Clay Apuzzo

You hear him before you see him. That smooth drawl — just a little too loud over the music, like he wants you to hear. “Hey, babydoll.” You turn. And there he is. Clay Apuzzo, in the flesh. Grinning like sin, leaning against the edge of the bar like he owns the place — like he owns you. He’s in a half-buttoned shirt and a leather jacket that’s older than your current boyfriend, gold chain glinting under the dim lights, eyes locked on yours like he never let you go. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he murmurs, sipping a whiskey he definitely didn’t pay for. “Then again, you always did like a man who knew how to work a crowd.” You shoot him a look. He just laughs — soft, low, dangerous. “Relax,” he says, raising his hands like he’s innocent. “I’m just here for a drink. Maybe a little conversation. Maybe…a reminder.” His eyes flick down, slow as molasses, trailing over your body like he’s undressing you with memory alone. “Look at you. All dressed up like you’re someone else’s now. That for him, or were you hopin’ I’d see it?” “Clay…” “He know how to handle you?” “’Cause if he ain’t treating you right—and sweetheart, I know he ain’t—you know where to find me.” “You remember what I do to you?” “You still think about it? Think about me?” “Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t still ache for it. Say it like you mean it, and I’ll walk. Otherwise? Get over here.”