Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy #1)(6)
He really wanted to be a cold, cruel bastard and send her home anyway so she was no longer his headache, but considering her emotional state, and the alcohol in her system, she was at a huge disadvantage and would never be able to deal logically with whatever she was running from.
Fuck, f*ck, f*ck.
She reached out and clutched a handful of his T-shirt, her eyes shimmering with moisture. “Oh, God, what have I done? I don’t have…anything. I don’t have any money, nowhere to go…” As if finally realizing how dire her situation was, she threw herself against his chest and burst into tears.
The woman had no boundaries, because she was suddenly plastered against him, her arms around his neck and her face buried against his throat as she had a mini breakdown—and he somehow became her lifeline. He was used to handling obnoxious drunks and disorderly bullies that came through the bar, but this… He had no clue what to do with a clingy, emotional female—and one that smelled so soft and deliciously feminine.
He tentatively wrapped an arm around her waist to make sure her legs didn’t give out on her, all too aware of the crush of her breasts against his chest, and how her curvy body fit his in all the right places. And, yeah, his stiffening cock noticed, too, and didn’t hesitate to make his interest known.
She finally calmed down and sniffled, and he almost laughed when she rubbed her runny nose against his T-shirt. The act was so unladylike, so unrefined, that he was certain she’d never do such a thing if she were clear-headed. But it made her seem more vulnerable and real. Not at all the cool, aloof socialite he’d originally pegged her for.
She let out a soft, shaky exhale, and her damp breath caressed the side of his neck. “I’m so tired, and I don’t know what to do, where to go…” Her whispered words trailed off, and she snuggled closer, trusting him, a stranger, with her welfare.
Clay clenched his jaw and made a quick, split-second decision he prayed he didn’t come to regret later. She was in no shape to go anywhere, and he wasn’t such an * that he’d just send her on her way to fend for herself, when she was clearly high on alcohol and her judgment was skewed.
He grabbed her purse, kept an arm secured around her waist, and guided her toward the back of the bar while shutting down the lights in the place as they went. She was wobbly on her heels, and she didn’t even question where he was taking her, just accepted that he was a nice guy and would keep her safe. Which was incredibly stupid on her part. He could have been a serial killer, for all she knew, and that thought just reinforced his decision to take her to his apartment upstairs and let her sleep off the liquor she’d consumed. And in the morning—and he was betting she’d be nursing a helluva hangover—she would be on her way and would no longer be his worry.
Getting her up the steps and keeping her steady on her feet was a test of his patience. She giggled each time she tripped, her mind already forgetting about the meltdown she’d just had at the bar as she flirted with him and told him once again how freakin’ hot he was. He really wanted to be annoyed, and he would have been if she’d ended up being high maintenance, but she was actually kind of adorable…until he got her into his apartment and her face suddenly turned pale.
She pressed a hand to her stomach and licked her dry lips, a panicked look in her eyes. “I’m so dizzy, and I don’t feel so good.”
Oh, shit. Clay knew exactly what was coming, and also knew the eruption wasn’t going to be pretty considering the array of drinks she’d had. Dropping her purse on the couch, he rushed her to the one bathroom in the small apartment, which was connected to the only bedroom in the place.
She started to moan, and he curled his fingers around the back of her neck and pushed her to her knees in front of the toilet just as she started to heave. He wasn’t quick enough. She started to throw up before her head was over the bowl, and a very colorful concoction splashed onto her silk blouse and expensive-looking pants before he could finally get her positioned over the commode. Even then, her hair fell around her face as she puked, and chunks of gross shit caught in the blonde strands.
Clay grimaced and swore beneath his breath as he did his best to pull her hair back while she continued to throw up. As he waited for her to empty her stomach, he thought about all the times he’d stood vigil over the toilet with Mason during his brother’s wild and out-of-control teenage years. Hell, Mason was still wild and rebellious, but at least Clay was no longer responsible for sobering him up, thank God.
As the oldest with two younger brothers, Clay had been forced to step into the role of a father figure to Mason and Levi at the age of sixteen—or risk the three of them being separated by the foster care system. While his mother served her eighteen-month prison term for drug possession and prostitution, it had been Clay who’d made sure his brothers were fed, clothed, and made it to school every day (though Mason had spent most of his high school years ditching class so he could smoke weed or bang some chick, or sitting through detention for being a belligerent smartass to one of his teachers). There had been no father around to help at any point in their lives. Not when his mother had conceived each one of them with some nameless john she’d slept with to support her meth habit.
Another low groan from Samantha brought Clay’s mind back to the present, which was where he preferred to remain. The past was filled with nothing but shitty, painful recollections that, for the most part, he managed to keep buried deep in that place inside him where he locked away his darkest memories.