by Ella James
I’m looking for an upscale suburb on the west side of town. It’s called The Woods, although I can’t imagine there are really any ‘woods’ in Vegas. I find Birch Street pretty quickly and, again, feel surprised at the ordinary name.
For Priscilla Heat, I’d imagined something more exotic—and maybe she was living somewhere more exotic, before what went down in Mexico two and a half months ago. She and Jim Gunn tried to make Lizzy and I the latest victims of their budding business. While Jim Gunn got arrested right out of Mexico and charged with multiple counts of abduction, human trafficking, and murder, Priscilla didn’t re-surface until March, when she got caught crossing the border with some drug runners near Nogales.
Somehow, both she and Jim Gunn got out on bail. I guess my father’s not the only powerful friend they have. I don’t think there’s any way Jim Gunn won’t get put away for life, but rumor has it Priscilla is planning to turn state’s witness, so she could still come out okay.
I know for sure she’s hidden in this little corner of suburbia because Hunter West told me—and he’s got a P.I. on her ass. Now that she’s here, she can’t leave. She’s got a tracker bracelet, or something like that. I guess I’ll find out.
The drive to The Woods takes me about forty minutes, and as I suspected, there’s hardly a tree in sight. The neighborhood is gross: a bunch of three-story, Spanish style homes that sit on half-acre lots in between near identical three-story, Spanish style homes on acre-sized lots. There’s a sidewalk lined with bushes. Tennis courts. Grass and flowers meticulously maintained by the HOA.
Nothing marks Priscilla’s house as different from the rest. One nineteen Birch Street is a patterned stone monstrosity with a gaudy leopard fountain in the front and huge cement balconies on all sides, as if it was built for someone under a “no leaving the house” rule. The grass is so green it hurts my eyes, and as I roll closer, I can see the spray of sprinklers embedded here and there, making little rainbows in the fading sunlight.
There’s no gate, so I can drive right down the winding driveway. I park the Mach between the large, circular fountain and her front porch. As I take off my helmet, I notice the porch is pink-tinted cement. Classy.
I brush my hair down with my fingers, then think of who I’m visiting and pull it back up sideways. My shoulder is sore, so I roll it before putting my left hand in my jacket pocket. The jacket is heavy, and it’s not cold here, but I can’t bring myself to take it off. Now that I’m here, I feel weird. I feel naked. Exposed. I guess it’s because she got one up on me that day at the vineyard. Or maybe I’m just nervous. I ring her bell.
I pull the little picture out of my jeans pocket and look down at Meredith’s face while I bang on the door. It sucks being here—having to go to Priscilla Heat for anything—but I remind myself that I’m doing this for one of her victims. One who didn’t escape her like I did.
I slide the picture back into my pocket and I lift my hand to knock again. Before my knuckles hit the wood, I hear a second of static, followed by Priscilla Heat’s snippy voice. “What do you want?”
I spy a discreet speaker on the wall to my right; it’s maybe the size of a wallet, and painted to blend in with one of the slabs of stone. Facing it, I say, “This is Cross Carlson.”
“I can see that.” I glance up, then left, and there’s the camera. I need to be more observant. I tilt my head back at it and shove my right hand into my pocket. “Look—I want to talk to you.”
“Not interested.”
There’s a noise, like the connection was cut, and I say, “Wait! Are you there?”
No answer.
I ring the doorbell eleven times before I hear the speaker come on. “This is harassment.” She sounds annoyed. “I can have you arrested.”
I snort. Yeah, right. I direct my gaze back to the camera. “I’ll stop if you let me in.”
“You’ll stop when I send my body guards down.” She sounds intent, but something in her voice makes me think she’s lying. Probably the knowledge, also provided by Hunter West, that she’s almost broke.
Regardless, I try another angle. “Your trial’s coming up, right? Sometime in July?”
There’s a pause. When she speaks, she sounds bitter. “What do you want, Cross Carlson?” She drags my last name out, like it’s a curse word, and I wonder if my father has really severed ties with her this time.
