Selling Scarlett

by Ella James

  As I listen to the room around me, I think that I can hear her voice. She sounds upset, and it kills me that I’m the reason why.

  My back is sore from pressing on the door, so I rock forward, leaning over my knees with my head propped in my hands.

  "I fucked up... I fucked it all up... I fucked up..."

  Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can hear myself sobbing and my dad yelling and I see all that blood.

  I inhale deeply.

  Libby. Think of Libby.

  I've got her face pinned to the forefront of my mind like a motherfucking screensaver when the phone rings. Not my cell phone, but my land line. Shit.

  *

  ~ELIZABETH~

  I don't want to leave, but I'm not sure what else to do. Hunter doesn't want me here, and I can't force him to, regardless of how much I want to stay. I want to walk back through the door, and I would, but this is the second time he's said I should leave, and Priscilla was just here. He has a whole life outside me, and if he means what he says about not wanting to take things any further with me, I don't see the point of trying to force myself on him.

  I'm packing my bags, feeling numb and desolate, when Suri calls.

  "Lizzy—hi.” She pauses for a second. “How are things?"

  “They're good. I'm headed home.”

  “Really? Wow. So I guess things must have progressed?”

  “Kind of,” I hedge. I don't even try to go into it, because I can tell by her voice that something's wrong. My stomach's tied in knots, because I'm worried that it's Cross.

  “Is something going on? You sound weird,” I say.

  She sighs. “Girl, you always know, don't you?”

  “I'm your bestie. That's my job. So spit it out.”

  “It's Cross. He's saying...what happened that night wasn't an accident. That someone did it. He's upset, like he pulled out all his IVs and cursed at Nanette, and then he told me to leave because he needs some time to think." Her voice breaks on the word 'leave' and I know something is going on with the two of them.

  “Wow.” I clutch the phone a little tighter. Cross has had some serious issues with his father, but I don't think he has any real enemies. Does he? I lean against the bedpost, feeling sick—over this, over Hunter. Over everything. “Is he doing better now? I mean, when you left was he...”

  “I didn't leave. I'm outside, in a waiting area. I think they sedated him. He was really upset.” She drags in a teary breath and I can hear a sniffle, followed by the rustle I'm sure must be a tissue. "I'm sorry to burden you with this while you're at Hunter's, but I didn't know who else to call. He said that when he left to go...after the fight the two of you had, there was this guy messing with his bike. Like, touching it and stuff. The guy told him he liked the bike, and when Cross tried to go, he tried to get him to go back in and have another drink. It doesn't sound like much, but Cross says when he got onto the road he had trouble steering. He said the steering had been messed up, and the breaks were messed up too, but not completely. So he didn't flip like he might have, he just lost control of the steering...because of how much he had to drink.”

  “Holy shitballs. Did he know this guy?”

  “Cross said he looked like someone he used to know. I asked if it was an enemy or something, and he acted kind of weird. I don't know if we can trust him, though, Liz. He thinks you two had a fight because he was jealous over you messing around with Hunter.”

  “He was,” I whisper.

  Suri huffs her breath out, and I can feel her censure. Her irritation that I kept it from her. “I guess I don't know anything.” The next second, I'm left there standing with the dead line in my hand, and no way home. How nice.

  A phone rings, and for a moment I think it’s Suri. It’s actually the landline on the table in the corner. It rings once, twice, three times before I reluctantly lift the earpiece.

  "Hello," I hear Hunter say. His voice is extra low and slightly raspy, and if I'm not mistaken, I can hear the echo of it through the door that joins our rooms.

  Almost immediately, there is another voice.

  "Hunter." It sends a shiver down my spine, because I know that voice from TV. Hunter's father. Shit. "Are you alone?" Conrad West's voice has always been a little creepy: a cross between Darth Vader and a used car salesperson.

  "I'm at my house and yeah, I'm by myself. What can I do for you, Sir?" Hunter sounds weary. Under that I hear a ring of irritation.

  "It's been a long time since I've heard from you," Conrad says.

  "Yep."

  "You feel no obligation to keep in touch with your father? Your sister says she never hears from you either.”

  "What do you want, Dad?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I don't know." His voice tightens. "You wanted to wish me a good day?"

  "You know damn well why I called!” Conrad snaps. “You're in water hot enough to boil a crayfish. Is there anything you care to tell me?"

  "I don't care to tell you shit. That's why I never call."

  I can practically feel Conrad's anger through the phone line. My palm around the phone starts sweating as Hunter’s dad growls, "You don't want to talk? Then allow me. You are being investigated for the murder of a woman named Sara Meyer. Does that ring a bell?" Conrad's voice has gotten more Southern; he's practically drawling. "Sometime between the night you engaged her services and the next morning, she disappeared. Right out of your bed. She was found dead last night in a ditch in Arizona, with your cuff link in her cold, dead fingers.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “That is immaterial, Hunter. You can't be investigated. Do you understand how badly you've fucked up?"

