by Ella James
I'm freaking out now, too, so I struggle to stand up, and Cross grabs me and pushes me under the bed. Right before my face mashes into the dirty, tile floor, I notice Cross's ankles are still bound, and he's balancing on the outside of his soles.
Then there's a gunshot...but it's not Cross firing. He's in the process of crouching down behind me; I can feel something sharp between my skin and the rope, first on my hands and then my ankles. Then I turn to find Cross freeing his feet. Then he stands and whirls toward the door, where the sound of footsteps echoes.
He mutters a confused-sounding curse. “Hunter West?”
I jump up and get a glimpse of Hunter, leaning in the doorway. I know the exact moment he sees me, because relief makes his eyes widen and his mouth fall open. His gaze flies over me, and he rushes toward me. I'm already anticipating his arms around me. I can practically feel them. But before he reaches me, a loud boom wrenches the air, and Hunter flies into the wall.
“OH MY GOD!”
I watch in horror as he slumps down to the floor, his face twisting in agony as his right hand fumbles toward his bright red, left shoulder. He lifts his head, and his wild eyes comb the room until they settle on my face.
“Hunter!” I rush him, noting dimly as I fly across the room that Cross is on top of Lockwood, pummeling his face.
“Hunter! HUNTER! NO, no, no, no, please!” I grab his body, shocked and terrified by how limp he is already.
“Libby.” His hands grab at me as he starts panting, which quickly turns to horrible choking. “Libby...” he gasps, “you...okay?”
That's the last thing he says before his eyes roll back into his head.
I start to scream, and somewhere far away, I hear one of my would-be kidnappers cry: “Chota!”
Chapter Forty-Two
~HUNTER~
I must have died and gone to hell, because I'm burning. The fire spreads through my upper body, quickly overwhelming all my senses. Then I'm dragged down into darkness. How many layers of hell are there supposed to be? I can't remember, but I must be going deep.
The burning is more intense now. I hear a man moaning and wonder if it’s me. I hear a woman moan, too, and I’m worried the woman is Libby. I scream her name over and over, but I don’t get an answer. Libby's not here. Michael Lockwood took her.
I relive the moments after she disappeared from my vineyard. I'm outside screaming her name, and Dave is there almost immediately. By chance he’d picked up Lockwood’s trail that morning and eventually followed him to my home.
When Lockwood was able to gain easy entry—because I didn't lock the door behind Libby when she came inside—Dave hid his bike and tried to get a peek. He was at the side of the house when he heard two cars pull up, and he got to the front just in time to see a silver Audi he didn’t recognize spirit Cross and Libby away.
We jump on Dave’s bike and give chase, but we haven’t caught them by the time we leave the neighborhood. Dave has an idea. A terrible one. Lockwood spent two hours at a tiny airstrip before coming to my house.
We arrive just as a Lear Jet goes airborne. I call the FBI, and it takes them almost an hour to give the local cops the clearance to examine the flight records. They arrive in time to spend another hour figuring out the records have been falsified. The plane claimed to be headed north, toward Redding, California, but tracking software shows it actually went south.
The FBI has to wait for orders, but I don’t. Hal and I get on my plane. It’s several hellish hours before the plane we're chasing lands—in a rural area outside San Luis Rio Colorado, Mexico. My pilot, Victor, lands in a field, and Hal and I start trying to trace a path from the empty plane to Libby. Fifty bucks gets us a hotel name, and two hundred gets us a dinged up dirt bike. We pull out just as another plane—the FBI, Hal says—flies low overhead.
I'm moaning again, and just like before, the woman is crying. There's something clutching my hand. Someone, and I feel sure it’s Libby. She’s crying.
I squeeze her hand as hard as I can, and the crying stops. “It's okay, Libby.”
I have the strange suspicion that I'm only managing a whisper. She’s crying again. I mean, she is really going at it. I squeeze her hand, and the crying turns to sobbing.
Damnit, Libby.
Her sobs make the burn worse. Darkness starts to fade, and I can see white flames. I feel like I'm choking and I start to struggle against the invisible hands that hold me.
Fuck—oh fuck. I don't like this. Not at all. There are so many voices rising up around me. Someone slaps my face, and I don't think it's hard, but I'm already on edge.
And then there is light. Fluorescent light.
Holy shit. I turn my head left and right, squeezing my eyes shut against the searing pain, and there is Libby, bent over me and crying. And I really must be confused about what's going on, because she's wearing scrubs. Libby looks beautiful in scrubs.
*
~ELIZABETH~
Hunter is in and out of consciousness for almost two days. They say it's not that long considering the bullet's trajectory—through his left lung—and where it lodged, by one of the branches of his axillary artery. He almost bled to death in the hour-long helicopter ride to UC San Diego hospital, and when we got here, they wheeled him straight into surgery, which lasted four excruciating hours.
