THE CLUB OWNER AND HIS STRIPPER
"Sir, this is inappropriate and I'm sure you're aware of that. You're my boss."
His tall frame stood up and he slowly strode over to me with a lustful glint in his eyes. His hand lifted and his thumb ran across my low...
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My eyes fluttered open, seeing as the sun was just beginning to peek through the window. I looked over my shoulder to be met with Clay, who had his heavy arm wrapped around my waist, his chest flush against my back.
"Good morning," Clay's deep, husky voice that was hampered down with sleep, spoke. Though, his eyes remained closed.
I let out a breath in the reminder of Vincent, who was prepared to be here early this morning. "Should he be here already?" I didn't need to specify who I was talking about for him to understand.
He nodded, swiftly tugging me closer to him.
A silence fell upon the room, though it was comfortable in a sense. I let my body relax in the moment, knowing the next few weeks were going to be full of dedication, along with harder work than what we've already been doing.
"Do you think we're going to be able to kill him?" I asked. The question simply came from nowhere, yet I was curious enough to let it slip. Although, the thought of losing against Ares haunted me.
He took a second to reply. "I think so, yes."
I took a moment to speak again, "Can I ask you why you're after him, too?" I curiously asked. My mother was killed, she's the reasoning behind the most of this. The most of why I've chased to finally kill Ares. What was Clay's reasoning?
It was silent again, and for a moment I thought he wasn't going to be answering me. I couldn't see him, oblivious to whether or not he wanted to speak.
"He killed my father."
My lips parted in shock at the similarities, and I started to turn around to face him whilst laying on my side. My expression held sympathy for him, though he didn't look quite fazed.
"They rivalled against each other for quite some time, but it was a small disagreement. Nothing like what it is for us," he began to explain. "They used to be close, until Ares turned on him for a reason I never understood. Then just like that, he killed him."
"How old were you?" I cautiously asked.
"Eleven. Twelve, maybe," he replied.
I didn't push any further, though he spoke up again quicker than I thought he would. "You said he killed your mother," he said. I nodded. "How old were you?"
"Thirteen, I think." I said. Shifting my eyes from his gaze to the blanket, I watched the tips of my fingers play with the fabric.
The thoughts swirled through my mind, shocked at the realization of how close our situations are. I thought that maybe Clay had known him from a different side, rivalled with one of his own. But the reasoning was much deeper than I expected, and I felt a sudden comfort in knowing I wasn't so alone in the depths of my motive.
