Except he was just the subcontractor in this case. That meant it wasn’t his call.
“You can tell her what you like,” he said. “Just keep my name out of it. Fisher isn’t the only one whose radar I want to stay off.”
Clay finished his burger and crumpled the stained paper plate into a ball. “Make it worth my while and I’ll think about it,” he said.
“If you expect me to put out just because you bought me dinner,” Grade said as he cleared up his side of the table, “you’ll need to take me on a nicer date than this.”
“Is that what this is?” Clay asked as he took the rubbish out of Grade’s hands. “A date?”
Grade felt his ears burn. He tried to ignore it.
“It’s a figure of speech.”
“It really isn’t,” Clay said. “But you keep telling yourself that.”
He walked away to dump the rubbish in one of the nearby bins. Grade rubbed the back of his neck and watched Clay go as he wondered if it had been a date.
Of course, the second part of that question was, did hewantit to be a date?
Grade wasn’t ready to think about that one, so he put the whole query back on ice. If he thought about it too much right now, the answer might result in him not getting laid. He could come back to it later—after Clay had pissed him off and he could be sure that the last thing he’d want is for this to have been a date.
Over the years, Grade had given up a lot of plans he had for his life, but getting the hell out of Sweeny—again—wasn’t going to be one of them.
Chapter Ten
“You need to learn to fucking listen,” Ezra said. He jabbed his fingers against the side of Clay’s head. “And use this.”
“You want me to headbutt him next time?” Clay asked.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head, hissing in pain as the scars over his ribs pulled… and… No. That wasn’t it. He didn’t have any scars. Just bruises and maybe a broken rib. He probed his side absently with one hand to try and gauge the damage Reid’s boot had done. It wasn’t good. It could be worse.
“You don’t have to take the fucking bait every time,” Ezra said. “Play it smart.”
Clay laughed and threw himself down on the cot. He bunched the thin pillows up behind his head. It hurt to laugh, but it hurt to breathe, too, so what the fuck.
“Fuck ’em,” he said.
“Just keep your fucking head down,” Ezra said. “Reid isn’t going to forget this, and we need him. He’s the one who knows the warlords, remember. He can walk us straight through.”
He left.
Clay closed his eyes and fell into a doze.
Something woke him up
He opened his eyes and stared up into Reid’s face. It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised. Probably Clay. From the smell of Reid’s breath, he was too drunk to register what a fuckup he’d made in time.
“Get him,” Reid spluttered as he threw himself down on top of Clay, an arm wedged up under his throat. “Hold him down.”
Shadows moved around them in the tent, and Clay realized he might have been the fuckup here. He punched Reid in the side of the head and threw him off. Once the weight wasn’t pinning him down, Clay rolled away from the bed and lunged for his kit.
His hand closed on nothing, and there were floorboards under his knees, not the ground cloth of the tent. Clay blinked himself awake and shook his head to clear the fog.
Here, not there. Now, not then.
Grade, not Reid? Fuck. That would solve all of Clay’s problems in the worst goddamn way.
The fog clung on; his brain dragged like taffy between dream and groggy reality.
