Vegas Royals: A Love Inc. Prequel

by Ella James

  “Well fuck.” That little bit of info makes my head reel.

  “One more thing,” March says slowly. “A woman from the FBI came out to the ranch today. She interviewed just about everyone. She said she’s looking into ‘several’ disappearances. And as far as I could tell, she had the most questions about you.”

  Elizabeth

  ARNOLD IS DRIVING me home from a swim at the country club’s heated pool, and Crestwood’s porch has finally come into view. Someone is waiting there. I activate the security system app on my phone to find out who. I select the porch feed and immediately recognize Suri’s favorite lilac Vera Wang day dress and Alice + Olivia flats. She’s waving at me. I glance up, smile, then turn back to my phone. I’m swiping to shut the app down when I notice Suri is waving her left hand. I zoom in…

  “Holy shit.”

  I’m out of the car before it comes to a complete stop. I fly up the stairs, and she’s beaming, laughing, and then we’re both screaming. She shoves her hand into my face and a giant rock winks at me; it’s surrounded by tiny fire opals—Suri’s favorite.

  “Holy shit, Sur! HE DID IT!”

  “And he’s moving back to Napa!”

  I grab onto her and we’re swinging in a circle in front of the rocking chairs, both screaming like lunatics, and suddenly my throat is squeezing like I might cry. But Suri’s giggling, and the crying feeling turns into hysterical laughter.

  When we finally stop spinning, I’m dizzy and giddy. I grab her left hand and pull her inside, where it’s warmer. In the full light I can see how pretty her makeup looks, and I can see the fire opals in her ears, surrounded by tiny diamonds.

  “Oh my God, how did he do it? I want every single detail right now. I can’t believe he finally made the move!” Suri tried her best to act cool about it, but she’s been wanting to marry Adam since our freshman year of college.

  She waves me toward the kitchen. “Come in here. I made this tea that has a dash of vodka in it. It’s called wedding tea. Soo good.”

  We walk into the kitchen, and, ever the hostess, Suri pulls out a chair for me and before taking a seat. The tea is already cooling in crystal glasses beside wedding cookies that look homemade, and I laugh when I realize she’s been waiting here for me—almost the whole time I’ve been at the pool if I’m correct about how long it takes her to make wedding cookies.

  “Lizzy, it was perfect. We went to Banana Beau’s” —Suri’s favorite piano/ice cream bar— “and they started playing ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, and then they brought out this huge cake, and it was a red velvet cake, and I realized that the whole place was empty, and Adam tells me he got a new job.” She laughs. “All I could think about was how it was going to be in like Bangladesh or some such craziness, and then he says it’s a freelance job with several different options, and he says he’s thinking San Francisco or Napa, and he got down on his knee and pulled out the ring!”

  I listen to Suri for the next hour, and then we talk weddings. I’m not surprised to find she wants to get married here at Crestwood, with white bows on everything—even the horse’s necks.

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

  Suri flashes her ring one more time, and then leans down to kiss it. “I love this thing.”

  “I love it, too.” Feeling spontaneous, I pull her into a bear hug. “You’re the best ever.”

  “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 a win. 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.

  MONDAY MORNING, I’M up early. I’m doing an analytical paper on Victor Hugo’s portrayal of prostitutes, and in the drama of the past few days, I’ve fallen 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 borrowed bedroom.

  I cross my legs and balance my laptop on my thighs, skimming that passage in Les Misérables where he compares prostitution to slavery. My fingers hover over my keyboard, poised for insight, but my brain follows my eyes out over the dew-drenched pastures, glowing 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.

  “You slowed when I did,” he said.

  “Yep.”

  “How’d you know I was going to slow down?” he’d asked me.

  I shrugged. “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’d be 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 glad we’re friends.”

  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 in the room? Cross is such a good guy. Loyal, funny, complicated. A talented 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 hot 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 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 $7,000. So, no.

  Still, I imagine Hunter sittin
g 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.

  Holy shit. Holy insanity. Holy vagina.

  I know what I can do to help Cross.

  Keep reading in Selling Scarlett! Since Vegas Royals is the first nine chapters of Selling Scarlett, you can just skip straight to chapter ten. (Don’t worry—the book is super long, so there’s still a lot of story left).

  Want to keep in touch? Sign up for my newsletter here.