“I said I want to talk.” I roll my eyes at her through the camera. “There’s something in it for you. After you hear me, if you don’t want to help me, you can tell me to go fuck myself. I’m not interested in spending more time with you than I have to.”
Another pause, during which I can practically see her face pinch into a frown. “Come inside. Third floor, second bedroom on the right. If you see the bunnies, don’t be loud or stomp. It frightens them.”
The intercom goes dead and the front door clicks open. The foyer is gaudy emerald marble, but obviously expensive, so I guess she’s not completely out of money.
I’m about halfway up the highway-wide sparkling stone staircase when I notice something dart past me. It’s small and dark, and the shock of it zipping between my legs almost makes me lose my footing. I climb a little faster, and that’s when I see its ears wiggle.
Bunnies…
I see a second set of ears, and a third.
Holy shit, does this lunatic have a McMansion full of rabbits?
CHAPTER EIGHT
As if in answer, when I get to the third floor landing, a large, brown rabbit approaches. His ears twitch as he sniffs my boots. I spot more rabbits roaming the lush red carpet. Most of them are white, but some are brown and others black. One is gray. I’m so shocked by them, I almost don’t notice that I’m heading left instead of right. I turn around, almost squishing a really tiny white rabbit with my boot, and I hear a squeal echo through the sound system.
“BE CAREFUL!”
I turn a quick circle, looking from my feet to the ceiling, where I see more cameras. Damn. I’ve gotta get better at this shit.
I roll my eyes again and make my way to her bedroom door, hyper-focused of how big and dirty my boots are on the thick carpet. Or, at least I am until I see three more of the little critters huddled together farther down the hall. Black and brown and white. I shake my head at them and knock on Priscilla’s door.
It clicks open with the same magic as the front door, and I step inside what can only be described as a shrine to Priscilla Heat…and rabbits. I don’t even spot Priscilla herself at first, because I’m lost on the custom, heart-shaped bed (topped by a framed portrait of Priscilla in nothing but thigh-highs); the sunken sun-shaped tub a few steps from the bed; the wall of Priscilla Heat posters (oddly, signed by Priscilla); the red, pink, and white décor; and all the rabbits. Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of rabbits in this room. I sniff the air and am stunned to find it smells like over-strong perfume and not rabbit shit.
Then Priscilla steps in front of me, wearing a plush pink robe with her hair piled on her head, and I realize I didn’t see her sooner because she blends in with the room.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. I look around the room again, trying to get a number on the rabbits.
Priscilla smiles, revealing her freakishly bleached teeth. “There are twenty here with me in my suite. Twenty-nine more are in the house.” She frowns, looking troubled. “We lost one yesterday. Prince Albert got electrocuted when he chewed through a lamp cord.”
I blink. Then I focus on her eyes, checking for pupil size. If she’s high, they’ll be big, the way mine always were back at rehab.
She looks lucid enough, though. Perfect tanned skin, flawless red lips, shiny blonde hair. Her breasts force the too-small robe to part, so I can see almost everything but her nipples. My traitor of a dick twitches once before it realizes who she is.
Priscilla spreads her arms wide. “Take a seat, Cross Carlson. Anywhere is fine.” She says it like a sigh, but there’s some theatrics there. She’s happy that I’m here. I’m sure she
is.
I wave at a nearby fluffy white love seat, which ironically looks like it’s made of rabbit fur. “Why don’t you? I’m okay standing.”
She arches a brow, giving me an exaggerated expression that falls somewhere between a pout and feigned concern. “I see you’re looking better. Less like death.”
She sinks into a wing-backed chair and I curl my lip. “Disappointing I’m sure.”
She looks down at her blood red nails, rubbing one with the fingers of the opposite hand. I feel a streak of anger that she can use both hands.
When she looks up again, she’s all business. “What do you want, Cross Carlson? I’m not interested in buying wrapping paper.”
She extends her legs out in front of her, and I catch the glint of her state-issue ankle monitor.
“I’m looking for Missy King. I know you know where she is. If you tell me, I’ll help you.”
