Filthy, Rich
Clyde Logan x femme!Reader
canon divergent, post-canon thing to answer the question of what the heck happens when we leave Hilary Swank at the bar
reader works at Ducktape; angst; background characters
wrote this in a night feeling some kind of way
let me know if you want a steamy second part!
The changes were subtle at first. Long-neglected fixes to leaky taps, squeaky doors, and a lick of touch up paint here and there. The LED letters spelling out ‘Ducktape’ didn’t flicker anymore. There was a new T.V., bigger. You walked in one day and some of the lights were new—modern matte black things. Plus, your boss had gotten that sleek new arm at some point, with the robotics. You can’t remember exactly when.
But then the changes got bigger. The LED letters on the top of the building now spelled out ‘Ducktape Bar and Grill’. People started ordering hot chips and onion rings with their beer, and then a short while later, full meals. There was a “Please wait to be seated” sign by the door and you collected customers from it and took them to their table.
Then new faces started to come in. Couples, families, new regulars. You offered table service. Then you had a name badge, then a uniform.
Then, Ducktape was opening a second location.
Clyde had said, “Would you run it?” And his offer was serious.
You’d said, “What would the salary be like?”
He’d said, “Bigger than you can bury under an oak tree.”
You’d squinted at him then. Clyde apologised for the in-joke, and asked to take you out to dinner to explain the terms of your new contract, should you accept it.
That night, at the rustic Italian place across town, you’d said it straight to his face. “Where’d you get the money for this, Clyde?”
Clyde had set his glass of lager down and asked a stupid question—What money?—but you tutted your tongue at him and told him not to take you for a fool. Clyde held your gaze for a long while, a deep dark stare, before he spoke again.
“Don’t make me lie to you, sugar.”
You didn’t ask him anything else after that, and at your next shift, signed your new contract on the dotted line.
XXXX
There are worse jobs in the world.
Your staff are reliable, capable people and for the most part the customers one county over are well-mannered, generous tippers.
Today’s the last Wednesday of the month and Clyde is due in just before closing for the monthly meeting you instigated—mostly to go over the financials and raise any maintenance or staffing issues. Mostly.
The kitchen is closed and your staff are mopping the floor and stacking chairs on tables when Clyde pushes through the door.
The lights are low and he looks just like he did that night at dinner, but with the bright white carpark lights illuminating his long, luscious hair in a halo around his head.
He’s always been handsome, and Redwood-tall, but these days he carries himself differently. His shirts, you notice from time to time, are more and more well made. Fine fabric, and tailored, instead of the faded threadbare he used to wear.
Tonight is no exception. His dark grey suit is casual but fitted, tapering in all the right places to show off his long legs and wide shoulders. You think you spot a bolo tie hanging around his neck but then—Clyde stops. He turns towards the carpark and catches the door before it closes, holding it open.
A woman breezes through. Tall and slender, medium-tan skin and long brown hair. Short shiny nails the colour of heart’s blood.
Your own heart had somersaulted at the sight of Clyde and now, the feeling in your chest is that all the light, all the warmth in that vital organ cools and hardens.
She is stunning. She looks nothing like you.
Quickly, you tip the two shot glasses out into the sink to try to erase the fact you had ever prepared them. As if this time last month it hadn’t been you and Clyde alone, side-by-side on the couch in your office, sipping Fireball and slowly sitting closer and closer together until your knees touched against each other’s.
You smooth down your skirt as you step out from behind the bar. “Clyde!” you greet him warmly, and extend the same polite hello to his date. She introduces herself—Sarah, pleased to meet you—just as Clyde wraps his arm around her waist.
“This won’t take too long, darlin’,” Clyde assures Sarah with a kiss to her temple. “Just in the back?”
You don’t immediately register that Clyde has addressed a question to you. That cold hard lump in the middle of your chest, it cracks at the easy intimacy on casual display, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up.
“‘Course!” you cover quickly. “Same as usual. As normal—always.”
You resist the urge to stomp on your own foot, but Clyde and Sarah don’t seem to hear your verbal fumbling.
