Struck from the Record (13 page)

“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 couldn’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 roamed 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.

Never had he ever imagined a life Andrea didn’t exist in. Ten years ago, they’d formed their pact. And he’d somehow destroyed it all in one night of drunken debauchery.

“No,” he muttered. “She can’t do this.”

He wrenched out his phone and dialed her number, determined to convince her that she had made a horrible mistake. She couldn’t leave him. Andrea was the one with abandonment issues. There was no way that she would just leave without a word. Without one goddamn word.

The call went to voice mail, and he heard her sweet voice on the other line.

“Hi, this is Andrea Billings. Sorry I’ve missed your call, but…”

Clay ended it before she could finish. He couldn’t leave a message. What he needed to say had to be done in person.

He stormed back down the stairs and out to his Porsche. He ignored traffic and floored it over to her apartment. He was lucky that no cops were looking to pick up an asshole in a Porsche going ninety in a forty-five. He slammed on the brakes, leaving skid marks on her street, before parking illegally in front of her building. He hopped out of the car, took the elevator up to her place, pulled out his key, and slid it into the hole.

It wouldn’t turn.

He stared, dumbstruck, down at the door. He’d been here last night. He’d used this very key
last night
to get into Andrea’s apartment where they had gotten ready together for the ball. He jiggled the lock a dozen times before realization dawned on him.

She’d changed the locks.

His jaw dropped, and he stared uselessly at the handle. His hands were shaking again. His body ached from the extremes she’d gone to.

It couldn’t end like this. It made no sense. Last night was no different than any other night.
What the fuck did she think had happened?

He’d hurt her with his words. He knew that. But he hadn’t actually slept with anyone. He hadn’t even been fucking coherent enough to get it up, and he’d woken up alone. He hadn’t gone through with his threat. There was a difference between hurting Andrea with words when they argued and actually going through with something that would destroy her. She had to know that.

But she clearly didn’t.

Clay banged on the door until his fist was bruised. He yelled against the door. “Andrea! Come out here right now! I know you’re inside! Just talk to me!”

He yelled until the next-door neighbor came out and asked if everything was okay. He was making a scene.

Fuck, I’m making a scene.

Clay dialed her number again and listened all the way through the voice mail this time. “Andrea, what the fuck is going on? Your stuff is all gone at the house, and my key doesn’t work at your apartment. Where the hell are you? We need to talk. I don’t know what happened last night that made you want to do all of this, but it’s not what you think. I swear. Just talk to me.”

He hung up before he could say anything else stupid, and he took the stairs back down to the ground level to burn off steam.

Seated in his car once more, he didn’t feel any better at all. He needed to talk to her. He needed to talk to someone who could explain this to him. Definitely not Ethan or Cash. They’d probably just laugh at him and say he’d had it coming or he was better off. He didn’t feel better off.

He stared at his phone and realized there was no one else. Andrea was always the person he would run to when things got tough. She was the one he talked to and joked with and fucked when he needed someone. She was his person.

Instead, he dialed Liz’s number. He didn’t know what had made him do it, but he couldn’t just sit here alone. And even though he and Liz had had their differences, he knew he could rely on her.