  I wait for Hunter to come up cursing like he normally does, and I'm surprised when the line is eerie quiet.

  "Okay, then let me spell it out” Rita is dead because of you. She died before her time because of you. Because you couldn't learn to quit pushing that woman's buttons.” I don’t understand what exactly Conrad is saying, but I’m shocked. “Do you want to see your hands in cuffs, Hunter? Are you intentionally trying to ruin your life, because you're doing exceedingly well?” Hunter says nothing, and his dad continues. “You tend to do that. Ruin things. Well let me tell you, this sort of scandal is below our family.

  "You know, for years after you moved to Vegas I had patience with you. I, too, had some oats to sew, but unlike you, I moved forward."

  Hunter's voice warbles on the line, then comes through loud and strong; condemning. "You fell in love with a hooker. And she died. That's how you ‘moved forward.’ Because my mother died. Rita weaseled her way back into your life and you took her, and you pretended she was my mom, too. This scandal's not below our family. This scandal is our family."

  "No it’s not the only scandal comes from you!” Conrad snaps in a rush of anger.

  "I'm not the one who hit a little fucking kid!"

  There’s a pause, and then Mr. West’s voice lowers, soft and deadly. "Neither am I, but sometimes I wish I had. Clean this mess up, Hunter. Pay off the cops. Do whatever you need to do to bury this. But let me warn you, you may have to go farther than I did for you. Priscilla Heat is close enough to Carlson to suck his fat, red cock, and she is covering for him. From what I’ve been able to gather, this somehow goes back to one of Carlson’s mistresses. This is hearsay now and I'm working to find evidence, but I am not going public with it. It will hurt my career. You need to find someone who can. Check your e-mail. Check it daily. Check it hourly. Right this course or so help me. Goodbye."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ~HUNTER~

  I've been pounding the bag so long that things have started getting blurry. When I hear my name, it's like a salve, but I can't stop what I'm doing. My knuckles are bleeding, the scabs from the charity fight split open, and I need the blood.

  My father is right. I do have her blood on my hands.

  I was playing cards online in the basement that afternoon when Rita came in. For months, it had been th
e only place I knew she couldn't reach me. The cancer had advanced. She couldn't make it down the stairs. I remember how I thought it served her right. She had come to find me in the basement playroom so many times before. The walls had always muffled the sound of her palm against my cheek. When she screamed and raged, the sound bounced off the tile, magnifying in my ears. But my father could pretend he didn't hear.

  These were different days, though. Rita was quiet more than she was speaking. When I got hungry or wanted to go outside, I typically only had to avoid the sitting room, where I could hear her the Darth Vadar puffs of her little blue oxygen machine.

  So when I heard her creeping down the stairs, hanging onto the bannister, gasping freakishly without her oxygen, I'd half wondered if she'd died and come to haunt me on her way to hell.

  She was skeletal, with dry bald patches between short tufts of black hair, but I remember feeling anxious when I saw her reflection in the monitor. She might have been weak as hell, but she still hated my guts.

  She raised her bone-thin arm and I whipped around, my arms already up in front of my face. But she wasn't trying to hit me. She had a hot pink shirt. As she shook it out, I noticed spots of bleach.

  “Did—” gasp— “you—” gasp— “do this?”

  “No.”

  She held the shirt out, her frail hand shaking. “You...lie.”

  “No I'm not.” Her eyes were bugging out. Her gasps getting louder. My heart was racing, so I tried to curb my fear and keep things light. “You should go back upstairs.”

  It was clear she couldn't hit me. What was the point of bringing me the shirt? I sat there staring at her, and that's when she did it. She wrapped her bony fingers around my wrist and dug her brittle nails into my skin. I remember looking into her flat, brown eyes. Her mouth—her trembling lips—were pulled into a sneer. She sank her nails in deep enough that I could feel the blood well and she hissed, “You're a—” BIG gasp— “selfish little bastard.”

  I don't know if she was already falling when I pushed her. I know when my palm connected with her chest, her eyes rolled back into her head, but were they rolling back already? In my nightmares, I can never tell.

  I knew as soon as I pushed her that I'd made a horrible mistake. I even tried to grab her, but her knees just crumpled. She hit the floor, and blood was everywhere in heartbeats. I tried to find the source, but it was everywhere: her mouth and nose, her head. Even—I remember—her ears.

  I still can’t get away from all that blood. I wake up covered in it. It’s there when I have a good hand. When someone orders red meat medium rare. When I'm tagging cattle.

  Rita is always bleeding out on me.

  Right now, I want the blood. I punch the bag again.

  "Hunter..."

  Shit. I whirl around, panting. I had almost forgotten she was here. “Scarlett” DeVille. She reaches for me, but I step away, holding my bleeding hands near my sides. “Libby—go away.”

