Selling Scarlett (12 page)

I'm caught up in her happiness and slightly drunk when we take the elevator to bed.

"Screw toned thighs," Suri giggles.

"Screw 'em." I grin. "Why worry about being in shape when you've got a freakin' rock?"

Suri flashes it one more time, then leans down to kiss it. "I love my ring."

"I love it, too." Feeling spontaneous, I pull her into a bear hug. "You're the awesome-est, Sur."

"No, you are."

She wobbles off on the second floor, and I manage to get off on the third without face-planting. When my buzz wears off, I get a glass of cold water from my kitchenette and go into my study, where I keep my new friend the elliptical.

I work out for an hour and ten minutes, reviewing the events of the night before I get a shower. I think through the Suri-Adam thing, which from all angles seems to be awesome. Then I make myself revisit the subject of Cross. Within five minutes, I'm feeling so sad I can hardly move, so I deliberately turn my thoughts to Hunter.

I climb into bed, and I want him so badly I can practically feel him here beside me.

*

Monday morning, I'm up early. I'm doing a paper on Victor Hugo and whether I agree with his thoughts on prostitutes, and in the drama of the past few days, I've gotten behind. Still, I'm having trouble focusing as I sip my French vanilla coffee in one of the massive window seats that line the left side of my room.

I cross my legs and balance my laptop on my thighs, skimming that passage in
Les Misérables
where he talks about how prostitution is slavery. I type a few thoughts on that, and then I pause to look out over the dew-drenched pastures, glowing faintly orange with the sunrise.

Suri's paint horse, People Whisperer, prances near the white fence closest to the house, and I'm thinking about Cross again. We rode horses here just two weeks before the accident, and I remember how he grinned after he'd run on Trojan.

He'd tugged the horse's reins, slowing to a trot, and Suri and Adam had raced past us.

"How'd you know I was going to slow down?" he'd asked me.

I shrugged. I remember thinking on it for a second: Had my horse, Delilah, slowed because she knew Trojan and had picked up on his intentions, or had it been me that pulled on the reins? It had been me.

"I guess I just saw your face or read your body language," I'd offered.

Cross just nodded. He sucked his lip into his mouth. I remember the dusky, indigo sky reflecting off his high cheekbones. How blue his eyes had looked. "I used to want to do this, remember?"

"Breed horses?"

He nodded.

I looked down the length of him—strong arms, lean, muscled legs—and back into his eyes. "I bet you would've been good."

"It's the speed I like," he'd told me, and after a quiet second: "It sounds trite, but it really does push everything else out of your mind."

And I had known just what he meant, because I'd always felt that way, too. Whether I was swimming, riding, or even reading—maybe especially reading—I liked being in motion, because it let me go away.

"I know just what you mean," I'd told him, and he'd leaned over, just close enough to skim my blue jeans with his fingertips.

"I'm really glad we’re friends, Lizzy."

As I think about that now, tears well in my eyes. Why couldn't I just like Cross back? Why is he my old comfy sweatshirt instead of the hot designer outfit I covet from the window? Why have I always felt so at ease with him, my hair never standing on end in that perplexing and wonderful way it does when Hunter is near? Cross is such a good guy. Loyal, funny, complicated. A talented bike designer and a good friend. He's always been there for me when I need him.

I think about my conversation with Dad the other night, and I want nothing more than to talk to Cross. I blink at my computer screen and two tears slide down my cheeks.

I look down at my abs—flatter than they've been in years—and think about my kidneys. How much are they worth on the black market?

I sigh. Private care is so expensive, one Grade A kidney probably wouldn't last Cross a week.

I shut my eyes and lean my head against the wall, trying to think of a way to get a loan. I wonder if I could sell the house while Mom's in rehab. No. It’s not in my name. It's in Dad's, and I'm sure as hell not calling him again.

I think about my car and want to scream. Three days. Three days is all my car would buy Cross at Napa Valley Involved Rehab. And that’s if I got a good price.

I think about Suri again. I think about robbing a bank. I feel so trapped right now, prison doesn't seem much worse, and as soon as I have the thought, I start to cry, because the truth is I'm
not
trapped, and Cross is.

I think about the story of Sleeping Beauty, about how I used to kiss Cross after every visit. I remember his body wrapped in my blankets, and my cheeks get hot as I remember being pressed against that very same body on the night of Hunter's party. I know he cares for me—why can’t I get him to wake up?

My thoughts wander to Hunter. For some reason, I think I could get him to wake up. I also bet he could pay for Cross's care. I wonder if I have enough money in my savings account to ask Hunter to gamble for me. He's a good gambler. He plays poker professionally.

But I’ve only got $7,820. So no.

Still, I imagine Hunter sitting at a poker table in a Vegas casino. He's resplendent in black jeans, a black shirt, and a Stetson. His poker face is beautiful; intriguing. I feel my body heat again as I think about kissing his lips. I wonder if the women there fall all over him. I bet the escorts would pay
him
to take a tumble.

My throat goes dry.

That's it.

My eyes fly to the soft, damp spot between my legs, and the room around me tilts.

Holy crap. Holy insanity. Holy vagina.