The nurses let me stay by him in the ICU when he comes out. I'm not sure why, but it probably has something to do with Marchant Radcliffe telling everyone that I'm his fiancé.
His first forty-eight hours in the ICU, Hunter's mostly sleeping. The incision, on his back, around his shoulder blade, is called a thoracotomy and is supposed to be one of the most painful sites for surgery. So they have to keep him sedated. I hate it, and spend probably too much time sitting by his bed, crying. Cross stays with me for most of the first day, but he has to go back to rehab the next. Suri gives me some company, too, and of course Marchant is in and out.
The weirdest thing that happens in the first forty-eight hours is that my mom visits. She's wearing a pants suit—my designer-loving mother's definition of drab—and her hair, which she normally pulls into a dramatic up-do, is flowing down her shoulders, much like mine. I meet her in the ICU waiting room, and when she hugs me, I start sobbing. I have to say, it's one of the weirdest experiences I've had in years. It's even weirder when she says she's staying.
So that's what happens. While I'm asked every imaginable question by the FBI, my mother keeps me fed and brings me clean clothes and tries to make me get some sleep.
On the second night after we arrive—the night Dave tells me that Michael Lockwood, AKA Jim Gunn, AKA a few other names, is being charged with the abduction of Missy King, Ginnifer Lucky, Cross, and I, and the murder of Sarabelle Meyer—I'm a teary mess. I cry a lot, and Marchant charms his way in so the two of us sit side by side in plastic chairs and talk about the mess Hunter's been in. We also speculate over Priscilla, who hasn't been seen since Mexico.
I go into the waiting room and eat some fast food with my mother. This is when I find out that she knows what I did at the ranch. I guess she overheard one of the investigators talking about it. When she first brings it up, I sort of freak out, but it turns out, all she wants to say is sorry.
“I'm so sorry for what I've done to our family with my addiction, Elizabeth. I can't stand to think of how much money I've wasted. It makes me sad that you were so desperate.”
I try to explain to her that I wasn't just desperate—I was also tired of being a virgin—and to my surprise, she says she understands, at least a little.
That actually feels good.
Later in the night, I talk a lot to Hunter. His stats are looking better now, and they want to see some improvement in his breathing, so they've started weaning him off some of his medicines. I'm sitting by his bed, staring at his monitors, when all of a sudden he moans, and I get a peek of his green eyes. He's been squeezing my hand since yesterday, but seeing his eyes...it's amazing.
“Hunter,” I
whisper.
He grimaces and turns his head toward me. His eyelids are heavy, his eyes barely open, but I can see him trying to focus on my face. His hand, in mine, squeezes. He gives me the smallest little smile, and in his hoarse voice, he says, “I missed you.”
Tears fill my eyes. “I missed you, too.”
The third day, sometime in mid-morning, Hunter opens his eyes again. He looks dazed, and then panicked.
I rub his fingers. “Hi. Are you okay?”
He frowns, then looks around the little room. His eyes return to mine and his hand squeezes me a little harder. “Libby... I don't know where we are.”
“That's okay.” I stroke his palm. “You don't remember because you got hurt.”
He looks me over. His brows are drawn together and his lips look dry. “I saw you. You were wearing scrubs.”
I nod. That was before I had my own clothes, shortly after we got here. “I just borrowed them to wear for a little while.”
I can see it dawn on him. His face loses some of his color, and his heart rate rises just a little. “Lockwood got you.”
I nod. “Yeah, but then you came.”
He makes a sour face. “That bastard shot me.”
I blink through tears. “Yes, he did.”
Hunter frowns, looking down at our hands before meeting my eyes again. “Did I shoot him?”
“I think you did. Cross says you leaned into the room and got a perfect gut shot.”
Hunter's eyes are slightly wide. He's nodding, but I can tell he's not completely following, or more likely, he just doesn't remember.
I hesitate before asking my next question. “Do you remember anything from the helicopter?”
After a second squeezing my hand, he shakes his head. I'm not surprised. In fact, I'm glad. The times he was conscious were horrible. I wish I could forget them, too.
“Did you go with me?” he whispers.
I nod. I have to bite the sides of my tongue to keep from crying, because as I sat there in the helicopter, watching those FBI people—or “chota”, as the Mexicans were screaming—work on him, I really, really thought he was going to die.
“I was with you,” I finally manage.
His eyes close as his fingers squeeze my hand. “Stay.”
*
~HUNTER~
Gentle hands are playing in my hair. It feels so good, I want to keep my eyes closed, but I miss Libby and I need to know it's her.
Damn the effort it takes to get my eyes open. And when I do, I have to struggle to focus on her face.
“Libby...”
She looks up. She's so pretty. I'm so glad she's here.
She smiles her sweet smile, the one I've only ever seen her smile for me. “Hi, you.”
