Clayton (Bourbon & Blood Book 2)

T
his is a work of fiction
. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously and are definitely fictionalized. Any trademarks or pictures herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks or pictures used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

I
know something is wrong
. The house is dark. The cartoons or music that Emma Grace loves aren’t blaring from her bedroom. It’s just after eight in the evening. At the very least, I should hear Annalee arguing with her that it’s bedtime. But there’s nothing. The house is so quiet that it feels unnatural.

I bypass the den and head straight to the kitchen where I can see light. Annalee stands at the counter, her back to the door. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail but it bares the curve of her neck. God, I want to taste that. I want to bury my face against her neck and inhale the scent of her. But I haven’t laid hands on her in so long, I’m not sure I’d even be permitted.
My choice,
I remind myself. I know I’ve made it for the right reasons, and a part of me still believes, deep down, that what I’m doing is for the best. Another part of me wants to tell her everything and wash my hands of it all.

By virtue of being a Darcy, I’m a good liar. We’ve made our fortunes on that for generations, but I can’t lie to her and I know it. That would make me no better than him. So for months, I’ve just avoided her. Coming home late. Leaving early. Locking myself in my office when I am at home. I’ve put so much distance between us that I don’t know if it can ever be bridged.

“Where’s Emma Grace?” I ask. Our daughter is a safe topic at least.

Annalee turns back to look at me. She’s been crying, though she’s applied makeup and tried to camouflage it.
I did that.
Every tear she sheds right now is my fault. But I can’t change course. It’s too late for that now. I have to stop Samuel no matter what it costs. Too many people are counting on me, including Annalee, even though she doesn’t know it yet.

“She’s at a sleepover. I thought that was for the best…,” she pauses, takes a deep breath, and then traps me with a cold, steady gaze. “We need to talk, Clayton.”

The most dreaded words in the English language. Fuck. “Do we have to do this tonight? It’s been a hell of a day, Ann,” I hedge.

“Yes,” she replies, arms crossed over her chest and her chin up like she’s daring me to take a swing at her. I never have. I never would. But I know with the way she grew up, part of her still expects it to happen.

I put my briefcase on the counter and grab a beer from the fridge. I’m being a dick and I know it. If I could have just a little more time, I could get it all back to normal. I could take her away somewhere for the weekend and make up for the last six months of isolation. “You wanted to talk,” I say to her, my tone sharp. “So talk.”

“Tell me what you’re hiding,” she says.

I can’t do that. I could, but I need for her to be able to deny having any knowledge of what I’m up to if shit goes south. It’s the only way to keep her and Emma Grace safe. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just busy with work. The distillery is in the fucking toilet thanks to my asshole of a father… It’s not going to do a one-eighty and turn a profit by itself, Annalee.”

Her glare tells me she’s not buying it. Not that I expected her to. She’s nobody’s fool.

“Tell me the truth, Clayton, or you’re moving out.”

I set the beer down on the counter. “You’re not kicking me out of my own house.”

She’s pacing the kitchen, her hands clenched at her sides. “You’re never here anyway,” she shoots back. “You’re gone when I get up in the morning and you don’t even come into our bedroom until you know I’m asleep. You haven’t touched me in months, Clayton… not since you went to Japan.”

How can I tell her that I can’t face her? That lying to her and hiding things from her is eating me up inside. So much that I can’t even stand for her to look at me? “Annalee, you’re overreacting. In a few months, things will go back to normal. The distillery will be on firmer footing and—.”

“Don’t,” she interrupts. “You and I both know this isn’t just about you being busy at Fire Creek. You’re hiding something, Clayton. You’re lying to me… and you either tell me what it is, or you get out.”

“Then I guess I should pack,” I reply, hoping she’s bluffing.

She makes a sound that cuts me to the quick. I’m reminded of a line from a Jason Isbell song, about the sound a woman makes as her heart begins to break. I always wondered what that sounded like. Now I know.

I can see the hurt in her eyes, in the slight tremble of her lip and the firming of her jaw. Never one for theatrics or wasted emotion, the mask falls into place again immediately. “Do you even care?” she asks. “Or is this what you wanted? Did you just grow progressively colder and more distant in the hopes that I’d give you the out you wanted without you having to be the bad guy?”

I can’t answer that. I can’t answer anything. Telling her the truth is out of the question and adding to the bitter tasting lies I’ve already told, even if they were by omission, isn’t a line I’m willing to cross. “I’ll go. We don’t have to fight about it.”

She screams like a wounded animal. I duck as a glass comes flying at my head. Other various pieces of cutlery and a few dishes follow. Crossing the room, I grab her arms, holding them down to her sides. I lock my arms around her and I know, in that second, that this might be the last time I ever hold her.

