Clay sighed, and just that easily, he dropped his own anger.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Brady said.

  “Me, too,” Clay said.

  “Seriously, if you want to talk to me about it, I’m here. I know we’ve had our differences over the years, but I’m always here for you.”

  Clay clenched his hands into fists, grasping the covers and not meeting his brother’s eyes. “They said I was worthless and a piece of shit. Said that I deserved to die. They screamed it in my face while one held the barrel of a gun to my temple.”

  “Fuck,” Brady said gruffly.

  “I can’t describe what it was like.”

  “Do you think it was premeditated? Did they target you?”

  Clay grimaced. “No. Do you think it would be better if it were?”

  Brady’s eyes traveled over Clay’s bruised body, wrapped ribs, and broken knuckles, and he shook his head. “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  “We’ll find them, Clay. We’ll have justice.”

  Clay nodded and wished he had as much faith in the legal system as Brady did. But he knew too much, and sometimes, the bad guys just got away. Sometimes, the bad guys won.

  Chapter 5

  BAD SUIT

  Clay scrubbed his face with his hand and tried to wipe away the frustration of these damn broken ribs. It had been nearly two weeks, and it still hurt like a bitch. He chased the two pain pills with a swallow of scotch. That would drown out the pain for a few hours while he dealt with this goddamn New Year’s party.