“Make yourself at home,” Clyde is saying to Sarah, squeezing her tanned, manicured hand, and she replies, “I’ll be right here, baby,” just as he releases it.
“Alright,” he’s already racing past you, “let’s get’er done. Sarah and I are out for a nightcap now that that dinner is all wrapped up.” Long, quick strides you almost have to hop to keep up with. “I’m ‘on’ take her to that new blues bar, jazz club place that opened up in Danville. Ya seen it?”
“I—oh, yeah. Yeah, I know it.” But that crack in your heart spreads, a tiny earthquake fracturing and fissuring. Because you knew all about the Commission’s business development gala, and have known for months. Knew that Clyde was invited and hoped he’d bring you. Waited for the invitation, waited for him to ask you on your first official date, and when he never did you’d just assumed he was taking Jimmy or going alone.
But now you know the truth.
You’d read every sign wrong, girl.
In your office you sit at your desk but Clyde doesn’t. He stands to your side. He’s never just stood at your side, stoic and still. In the past he’s sat on the sofa, sat on the desk chairs opposite, perched on the safe, pulled up an empty crate, even leaned over your shoulder.
But never has he just stopped next to you, not-so-patiently waiting in silence.
You tap the keys to bring your laptop screen back to life and the spreadsheet appears.
“How we lookin’?” Clyde asks eagerly, before you even click to this month’s tab.
You clear your throat, clicking and scrolling to the data. “So, as you can see we’re up on last month’s figures for food and beverage,” you point at a different one of the charts, “even though wait times were a little longer—”
“But no problems?”
You pause, your hand hovering, and glance at Clyde. Looking up at his face like you’d look up to find the end of a sky-scraper. Really, you’re so physically close you could see your reflection in his belt buckle if you looked, but the other distance—the emotional space from your heart to his—feels like you’re an ocean away.
“No, Clyde. No problems.”
“‘Nything I need to know?”
For a man with such a rich, deep gaze, Clyde’s eyes sure are piercing you tonight. Pinning you, almost with physical force, to your seat beneath him. You’re suddenly acutely aware that every breath you take and don’t give him his answer is being perceived as a waste, keeping him from his hot date with Legs McGee out by the bar.
He’s waiting on your every word, and you know he wants those words to be short and sweet.
You look back at your laptop. Nothing is in red, which is the way you’d formatted it to look if there was a problem. The bottom line numbers are green, and there’s lot of percentages in the nineties on the screen.
“Uhm,” you don’t even realise your hand clenches to a fist, “all good. We’ve had a really good month.”
“Great.” Clyde smiles.
It’s not a full, toothsome grin but a lop-sided quirk—one of your favourites—that creases the long dimples at the side of his mouth. You’re about to smile back when he says—
“Can you send me some copies of these? Want the new store to do this monthly reporting too. ‘S good.”
“New store?”
“Looks great, shug.” Clyde claps the back of your chair.
“Clyde—”
“See you next month.” He turns and starts to walk out of your office.
“I—”
“Ya?” Clyde stops, turning back to you on his heel.
If only time could stretch. If only seconds were minutes—and heartbeats hours.
But even if you could make this moment last, what would you even say?
“Let me know what else y’all need for the new store. That’s really exciting news. And enjoy the club tonight.”
You force a smile. Clyde nods and with a warm smile he says, “Thank ye, sugar.” - and then he’s gone.
XXXX SOME MONTHS LATER XXXX
Another month rolls around, and Clyde strides in for your monthly meeting hours early.
Dinner service is in full swing and you’ve been walking the floor, and you only just finish closing out a ticket at the register when big, bulky Clyde barges past the exiting patrons and right up close to your side.
“I need a word, sugar.”
He touches you on the elbow, three fingertips implying urgency.
“Clyde?” You puncture the receipt on the spike and glance at him. It’s only just now that you get a good look at his deep brown eyes. See the red rimming the bloodshot whites, wide with alarm. “What’s—?”
“Come on back with me now. C’mon,” he murmurs, gently easing you away from the register.
