Page 3 of Sterling Clay

Giving Dutton another glance in the backseat, I shake Clay more firmly and strengthen my tone. “Clay.”

A smug smile quirks one corner of his mouth higher than the other. A damn dimple pops out, nearly blinding me. “In a minute, baby.” His muttering suggests he’s dreaming of someone. Someone clearly not me.

The sobering thought has me pushing harder at his shoulder. “Clay,” I snap sharply, sparing Dutton another glance, torn between waking my son and needing to wake the sick man happily fantasizing beside me.

Clay’s eyes ping open, staring straight ahead a second. His gaze appears unfocused. Those icy blue eyes are distant. Then his forehead furrows, deep creases forming as recognition slowly dawns. His rugged voice harshly whispers, “I’m home.”

“No place like it,” I softly tease.

His head shoots toward me, those piercing eyes locking on me. His expression suggests he isn’t certain who I am despite claiming he knew me earlier, or how he got here. In my Jetta. At his house.

His hand slides to the door handle, and he pops open the passenger door, awkwardly tumbling out of it before catching himself with one foot. Twisting his body without a second glance at me, he slips from my car and blindly presses on the door to close it behind him.

The way Clay sways as he moves forward, staggering side-to-side before reaching his front door, I’d think he was drunk if I didn’t know better. He still doesn’t look back and I watch with bated breath as he types in a code on a keypad to open his front door. As the door swings open, I tell myself I’m only waiting for him to enter the house. Making certain he is safely inside. Then I’m leaving his apparently ungrateful ass behind.

Through the floor to ceiling glass panels, I watch the outline of Clay moving inside the immediate entryway and further into what I assume is a living space.

Then I watch him stumble, pitch forward, and land face down on the floor.

Chapter 2

[Clay]

Someone rustles beside me in bed before a voice softly speaking, as if to a child, awakens me.

My head is pounding like someone is jackhammering my skull. My throat is as thick as a forest, yet just as dry and brittle as one in the heat of August. My eyelids are heavy, refusing to open. I’m so tired, and I’m shivering.

Whoever moves away from the bed has taken all the heat and I tug at the blankets finding them already tucked up over my shoulders and beneath my chin. I’m reminded of being a kid, my mother pressing in the bedding around me.

“Gotta warm up my ball of clay, so he can get back outside and play.” The memory rushes in, almost as if I can feel her cool hand on my fevered forehead.

I haven’t thought of my mother as often at forty-three years old as I did when I was younger. When my ten-year-old self found her slumped over beside my parents’ bed, body curled inward, as if protecting our only sister who hadn’t been born yet. That was the day my world tipped on its axis.

And right now, I feel upside down as well. The sickening spin of the room has me fighting harder to open my eyes. Someone groaned. Was that me? I shiver beneath the layers of blankets.

“Clay?” A quiet feminine voice has me slowly lifting my lids, assuming my sister will be standing by my bed, telling me to get my ass up and get to work.

Instantly, my lids shut again. What time is it?

The brightness behind my lids tells me it must be daytime, somewhere past noon. Panic strikes. I have too much to do today, but with my head pounding, I’m slow to recall things on the list. Something about a shipment of animal feed arriving, and the part Perry ordered for his tractor which is in the back of my truck. A warehouse inventory and a check on our Christmas supply for the home merchandise section, and—

“Clay? Honey? Can you try to take these?” A cool hand brushes back my hair before resting briefly on my forehead. Then it sweeps down my cheeks and along my jaw before settling beneath my chin. I burrow into the soothing touch, calming strokes, and tenderness of delicate fingers.

Wait. Honey? My sister wouldn’t ever be calling me such a sweet thing in such a pretty voice. My eyelids fly open, and I freeze on the face of a woman that takes a second to come into focus.

Long, midnight colored hair hangs over her shoulders. Her face lightly tan, suggesting the coloring might be permanent. Her eyes wide and dark. Her smile weak, sympathetic, hopeful.

Mavis? Mavis Holland?

I blink once but can’t seem to find my tongue, the muscle dry as dust and swollen inside my mouth.

Mavis Holland is in my house. Squatting beside my bed. What the hell is she doing here? And how did I get here?

The night comes back to me like a trickle of rain. I’d driven a Sylver Seed & Soil truck to pick up a part for Perry. Deciding I was close enough to Glady, I called her. We were a situationship that cannot be defined other than scratching an occasional itch.

We didn’t have a schedule. We didn’t make plans. If one or the other of us wasn’t available or didn’t answer our phones, there were no hurt feelings. I hadn’t seen Glady in months, and not feeling so great, I should have stayed away. However, I figured getting laid out of convenience would hold me off for another few months. The decision was reckless. Glady turned me out the second she saw me, suggesting I might have a fever and should see a doctor.

Fuck that. I didn’t trust doctors. They’d been wrong in the past.