My throat's dry, and I start to cough. Libby holds out a cup with a straw, and I gulp down a few sips of water. I feel really...stiff, so I try to shift my body weight. Pain like a hot poker lances through my shoulder and I have to bite my lip to keep from whimpering like a pussy.
Now I'm in a cold sweat.
“Do you want some more pain meds?” Libby looks concerned.
I nod once, then shake my head. I already feel dizzy. If I take a pain pill, I might fall asleep.
“Are you sure? You look a little rough around the edges.” She strokes my hair off my forehead, and I shut my eyes. All I can think about is Lockwood taking her. I have another awful thought: What if I'm arrested for skipping the country? Who will watch out for Libby then?
I swallow and crack my eyes open. “Am I being arrested?”
She shakes her head. “But Lockwood has been.”
“For what?”
“For Sarabelle,” she says quietly. “And all the abductions. Human trafficking, they called it.”
“No shit?”
She nods. “That's right. Actually, I think your dad had a hand in getting it done quickly. Lockwood was taken as soon as they got him back into the states. And, for the record, you just missed your father.”
I blink my gritty eyes. “He was here?”
Libby nods. “Yep. And he had news. He's resigning.”
My shock makes my back hurt. “What the fuck?”
“Apparently he's fallen in love with one of his aides. She looked a little younger than him, maybe in her thirties.”
I snort. “Oh.”
“But I don't think that was all. He told me he had some personal things to settle. He's coming back to talk to you tomorrow.”
I nod, because I don't expect much from that bullshit. If my father is resigning, it's probably because certain people in the FBI know about the Rita cover-up. I shift my weight again, testing the pain around my left arm. It streaks through me, and I find myself panting.
“You need pain meds.” Libby's frowning.
“No. I want to know...about Priscilla.”
Her frown deepens as she leans a little closer, resting her chin on my bed rail. “She's missing, Hunter. We didn't get her out of Mexico. Cross says she might have gone with some of the locals.”
I shut my eyes. That's fucking weird.
“Dr. Libby has been here. So has Marchant. And Loveless.”
I'm surprised. Not about Marchant, but about the others. “How is Loveless?”
“She left you those,” Libby says, pointing to a bouquet of yellow flowers, “and the others will all be back to see you tomorrow.”
Libby's fingers stroke my face, and I reach out and grab her arm. I tug her closer, and she leans over the rail and presses her face into my side. She eases an arm over my waist. With my right hand, I reach out and touch her pretty dark brown hair.
“What about you?” I whisper. “How long have you been here?”
“A while,” she murmurs.
“The whole time?”
“Maybe.”
I smile a little, tightening my grip on her. “I can't get rid of you.”
She sits up, so I can see her face. “You can't,” she whispers, smiling. But her eyes look serious.
“I didn't really want to,” I confess.
Epilogue
~ELIZABETH~
It's one of the first warm days in March, and Hunter has a poker tournament this afternoon. This one's at the Wynn, which is convenient since that's where we've been staying. After he was discharged, we sort of took a two-month vacation here.
He offered to take me home to Crestwood Place and recuperate in Vegas on his own, but there was no way. After everything that's happened, I just can't stand to be away from him.
Suri understands.
Cross is here tonight, wedged between Marchant and I. Marchant invited him. It's pretty weird how they've gotten to be friends. Maybe it's motorcycles. I didn't know it until recently, but Marchant has six.
It's taken Hunter the last two months to return to play. For the first few weeks, he had trouble raising his left arm. Once he was completely healed, he went through a brief phase where he didn't want to be seen on TV.
“Everyone thinks they know my whole life-story now,” he complained. “How can I have a poker face?”
And it's true—the part about everyone thinking they know Hunter. Everywhere we go, I feel the stares. People outside Vegas and California and D.C. and New Orleans might not know what happened, but around those parts, we're notorious. When I came downstairs tonight with Cross and Marchant, about thirty minutes after Hunter and the other players began filming, we were ushered to front-row seats marked for family only, and I saw the camera get a shot of us.
There are more poster-board signs in the small audience tonight for Hunter than for any of the other players, and I get my drinks for free.
Priscilla Heat finally surfaced a few weeks ago, trying to cross the border with a Mexican drug dealer. She was arrested, and is now awaiting her trial, along with Lockwood and his LVPD cousin, Josh Smith. Priscilla's production company has been shut down, and I've heard her nasty films are selling for twice their old price. Further proof that the world doesn't make a bit of sense some
times.
In the last two months, so much has happened between Hunter and I, sometimes it's hard to remember that's what really brought us together.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he'd simply won my bid, we'd had sex, and I'd left his house a few hours later, the way the V-card-losing experience was designed. I like to think we would have found our way back to each other no matter what. When I asked Hunter what he thought, snuggled up in his hospital bed a few days before he finally got discharged, he smiled and winked and said he would have thrown another house party.