Priscilla snorts. It’s the girliest snort I’ve ever heard. Her nostrils flare a little, and she makes a high-pitched noise somewhere in the back of her throat. “And send myself up shit creek even further? No can do, señor.”
I fumble for the plan I should have polished back on my Mach. Nothing comes to mind, so I have to settle for, “I can help you if you help me.”
Another snort. “You can’t even help yourself.”
I roll my eyes again. It’s not something I do a lot, but Priscilla brings it out of me. “Who’s walking around and who’s stuck at home with a police tracker? You need as much help as you can get. Being tied to Jim Gunn is poison.”
She puckers her lips, saying nothing because she knows I’m right. I don’t speak, wanting to make her ask me what I can offer her. I need to hear her ask.
She spreads her arms theatrically. “What can you do for me, Cross Carlson?”
I press my lips together as the obvious answer comes to me. “It’s more what I won’t do. I won’t turn in the evidence I have against you, Jim Gunn, and my father. E-mails that you sent to each other about a year ago. I have them in my inbox, and I also have them printed, hidden in a few spots.” One of which is Lizzy’s mother’s house.
“I don’t believe you,” she says, but her words are an angry hiss.
I pull out my cell phone, and in half a minute, “I’ve got one up now.” Within a heartbeat, Priscilla is on me, legs and arms wrapped around my hips and torso like an oversized koala bear. Her rock-hard breasts punch into my chest, and her fingernails scratch my neck as she grabs for my phone. I accidentally backhand her in the struggle, and I cringe as she falls back against the white couch. She is a terrible person, but obviously I would never intentionally hit her.
“I’m sorry.” I step back, sliding my phone into my pants. “I take it you believe me?”
Priscilla arches her left eyebrow in a way that reminds me of a Disney villain. “I want to see one of the e-mails.”
I shake my head. “I’m not handing you my phone again. But I’ll give you some details. In one of them, you and Jim Gunn mentioned something about your diamond-studded cunt.” I smirk at her, and Priscilla actually colors a little. It’s quickly followed by an unabashed grin, which I feel sure is just for show. “I’m pierced, darling.”
I’m not going to dignify that with a response. “Obviously there’s lots of damning stuff in there too. Jim Gunn isn’t very smart. He actually mentions Ceintos by name in two of the e-mails.”
I slide my phone into my jacket and fold my arms as Priscilla pales.
“That may be, but I never did.”
“You’re disgusting, Priscilla. Not any better than Jim Gunn—”
“This is his business, not mine!”
I shake my head. “That doesn’t change what you did.”
Priscilla’s red mouth twists into an ugly pout. “She was a little bitch. She fucked your father behind your mother’s back. You should be glad she’s gone.”
“No one deserves to be gone that way.” I want to add, except maybe you, but bite my tongue. I need her help. “All you have to do is tell me where you think she might be.”
“Why do you care?”
I don’t see why I should lie to her, so I don’t. “I feel like shit for just leaving her there. I found out this happened a year ago, and—”
“If the police find out, you’ll be in trouble too.”
“I don’t care.” It’s true—I really don’t.
Priscilla rubs her forehead with her manicured hand, and her eyes meet mine. “Believe it or not…I do feel guilt at times. It was a mistake, getting involved with Jim. He brought me down. Made me worse than I really am.”
I nod solemnly, event thought I’m not buying any of it.
She stands and steps close to me. Close enough that I can barely breathe for the scent of her toxic perfume. She runs her finger down my jacket, almost like she’s seducing me. I step back.
“I’m sorry about you, too, Cross. We were covering our asses, and we made a terrible decision that night.”
“Well this is your chance to undo that. Start making better ones. Tell me what happened to Missy King.”
