by Ella James
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.
I realize for the first time how much hope my stupid little nothing with Hunter has been giving me, because seeing him with that—with that…woman—sucks it all away, making what I'm about to do feel much more difficult.
Nevertheless, I keep a straight face. I take a spot in the chair nearest to the courthouse's side doors and wait with the reporters, who are double-checking microphones and reapplying make-up as they wait for Cross's deadbeat, shithead parents to arrive.
I look down at my aqua pant suit and tell myself if nothing else, I can be glad about the way I look for the first time since high school. I've really taken to the elliptical and the caveman diet, losing almost fifteen pounds, and I'm kind of surprised to find I don't miss my old friend chocolate much at all.
I could let my Hunter sighting throw me off, but I'm determined not to—not yet, anyway. I need to get through this, to make good on a promise I made Cross when we were in ninth grade: that I'd always have his back.
While I wait, I revisit the black and red web site I scoured earlier on my cell phone, feeling nervous butterflies just from looking at the pictures. Even now, with the wheels of my plan already spinning, I'm not sure if I can really do this.
The crowd of reporters stirs, jarring me out of my thoughts, and then the cameras start rolling. A second later Gov. and Mrs. Carlson stroll through the front doors, looking like they've had a thorough spit-shining.
I grit my teeth and follow them with my eyes. As soon as they are through the arched entrance to the courtroom, my lawyer Donald Hartley comes to stand in front of me, arm out. I stand and give him a tight-lipped smile, but don't take his offered arm, choosing instead to walk into the courtroom a half-step behind him.
Donald is dressed in his signature pinstriped Armani suit, the one that makes my stomach churn because it reminds me of the many times we've appeared in court for my mother's violations. He pats my shoulder in a fatherly fashion, and we take our seats in the third row. Immediately I feel the stares burn into my back.
I wonder if I can feel
Hunter's even hotter than the others, but I can't think of him right now. Seeing Cross's parents take their seats on the other side of the aisle, I feel nauseated. I don't trust them. If they can cut off their own son, who knows what they might try to do to me. At the very least I expect I’ll become even more of a social pariah than I already am. That thought only strengthens my resolve, though.
As I wait through the proceedings dealing with other people and their problems, I run Nanette's words through my head. What she told me, when I visited Sunday, about Cross and how 'exceptionally' well he'd been responding to the N-therapy.
I rehearse my lines, expending some effort toward not glancing over my shoulder to look for Hunter.
Finally, the Carlsons' lawyer stands and explains the family's position in a crisp monotone.
Diana Mendez, the judge, nods patiently, just the way she did for my parents' divorce proceedings.
She looks curious when Donald rises. "Permission to speak?" he asks smoothly.
Diana’s lips bunch. "Permission granted."
Donald holds a folder in one hand. He clasps his free hand over the one holding it. "My client, Elizabeth DeVille, is a lifelong friend of Cross Carlson, and is interested in his care.” I hold my breath while quiet sweeps the courtroom, and it is in that moment that I spot Hunter, seated on the fourth row, across the aisle. I inhale deeply, trying not to focus on the outline of his form. "Miss DeVille would like to pay for Mr. Carlson to be returned to his previous facility. In fact—" my stomach squeezes— "she'd like to cover all his medical care for the remainder of this calendar year."
I hear a collective gasp go through the room as cameras start to flash. For a split second, my eyes are pulled toward the wooden chairs on the other side of the foot-worn aisle, where Cross's parents are sitting. I want to see their faces, but they both stare straight ahead. Instead the eyes I meet are Hunter's.
They are wide and ultra-green, and they're trained on my face like they're seeing right through my clothes. Despite my topsy-turvy stomach, I can feel myself warming from the inside out, the flush starting on my breasts and climbing up my throat.
Diana’s brows meet over her nose, and my attention is, thankfully, diverted. She looks unhappy. Maybe confused. She gives a slight shake of her head. "You would need to work that out with the medical center. There's paperwork involved. For it to factor into the change of Cross Carlson's medical custody today—"
"It’s all here," Donald says smoothly, walking forward to hand the judge the folder full of documents I faxed him an hour ago. "You'll find the appropriate signatures enclosed."
Diana takes the folder, pulling out the paperwork and examining it, her long black hair falling over her gown. I watch the way her face loses its puzzled expression, and I can tell she's surprised. Maybe even shocked. She purses her lips again, and when she looks up, I think maybe there's respect in the x-ray look she pins me with.
Half a second later, the Carlsons' lawyer is on her feet. "This isn't legal," she says sharply. "There's no provision for non-family—"
"Yes, you're correct," Diana interrupts, looking short on patience. "There's no provision, either way. And trust me, Ms. Chufunneker, if the bills are being paid, the state has no interest in picking up the tab."