I know what I can do to help Cross.

Chapter Ten
~HUNTER~

I've been watching Libby's house, and I don't like what I've seen. Priscilla's got someone following her at times that to me seem random, and at least once I've seen Priscilla herself do a drive-by.

I don’t get it. There's no way Priscilla could know about the misplaced fantasies that plague me, so why the sudden interest in Libby? I'm losing my patience with this game we're playing—more so because our new guy, Dave, has a contact at the LVPD and she tells him they don't have any leads on Sarabelle's whereabouts. Knowing Priscilla is fucking Josh Smith, lead detective, really makes my hair stand on end. But I can't seem to find anything to fill in the wide gaps.

That's why I'm here at the courthouse. I want to buy a warrant, or rather let Diana know what I'm up to and give a little under-the-table donation to our lovely county. Doesn't hurt that on this particular day, I know Priscilla's here as well. According to my PI in Napa, she's been here for an hour already. There's no reason she should be. No reason she should even be in the state this week.

I feel confident she doesn't expect to see me here, and catching her off guard is important to me. I slide my Audi into a narrow space and put it in park, then step into the radiant California sun.

I've got on one of my Vegas getups: cheap suit—still tailored for my shoulders and chest, but not from Seville Row—and my regular joe shoes, a pair of Ralph Lauren loafers. Marchant likes to look like a slick bastard wherever he goes, but I'd rather not stand out.

The Napa County Court House is a smart, Italianate building: two stories of smooth stone arches and brick detail-work with cement stairs that lead into a covered entryway where people like to mingle before going in. I get a fucked up feeling when I come here, probably because the décor on the inside and the scent of cheap floor shiner remind me of Rita; she worked, for a time, as a secretary to the probate judge back in Orleans Parish. I try not to think about that.

Diana Mendez and I have been friends for years. She’s objectively beautiful—long black hair, fantasy-long legs, doe brown eyes. Her ambition—she's the youngest probate judge in Napa County’s history—only adds to her appeal. I try to imagine her naked as I make my way from my spot to the building's front—I have actual memories of her naked body to draw on—but Diana turns into Libby. Just like every other woman I’ve tried to jerk off to in the last few weeks.

I sigh, only because no one is around, and I want to let the birds know how troubling the girl is.

Speaking of trouble, Priscilla is standing by the courthouse doors in black stilettos and a shiny silver dress that, in her fashion, shows too much thigh and too much tit. When I see her, I paste on my surprised expression. The look on her face is confirmation: She's not expecting me. As I start up the steps, I notice a news van pulling up and I wonder if my Libby will be here. I wonder if
he
called her Libby, too, and decide it's unlikely. Lizzy, Liz, or even Beth are more likely. I like to think Libby is mine.

"Hunter, darling." Priscilla grabs me by the shoulders, like she owns me, and plants a kiss on my mouth. I know from experience that it leaves a slick red mark, just like I know that if I wipe it off, I'll pay with skin later.

"You look surprised to see me. I take it you don't know what's going on today?"

"What?" I lie.

"There's a hearing. The governor is coming."

"A hearing for what?" I ask, sticking my hands in my pockets, a submissive move I'm adopting purely for Priscilla's benefit.

"For poor Cross Carlson." Her voice oozes insincerity. She isn’t able to feel empathy.

"He get a speeding ticket?" I ask dryly. Truthfully my stomach churns thinking of what happened to the younger man, but sarcasm makes our ruse more palatable.

"No, the governor and Mrs. Carlson are cutting him off."

"Come again?"

"He'll be in a state facility now, instead of a private room at a private rehab. It was too expensive, so I heard," she says, winking.

I arch a brow, and deliver an important question. "How do you know the Carlsons?”

I know this answer, but I'm interested in hearing what she'll say.

She rolls her eyes and gives me a you-should-know-this look. "I was almost his step-mother, Hunter. Surely you know that. I care for him. They say he'll never be the person that he was."

She's wearing her liar's face, the one where her big, blue eyes are bigger and her skinny, sharp-looking brows are almost in her pale hairline.

"I'm surprised you and the governor still keep in touch."

"We don't," she says, and this is what makes my morning. I happen to know she spoke to the governor—a former employer of Michael Lockwood's—yesterday. "That man has forgotten me entirely," she continues. "Son of a bitch, I'd like to have his balls in a glass jar by my bedside." She says all this in a sing-song voice.

"You and the rest of the state," I say.

Priscilla holds out her arm for me, and I dread the next hour the same way I dread getting my blood drawn and flying in helicopters.

I'd rather be anywhere but here. Then I step into the courthouse, and my day gets ten times worse.

*

~ELIZABETH~

I can tell he sees me, but he's acting like he doesn't. He's got Priscilla Heat with him, and they're en route from the courthouse entrance to the courtroom. At first I outright stare, but when his gaze jumps over me and then sticks to Priscilla's face, I drop my eyes to my feet and keep on walking. I feel sick to my stomach as I veer the other way, away from the women's bathroom where I'd hoped to close myself into a stall and wrangle up some nerve, and back toward the front door of the courthouse, where Governor and Mrs. Carlson should be arriving any time now.