“That Mexican you saw in the barter house that day, the one whose gun you stole—that’s Guapo. He works for Jesus Cientos.” She pauses, scrutinizing my face, like that name might mean something to me. It doesn’t. She smiles. “He’s big-time. The leader of the Cientos Cartel. Usually he just sells the girls, but he kept Missy. He liked the little— he liked her. During the…time I spent in Mexico—” she must mean when Guapo and his guys ran off with her— “I found out she ran from Jesus. He treated her very well, I heard, but she wasn’t grateful. Some months ago—almost a year maybe; I’m not sure—she ran to…some church.” Priscilla wrinkles her nose, like the word tastes bad. Hell, it probably burns her tongue. “A Catholic church. It’s supposed to be neutral ground for the cartels.”
Priscilla sits back down and drops her head into her hands. “Sometimes when I think about this, I feel ill. It was a bad decision. Very bad.”
“How can I find this church?”
When Priscilla looks up, I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes. “I know someone who might be able to help you, but…it might be dangerous.”
“I don’t care. Tell me.”
“His name is Carlos. He’s a hustler in Mexicali. Most nights he’s at a seedy little strip club called La Casa del Amor, off Boulevard Islas Agrarias.”
I pull out my cell phone, jotting down what she said, then cut my eyes up at her. “Seedy by American standards or Mexican standards?”
“Mexican.” She fans her face.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. “And if I want to talk to Carlos, I should…mention you?”
She nods. “Mention Priscilla sent you.”
“He’ll know where the church is?”
She nods. “It’s hardly a secret.”
I think this over. Figure it’s the best I’m going to get. “Thank you, Priscilla.”
I start walking to her door, and she grabs my arm. “You’re not going to tell, are you? You’re not going to share the e-mails? I’m repentant. I’m helping you.”
I nod. She is helping me. But I’m leaving the decision to Missy King.
CHAPTER NINE
I want to drive toward Mexico as soon as I leave Priscilla’s house, but that would put me crossing the border at night. And I know that’s not a good idea. I exit her neighborhood the back way and spend some time driving around the city, trying to be sure she didn’t put a tail on me. For all I know, my father warned her I might pay her a visit.
When I feel reassured that no one’s on me, I stop at a Target in the burbs and stock up on supplies. Some are for Meredith, some for me. Maybe I go a little overboard with the girl stuff, but if I find her, and I can get her to leave with me, I want to have everything she needs. Everything she hasn’t had this last year—or however long it’s been.
It seems possible to me that we might have to hide out for a little while, at the shop or maybe somewhere else when
we get back to the States. I think I’ve got the essentials covered (I am NOT buying tampons or any of that other stuff), but I’m reminded again that I really don’t have a plan, and what little I’m going on comes from the mouth of deviant porn star.
I wonder, as I cross the parking lot to the Mach, if a year or a year and a half—I don’t know exactly when they sold her—is long enough to ruin someone for good. I hope not.
I check into the Hampton Inn and soak my shoulder in a hot shower. It’s stiff and sore from the way I’m riding the bike, but I don’t feel a pain attack coming on, so I’m fine.
The next morning I’m up before the sun is. Just can’t sleep. I pull on the jeans I wore yesterday, my scuffed up boots, and a long-sleeved ringer that's got a grease stain near the collar. I think of Suri as I clomp down the stairs. She still hasn't called me but I called her last night and left a message.
I use an old rag I grab out of a janitor’s cart on the first floor to scuff the Mach up some—more inconspicuous that way—and check my map again. Almost six hours to Mexicali, and La Casa del Amor.
Thoughts of the strip club bring up thoughts of Marchant Radcliffe and his whore house, the ridiculously named ‘Love Inc.’ I've gotten to know the guy, and he's decent, but I can’t get over 'Love Inc’. I think he should call it Blow Jobs for Big Money.
I only got to know of the place because Lizzy sold her virginity there. To pay my medical bills. She even opened a savings account for me, which I haven't been able to get her to close yet. I'm not touching the money, and I think she knows that. It’s not like I was penniless when I had my accident.
Sometimes, when I think about it too long, I hate her for it.
And the two million dollars—yeah, two million—just sits there. I thought about investing it and giving it back to her with gains, but realized the first time I tried to read the Wall Street Journal—even the front page—that I’m no investor.
Her groom to be, on the other hand, could probably double it before the wedding.