The lawyer looks back down at the governor, and I can tell they're exchanging wordless information. Her gray head raises, and she's looking at the judge again. "Does this grant Miss DeVille the right to make medical decisions on behalf of the younger Mr. Carlson?" Chufunneker sounds mildly outraged.
"Would your clients like that granted?" Diana asks coolly.
"Of course not," Ms. Chufunneker says, having the nerve to look offended on behalf of the horrible Carlsons.
"Well that's good, because they will remain in charge of Cross's medical decisions as long as he's unconscious."
"Including where he's...housed?"
"That included." Judge Mendez tucks her silky hair behind her ear. "If they wish to downgrade to a state facility at taxpayer cost, they certainly may." Her gaze locks on the governor.
The governor colors, and reporters' cameras flash.
Minutes later, the hearing is adjourned. The Carlsons have agreed to move Cross back to Napa Valley Involved Rehab. With all the press here, they have no choice. Which is why I didn't call them at their home after I signed the paperwork early this morning.
I hope if news of how I paid for his care leaks out, the press will use it to crucify the Carlsons.
Chapter Eleven
~ELIZABETH~
To get me out of the courthouse doors, Donald has to wrap his arm around my shoulders and pull me close to his round belly. When we get to the stairs on the front of the building, two security guards in blue suits flank us, asking us to consider making our way straight to our cars. “No lingering.” As if.
They turn around when the Carlsons come out the door behind us, and the swarm of press shoots after them.
I part ways with Donald at a V in the sidewalk where he veers left, toward the street, and I turn right, toward the shady, overflowing courthouse parking lot.
I can hear the clink of heels on cement and low chatter of the press just steps behind me, but I'm moving at my normal pace, trying to keep good posture and avoid looking like a scandal-maker—which I definitely am.
The tap-tap of heels taps a little faster, and all of a sudden there's a blonde woman beside me. She sticks her microphone in my face, and I tuck my head, turning away. "Were you and Cross Carlson romantically involved?"
I cut into the parking lot, semi-freaked out. The footsteps grow louder, and I wonder just how many people are following me. I’m too afraid to check, and then a man's voice booms right beside my left ear. “Is this a decision you made after visiting Cross Carlson at his new facility?”
I duck my head and shoot off between a row of cars. If I move fast enough, surely they'll give up. I scan the lot for my Camry and keep on walking—fast.
"Did you have anything to do with his accident?" The grating male voice comes at me from the side, and I hold up my hand, almost bumping into the hood of a red Corvette.
“Please go away.”
"Miss DeVille?" I feel a shadow beside me and my eyes flicker to the right; it's another male reporter with thick wheat-colored hair and a face full of freckles. "Where will you get the money? After what happened with your family’s business—"
Something bright winks in my eyes, and I wobble backwards, bumping into a row of reporters and their cameras. Crap. These people are crazy.
“Could you please leave me alone?” I cry, holding my arms out. I side-step, trying to get out of the thick of them, and my hand smacks into Freckles.
"Where will you get the money?" Now he's in my face, and his tone is more insistent.
“That's not your business,” I snap. “Now go away!”
But he doesn't. He comes closer, and all of a sudden I notice that the thing he's holding in his left hand is a tiny camcorder with a flashing green light on the front.
“Oh my God.” I cover my face, feeling sick. It's bad enough being hounded, but to have it all captured on camera?
With my hands still covering my face, I dart between two SUVs and start to run. I'm clearing a row of cars, finally in sight of my own, when I hear the squeal of brakes and something hits me hard.
A compact car drives by, and I'm aware that I would have gotten hit were it not for the strong pair of arms around my waist. I glance up—into Hunter's face. As his hands close over my upper arms, I notice his expression. He looks like an avenging angel, with his strong jaw, soft lips, and ruffled gold hair. He's dressed in a suit that's clearly tailored for his shoulders and his chest, and even in the circumstances, I can feel the heat begin to gather between my legs.
I'm pulled against his chest and hurried the last few steps to my car. I can hear the reporters pounding the ground behind us, their shouts rising sharply over the noise of traffic, but all I see is Hunter's green eyes, widened with what
looks a lot like concern.
"Where are your keys?" His voice is calm and rich. Mine, I think irrationally. The gentle strength of his arms is all for me.
"They're in my purse," I say, as the cameras flash all around us. I can actually hear them click, just like in the movies. My heart is beating so hard I think I might throw up.
My door swings open and I feel the solid heat of him behind me. With one hand on my shoulder, he says, "Get on in there, Libby."
