Looking for Trouble(6)

Mike was dead.

Clay shook his head, tried to fight back the tears that threatened. Mike was dead. Christ, how could Mike be dead and he didn’t even know it?

“I fucking hate you, Clay. You did this! It’s your fault!”

Clay’s chest clenched, and his throat seized up so intensely, it was hard to breathe.

Mike was dead.

April was dead.

Gordon was dead.

His parents were dead.

His hands hurt from the pressure on the steering wheel. He squeezed his eyes shut too, as if the past wasn’t there, behind his lids.

Christ, he’d almost fucked Mike’s son. Mike had a son.

Mike was dead.

How many times was he going to think that?

He fought to take a few deep, steadying breaths to get himself under control, then turned the key in the ignition.

Scarily, he didn’t remember much of the drive back to Bailey Springs. It was as if he’d started his truck, and next thing he knew he’d been naked in the shower, hot water mixing with hotter tears.

Then he was in bed, half wet, his vision clouded with images of Mike… April… Gordon… The kid and that goddamn letter.



Clay groaned at the sound of his cell phone. He’d hardly gotten any sleep the night before. His eyes stung, scratchy like a rough piece of wood before sanding.

He fumbled to pick it up, saw Renée’s name on the screen, and groaned again. His ex-wife wasn’t good at being ignored. He forgave her for it, though. He probably ignored her too much during their marriage.

“It’s early,” he answered, his voice hoarse as if he’d spent the night yelling.

“Oops! Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Cheery as always.

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

“Because I’m not.”

“You suck.”

“Yes, I do, and you do now too, my dear. Remember that? It’s quite fun.”

“That’s weird. I hate it when you speak to me like that.” Clay climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. He held the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“It’s been…what? Seven or eight years. You should be used to it by now, and oh my God, are you peeing while you’re on the phone with me?”

“Yes. It’s something you’ve seen and heard before. That’s what you get when you call this early. And yes, it might have been that long since we separated, but things weren’t easy at first, so technically it’s been less since I’ve had to hear you talk to me about sucking dick.” There was a frustrated edge to his voice he hadn’t intended.

He finished taking a piss, shook off, and began washing his hands when Renée asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Damn it. She always fucking knew.

He’d met Renée at a party when she’d been at the University of North Carolina, and he’d been making himself believe he was straight while attending college parties. He’d been angry and brooding, which apparently she’d thought was hot. She’d seen him around at parties before, but Clay hadn’t seen her. Even though he hadn’t gone to the school, some of his friends had, so he was often around. He noticed her that night, which Renée had wanted. She always teased him about how hard she tried to catch his eye.

He probably should have understood back then that he wasn’t straight.

He’d spent most of his late teens and early twenties fucking his way through it, looking for something he hadn’t known he’d never find with a woman, but it had worked with Renée. She’d hooked him that night and told him she was going to be his girlfriend one day. He laughed it off, she refused to sleep with him, and she’d been right. They began hanging out, and he realized he truly cared for her. She’d become his best friend, then his girlfriend, then his wife, though if he were honest with himself, he would have admitted from the beginning that something had still been…off…not right. It had taken him years to silently acknowledge that truth—that he was gay—but by that point, he was comfortable and happy in his marriage with Renée. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. He had a habit of hurting or losing people he loved, and he didn’t want Renée to become one of them.

Eventually, she had. He’d been thirty-seven when he couldn’t live in his own skin without being honest anymore. Thirty-seven when he’d come out, told his wife he was gay, and broke her heart. She had been rightfully hurt…angry at first…and it had been in that time, that lonely piece of existence, that he’d met Gordon, so he’d also been thirty-seven when he’d fallen in love with a man for the first time.

A sharp pang pierced his chest at that thought, and then Renée’s voice broke through. “Clay? Hello? Are you there?”

He knew she realized he was. He’d left the damn water running, so she’d have heard it. “Yeah, I’m here.” He turned off the faucet. “Was just thinking of jacking off.”

“Very funny.” She didn’t fall for his attempt to change the subject. “You sound sad, handsome.” He smiled at the familiar pet name. She’d called him that from the start. And he was sad, but was that really anything new? He’d been sad off and on for most of his adult life.

“I’ll be fine, Renée.”