Blind Side(22)

“Nothing.”

I whipped around again, holding a black skirt with little white hearts stitched all over it in one hand. “What do you mean, nothing?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t answer.”

“Why on Earth not?”

“Because that’s what she wanted. If I would have answered, she would have known I’m not over her, and that whether or not you and I are together, she still has power over me.” He held up his finger. “But by not answering her, I showed her I’m not bothered in the least by her being here, that I’ve moved on.”

I blinked. “Okay…”

But as I turned back to find the right shoes, I found myself shaking my head and wondering if all these games would ever make sense to me.

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” Clay said. “You’ll see after tonight. That is, if you ever pick an outfit.”

I was sifting through my drawer of socks and stockings, and I turned long enough to peg him with a bundled-up pair that made him chuckle.

“Be right back,” I said, disappearing into my bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I came back out to find Clay propped against my headboard reading one of my motorcycle club romances.

“Am I going to have to put these under lock and key?” I plucked the book from his hands, holding it out of reach as he protested.

“With dirty scenes like that? Yeah. Probably.” He waggled his brows. “I saw you put a highlighter tab on the soft choking part…”

My neck burned hotter than it had in my whole life as my eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Without thinking better of it, I reared that book in my hand back and promptly threw it at Clay, who dodged it only by a hair.

“Hey, no shame!” He laughed. “Just info I want to tuck away for later,” he added, tapping his temple.

In a miraculous feat of strength, I sucked in a long breath before smoothly letting it go, holding out my arms. “How do I look?”

Clay swung his legs off the end of the bed and pulled on his sneakers as his eyes made a slow descent from where I’d put a simple black headband over the crown of my curls, to where I’d zipped up the four-inch chunky black boots around my ankles. The white blouse paired with the black skirt perfectly, the hearts a sweet touch, and I’d even been as bold as to tie the ends of the button up just under my chest to show a little midriff as opposed to tucking it in.

I did, however, grab my cream cardigan and throw it over the whole ensemble.

Clay’s eyes lingered on the black knee-high stockings I’d grabbed in a last-minute decision, making me self-conscious enough that I bent my knees together.

Finally, he let out a low whistle, rising to his feet. “This is going to be fun.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I get the feeling I should be scared?”

But he only laughed, nodding toward the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late for your boyfriend’s big show.”





“So, what exactly is the plan here?” I asked Clay as he held the thick metal door open for me, every ounce of light instantly being snuffed out once we dipped inside the bar. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and note the smiling hostess illuminated only by two small candles.

“Just follow my lead.”

“But what ex—”

I couldn’t get the question out before Clay was leaning his elbows on the hostess stand, offering the slim brunette beauty behind it his signature smirk.

“Good evening,” he said. “Table for two, please. Booth, actually,” he clarified, and winked back at me.

I just stared at him dumbfounded. What difference did it make?

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re booked solid tonight,” the girl said, twirling a strand of hair between her long, onyx fingernails.

Clay sucked his teeth, glancing at me just as my shoulders slumped. But then, he grinned again, tapping on the wood of the stand. “Good thing I have a reservation.”

She lit up then. “Oh! Wonderful. What’s the name?”

“Johnson.”

The woman slid her finger down a list, and then smiled broadly, gathering up two menus. “Right this way.”

I had to admit I was shocked, so much so that Clay had to hold his arm out for mine to lure me from where I’d been rooted in place by the door. He curbed a grin as we followed the hostess through the dimly lit bar, one vastly different from the casual place on campus where Shawn usually played. This one was known for fancy cocktails that cost more than a full four-course dinner should.

Still, I marveled at the bizarre chandeliers and busy, yet not tacky, floral wallpaper as we wound our way through the tables. And we were deposited in a back corner booth.

Right near the stage.

My stomach flipped at the sight of Shawn’s guitar case, of the long, charcoal gray bandana that hung off the mic. It was his signature, one I’d never seen him play without, and it held my attention as Clay slid into one side of the small booth and I took the other.

“Your mixologist will be right over,” the hostess assured us, and her eyes lingered on Clay for longer than necessary — long enough that I cocked a brow like I was his actual girlfriend. She coughed when she saw me, gave a brief smile and exited stage right.

My face softened once she was gone, only to turn and find Clay watching me with an arched brow of amusement.