You follow Clyde as he marches into your office, all broad shoulders and black jeans and black cowboy boots, shiny and new.
You question him again as he practically hauls you into the room and stops just short of slamming the door behind you.
“What is this all about Clyde, Jesus—”
“Listen to me, shug,” Clyde grabs your hands and holds them in his, very firmly, “really, really listen to me good ‘n’ well, now.”
You search his eyes. He’s frantic. Something has happened. Something is wrong. Very badly wrong.
“Are ye, dang it,” he stops, dropping to his knees while you stand, hands clasped tight, “are ye listenin’?”
“Yes, Clyde.” You don’t hesitate to reply, and you surprise yourself with how level and firm your voice is. As you look at him you realise, you knew a day like this would come. The old bar, the first Ducktape—way back before it was a family-friendly grill franchise with billboards all over the county—grew too fast. You knew the money it made back then. Knew the profits it pulled were in no way enough to finance the expansion into a food kitchen, let alone two brand new bar-restaurants offering fully staffed table service.
You’d asked him once, before all this, where he got the money, but he couldn’t tell you the truth, could he? And you didn’t push it any further, did you? Not a single other time, no matter how often the ‘Ocean’s 7-Eleven’ news clip showed up on your social media feed.
With Clyde on his knees, eyes shining wet, your stomach sinks as you realise what you should’ve done, over and over until you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. You should’ve prodded him, poked him, made him tell you.
Now the lacquer on your shaped nails and watch on your wrist and earrings in your ears and fresh hair-do on your head… it all feels like borrowed trinkets, stolen symbols of status ornamenting your body—cheap and fake and unnaturally connected to your being against your will and better judgement.
Clyde says, “There’s trouble.”
“What trouble?”
He takes a breath, big pink lips quivering as his eyes search yours before settling.
Then Clyde finally says, “...Sarah.”
XXXX
Much later that night, you find yourself standing around the tin can fire on the lawn outside Clyde’s trailer.
You’ve been here only a handful of times before, dropping off Ducktape’s cash sale proceeds at the end of the night before the safe was installed in your office. And tonight you learned Clyde’s was the most secluded of all the options, since Jimmy had moved in with Sylvie.
Now, the gang’s all here, and Clyde has just finished explaining what happened when he found Sarah’s go bag.
Joe’s brow creases as he asks, “And she said it was ‘cuz she was cheatin’?”
Clyde gazes into the fire. “That’s what she told me.”
“But you saw a badge?” Jimmy quizzes his brother with squinted eyes. “You definitely seen a badge?”
Clyde’s lips fold into a line before he says, “That’s what I saw.”
This is an interrogation despite the fact that Clyde looks seven different types of hurt.
“But,” you speak up, “let me see if I’ve got this. NASCAR closed the investigation with the Feds. And the money is untraceable cash. Right?”
Clyde looks up from the flickering flames. “That’s right.”
“So what was she even doin’ here?” Mellie finishes your thought for you.
Silence falls over the group. Blackened logs crackle in orange flames, and warmth seeps into your skin despite the low fog creeping across the yard.
“Look, it’s late, y’all,” you say, “and far as I can tell, she’s been made and won’t be coming back. Especially since after what—months?” you sneak a glance at Clyde, “—she hasn’t found anything, and it’s not like y’all are doing any of what counts as RICO stuff with the money. You’re running a couple bar-and-grills. Legit ones. There’s nothing to find.”
Jimmy nods. “Let’s get the accountant to look over all them papers tomorrow.”
“You know I would, y’all, but I’m workin’ the bus up in Lincoln,” Sylvie says.
“I got it.” Joe slings his arm around Mellie’s shoulders. “But by my reckoning it’s after midnight, now. Now I agree the plan, but let’s all of us get on home. And uh,” he pauses, his gaze flitting between Clyde’s face and the fire, “‘M sorry, Clyde.”
XXXX
After everyone makes their goodbyes and the last of the taillights fade from view, it’s just you and Clyde around the fire.