  “I can't.” She sounds like she's crying. When I blink the sweat out of my eyes, I find that hers are wet. Without thinking, I pull her into my arms, pressing my lips against her hair as I speak quietly near her ear. “Do you see why you need to leave now? I'm a fucking mess.”

  “I know you are.” Her voice breaks as she wraps her arm around my waist. “That's why I can't leave.” I inhale vanilla and cinnamon, allow my eyes to close. “Hunter, I know what happened with Sarabelle.”

  I step back, feeling like I've just had my guts stomped out. “What are you talking about?”

  Her eyes are huge, but she doesn't back away. “I wasn't being nosy, but I heard it at the ranch. You slept with Sarabelle, and then she disappeared. And now...they found her. That's why you were upset last night, wasn't it?”

  I rub my hair, noting the stinging of my knuckles. “You don't need to worry about any of this.”

  Her jaw tightens. “Did you hurt her?”

  “What?” I suck in a breath. I can feel the blood rush out of my head, the way it used to when I heard Rita coming down the stairs. “Fucking hell, Libby, do you think I would hurt a woman?”

  “Did you?”

  “Jesus—no. Don't take my word for it. That's just stupid. But no, I didn't hurt her. I would never hurt her.” My throat goes tight and I have to work my jaw. I look away, and Libby takes a step closer.

  “The cops think you did it?”

  I swallow hard. “She was found with one of my cufflinks.

  She looks into my eyes, and I see only sadness. “Oh, Hunter. How did you get into this?”

  “I don't know. And I wouldn't tell you even if I did. You’ve got no business anywhere near this.”

  “I already am. I’m a Junior Ranger Prostitute now, and more importantly I care about you, Hunter. And I'm sorry this happened, but…” She pauses, obviously working herself up to something. I definitely don’t expect her to say, “I didn’t mean too, but I overheard some of your conversation with your dad.”

  I can feel the air leave the room. I start to sway.

  “I'm so sorry. I answered when it rang and—”

  “You shouldn't have,” I rasp.

  “I know.” A tear falls down her cheek. “He was really horrible to you.”

  I turn my back to her as blood roars in my head. "I fucked up... I fucked it all up... I fucked up..."

  I can sense her coming around to stand in front of me, beside the punching bag, but I've got a hand over my face. “I heard him say something about Priscilla. Is that why you and her are...I mean, is that why you have sex with her? Because of the—”

  I whirl on her, cutting her off. “There is no why. There is no why! Where you're concerned, there is no why! Quit asking questions and just GO! Fuck it, Libby! Can't you see I'm trying to protect you!”

  “From what?” Her blue eyes blink. “What is going on? Is she trying to frame you, Hunter?”

  “I don't know,” I answer finally.

  She touches my shoulder and I can hear her sucked in, sobby breath. “Your back...”

  I raise my head to look her in the eye. The pity on her face cracks something in me open. I shift my weight, trying to draw a breath. I can't take the pity, so I dip into my reservoir of anger, instead. It makes my tone sharper when I ask, “Did you ever think maybe I like that shit?”

  “Do you?”

  “What do you think?” I grab her shoulder without thinking about my bloody hands. As soon as I see my stained fingers on her, I feel dizzy. “Do you think I like it?” I rasp.

  “I don't know.” Her eyes, on mine, are huge. Her face looks pale and worried. Out of nowhere, guilt slams through me like a train. I should never have brought her to my home, and if she heard that phone call with my dad, she knows way more than she should about an unsafe situation.

  Damnit!

  I do the only thing I can to say I'm sorry.

  *

  ~ELIZABETH~

  Before Hunter kisses me, I really think he's going to throw me out of his house. He's bleeding, upset, radiating anger and frustration, and I'm just...here. Useless. Totally unable to help him. Unwanted, even, if what he said earlier was true.

  Then he cups his palm around my head and pulls me close and plants his mouth on mine, and my knees turn to jelly. He hold me against him and kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air.

  I kiss him back, returning fire for fire, because he's Hunter, and my body just responds. But my mind is spinning. Someone hit him when he was a kid? Is that why he let Priscilla hurt him? Priscilla is having sex with Governor Carlson? Is that why Cross hates her so much? And Governor Carlson had another mistress killed?”

  It dawns on me that Hunter is right. This is some really big shit. Some huge shit, and I don’t know what’s going on. Then Hunter's tongue sweeps through my mouth, and just like that, I forget my worries.

  I tug his hair and run my free hand up his hard shoulder. He's shirtless now, here in his gym, and I can feel the line of every muscle. My hand settles over his strong nape as he kisses
roughly down my neck and I moan, “Hunter.”

  “You're a stubborn...woman...Libby,” he pants as he kisses down my chest and rips my button-up blouse open. His hands tickle behind my back and my bra is off in seconds. My breath is in his mouth as his fingers make quick work of my slacks. He lays me on the bright blue work-out mat and sticks one big forearm inside my slacks, moaning in pleasure when his fingers find their mark. I'm not wearing underwear. I didn't want a panty line.