“Annalee, stop! Just stop!” I whisper against her ear. My voice sounds unfamiliar inside my own head. That broken and desperate plea sounds like it belongs to someone else.

“Don’t tell me what to do, you son of a bitch!” The words come out of her like the sounds of a hissing cat—low, angry, with a growl to them that conveys just how dangerous she is in the moment.

I’ve never seen her like this. Not once in the twelve years since I’ve known her has she lost it like this. Another cross to bear, another crime to lay at my door. We've fought in the past, but it was always stupid, and more often than not just an excuse to get to the makeup sex. This is the first time we've ever really laid into one another this way. All I want is to tell her the truth, to make the hurt go away, but I can't. Not yet. Not until it's all done.

I’ve broken more laws on a daily basis, every day for the last six months, than I had previously in all my life. I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. I’ve broken into my father’s apartment more than once. I’ve extorted information from his mistresses, every one of them. I’ve threatened, coerced, bribed judges and cops. I’ve tapped his phone and bugged his house. And if those things don’t get me what I need, I’ve accepted that I might even have to kill the bastard. I’m not as conflicted about any of that as I am about this, about letting her go to keep her safe from the consequences of my actions.

“I’m going to a lawyer,” she says on a broken sob. “I want a divorce.”

“I’ll give it to you,” I tell her. It feels like something was just cut out of me, without anesthesia, like I ought to be bleeding from the wound.

“Is it another woman?” she asks, her voice so low, so broken, that it’s hard to hear.

I shake my head. I won’t tell that lie. There’s never been another woman, not since the moment I laid eyes on her. I won’t sully what we’ve had by saying otherwise. “No, Ann. It’s not like that… we’re just not the same people we used to be.” It’s the closest thing to the truth I can tell her. I’m not the man she married. I’m not the do-gooder, upright, cross every T and dot every I, man who would do whatever it took not to be like his father. Instead, I’m becoming just like him. It’s the only way to bring him down.

“Get out. Just get out.” She sounds defeated, but not broken. Annalee will never be broken, not by me or anyone else. It’s probably why I fell in love with her.

I let go of her. “I’ll come get my things tomorrow while you’re out.”

“They’ll be on the lawn. Leave your key,” she says coolly.

I don’t answer. I just turn and walk out while I have the strength to. I’m going to burn for what I have to do Samuel Darcy, one way or another. Whether I ruin him financially or socially, whether I have to cross that line and end him like the diseased animal he is, there will be a reckoning for it… a price to pay. If I’m out of her life, she’ll be safe from it and she’ll be there to keep our daughter safe. It’s cold comfort, but it’s all I’ve got.

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 afterwards 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 she 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.

M
y 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 onto when I feel myself weakening.

It took me a while to get to a point of being that forgiving towards 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 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 car pooler, 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.

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.

I can’t believe she’s doing this. Our divorce isn’t final. We haven’t even signed the papers and she’s already moving on, dating other people. A part of me knows that I have no right to feel this way. This is all happening because of me. I did this. That doesn’t make it any easier to live with. I’m dying here. Somehow, the idea of her being with another man, even if it is just an innocent meeting, that makes it feel more permanent than all the lawyers and negotiations have.

Then, there is the other issue. I’m the one who pushed Mia, who told her that if she wanted Bennett Hayes to do something about it. I also told her to be discreet, dammit. Having him crawling out of her bedroom window in the bright light of day does not fall into that description.

I climb the stairs from the distillery floor to the administrative offices. Quentin is waiting for me at the top.

“What the hell crawled up your ass?”

“I don’t need your shit today, Quentin,” I tell him as I brush past him.

“Wasn’t aware I was giving you any,” he replies. “But you look like you’re on your way to commit a murder, and since I’m related to everyone who works on this floor, I figure I’m entitled to ask a question or two.”

“This,” I say sharply, “has nothing to do with work.”

“The former ball and chain?” Quentin says, tongue in cheek.

“I’m glad you find it funny, you dick.”

Quentin sighs and follows me down the hallway to my office. Of course, he would choose to be a dog with a bone today. The fuck.

Quentin is still on my heels as I retreat into my office. He drops into the chair across from my desk and then props his feet up on it like he owns the damn place. “If you want to prop your feet up and get comfy, go to your own damn office.”

“I’ve got questions,” he says. “I’m not just here to bust your balls.”

“Then get to it. I’m not in a mood to be social.”

Quentin continues, “We can’t keep pouring money into the distillery and not getting anything back out of it. Our salaries are not even a living wage and given that you’re now going to be supporting two households on it, that’s gonna fucking sting.”

It already stings like a damned hornet’s nest. “This is not news.”

“I have an investor,” he says quietly.

“I’m not giving up any of our control,” I remind him. “Right now, between the three of us, we can keep Samuel in check, sort of. If we let go of any of that, and this investor falls for his shit, we’re fucked.”