For a little while, the pop and snap of the wood in the flames is all there is. But it didn’t feel right to leave with the others, and it still doesn’t.
It feels like, right here is where you need to be.
Then slowly, like he’s still contemplating the words, Clyde says, “So. Now you know.”
You push your fists deeper into your jacket pockets. “I do.”
Clyde pauses, locking eyes with you. “...Maybe you’d always known.”
You sigh deeply as you hold Clyde’s gaze. “Truth be told, Clyde. I didn’t have the details but I had suspicions, as you know when I asked you that night.”
“But you never said anything. Did anything.”
You huff a laugh, your breath misting in the cooling air. “‘M probably not the only one around here who could’ve put two and two together but decided not to.”
Clyde makes that inquiring expression he does, where just one eye narrows slightly, just for a second, and his head tilts up half a degree. “Why not?” he murmurs.
You shrug. “Not sure I know that. Had a good job. Saw a lot of people in the community get a good job, get skills. Plus you… you took me to dinner.” You hold Clyde’s gaze. “That can woo a girl, you know.”
Clyde looks away, scuffing one boot into the ground as he chews his bottom lip. “Think I shouldn’t’a done that with you.” He looks up once more, meeting your eyes over the flames. “Think I made a mistake.”
You didn’t need to kick him while he was down by agreeing out loud, but you had to know one more thing. You deserve as much, considering this family just made you complicit in grand larceny in the span of one fireside conversation.
So you asked, “She was in the picture then, Sarah? Back then.”
Clyde says, “‘M not proud of it.”
You know he’s not. Know he means to say he’s sorry. You watch the way the flames dance across his face and say, “I’m not either. Proud that you did that—”
Clyde swallows and glances away again.
“—but I am—”
He looks back up.
“—sorry that you got hurt, tonight.”
You watch a sad smile die on his face, like he feels he doesn’t deserve the endorphins it’d let loose in his brain. “That’s kind of you, sugar.”
The snapping, hissing fire fills the silence. Your face feels hot, warmed by the flames, but your feet in your boots aren’t as toasty as the rest of your body.
You and Clyde have cleared the air but it’s revealed a crossroads.
You say softly, “Is it time for me to go, Clyde?”
The big broad man’s hands are shoved deep in his jeans pockets. He stares at you over the crackling fire, and you see the return of that full and penetrating look in his eyes. Not only see it, but you welcome it.
You let it thrill you.
“Think I,” Clyde clears his throat. “Think I want you to stay.”
You feel your pulse begin to pound in your clenched fists, furled up so tight and hot in your pocket your hands are perspiring. But in this moment, hearing words you’ve wanted to hear from his lips for years, you have a little more conscience than you’d like. Because it would be wrong. So wrong, wouldn’t it? The man is heartbroken. That’s the only reason he’s saying this.
“You’re hurting, Clyde.”
Clyde’s gaze falls to the ground; he chews his bottom lip. “I want you to stay tonight,” he admits, eyes fixed on his boots. “I know I do, shug.”
You could ask Clyde whether he wants this for the right reason, but reason be damned. Can you live with yourself if you do this? That’s a question for tomorrow. The real question is why did you linger after everyone else left, if not for the opportunity to heal Clyde’s wounds and wake up in his bed the next day?
Maybe, this can be the thing you’re not proud of, and if you have one each, you can call it even.
“It’s, uh,” Clyde clears his throat, “not how my momma raised me. So I, surely, understand—”
“You know what, Clyde?” You start talking as you make your way around the makeshift firepit, closing the distance, looking up at the man. When you’re right in front of him you say, “No one has to know you’re not a gentleman.”
Clyde sucks in a shaky breath, and his exhale is just the same.
You watch him realise it in real time. You’ve stripped off a layer of old paint to reveal the original, even more beautiful finish beneath. You’re glad you said it because you know he’s not, not deep down in his soul, but he thinks he oughta be.
Clyde murmurs, “I don’t gotta be like that with you.”
You make a humming noise, considering. “Not all the time.”
Clyde cups your face, groaning as he pulls you in for a deep kiss.
