He grins wickedly. "I'd say anticipation is one of the best parts."
"I wouldn't know," I murmur, biting into my beignet.
"Are you saying that you want to know?"
"Oh yeahh.” I squeeze my eyes shut, blissed out over the warm, doughy goodness. When I open them Hunter is smirking at me. I blush. “I meant oh yeah, that stuff is really good. But yeah, I do I guess. Otherwise I would have hung onto it."
Slowly, languidly, tiger-like, Hunter walks around the counter. He wraps his hands around my biceps, turning me gently to face him, and pulls me close. Then he bends down slowly, bringing his face close enough so I have an amazing view of his lips. As I sit there, brainless and overheated, he leans closer and licks my lip.
"Powdered sugar," he purrs.
I'm panting, halfway to a heart attack, when he stands back up, looking down on me with a suddenly serious expression.
"You think about this, Libby. Really think about if you want to be with me. It'll be a one-time thing. You just said it—I don't do relationships, and I don't make exceptions, even when I'm tempted."
"I don't either.” Although I haven’t ever had the chance, and with him, I totally would.
"Well I'm in if you are." He strokes his palm over my hair. "You give me half an hour and I'll come find you. You sure?" he murmurs.
I nod, clutching the bar stool so I don't fall off.
"Okay." He trails his hand down my arm and squeezes my fingers, so gentle it almost takes my breath away. Then he kisses my cheek and starts to back out of the kitchen. "One V-card," he says, holding up his hand, "claimed."
Chapter Thirty-Two
~HUNTER~
I feel like I'm living in a dream: part nightmare, part fantasy. The fantasy is easy enough to dwell on. I've got Libby in my house, and soon I'll have her in my bed, underneath me, with those long legs spread and her hot pussy just waiting for my dick . It's a good feeling. One I could dwell on for hours. But I don’t have hours, because this also a nightmare.
I walk into my study, shutting the doors behind me, and go immediately to the bar beside the shelves. If I'm going to call Marchant, I'll need this.
As I toss some back, I try to remember what I did after I heard about her death the night before. I know I drank. I had a dream about Libby, but it almost feels like a memory. I awoke this morning with an awful headache, and even now, after a shower and breakfast, I'm still feeling like shit.
I don’t know whether to tell Libby. It has nothing to do with her, but if I am declared a suspect, I don’t want her to feel duped—like she had sex under false pretenses.
I don't think I'd be found guilty were I to be charged, being that I didn't actually do anything, but I'm not naive. I know my father has his enemies, and so do I, and I also know Governor Carlson is involved in this. Powerful players produce powerful results.
I feel queasy thinking of that, so instead I think of Libby's breasts. How I'll get to kiss them soon. We'll have a good fuck before I send her off, and I'll make it one to remember. One I can re-play over and over, in the dry spell I'm sure I’m about to experience.
I pull my cell phone out. I need to hurry, get upstairs to Libby before she turns on the news. I don't think my name would be on it, but I can't be sure, and I don't want to lose my chance.
I lock the doors of the study dial Marchant. He answers on the second ring.
"Hey, dude. You free?" I frown. Wasn't I the one who called him? "What do you mean, am I free?"
"I'm surprised no one's knocking at your door. I've had someone in a dark suit poking around the penthouse, trying to get past security.”
I frown. "You're not at the ranch?"
"We've closed for a few days for Sarabelle."
"How you holding up?" Sarabelle was one of the women I visited from time to time, but she was Marchant's employee and friend. He feels the responsibility of this even harder than I do.
I can see him clenching that square jaw of his when he says, "If Priscilla Heat did this, I swear I will kill her with my own two hands."
I shut my eyes and rub them. "You and me both. Tell me what you know."
"Dave heard it on the police scanners about ten minutes before I called you last night. He's also got a guy inside the FBI. Says the cufflink has your initials in capital letters. He called me asking if I thought you did it."
Fucking great. "What'd you say?"
"What do you think I said?"
I rub my eyes. "What's going on with her and Lockwood now?"
"Lockwood's been MIA since yesterday. All our people are looking for him."
"And Priscilla?"
"She's at her house. Hasn't moved."
"Sarabelle was...found in San Luis?"
"Yes," Marchant says tightly.
He doesn't tell me where, and I don't ask. It'd be best if I don't know, in case I'm questioned.
I hesitate before asking my next question, because I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. "What color was the cuff link?"
"Color. Uh…I think Dave said that it was black."
"Goddamnit." I jump up, curling my hands around the phone although I want to smash it. "That one came from my top drawer."
*
~ELIZABETH~
As soon as I get back to my room, I see a message on my phone from Loveless. 'Call me ASAP.'
That seems random. I hope nothing is wrong. I pick a soft-looking wing-backed chair to sit in, stick my feet on the foot stool and count the rings. She answers on the third, and I can hear in her voice that she's been crying. "Scarlett. How are you?"
"I'm fine, but what's wrong?"
She sniffs, and there's a long pause before she whispers, "It's Sarabelle. They...found her body.”
I press my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God. Loveless, I'm so sorry.”
“We're all in a state of shock. But that's not all.” She speaks even more softly, so I can barely hear her. “FBI agents came by today.” I hear a shuffling sound, and when she speaks again her voice is muffled. “Scarlett...you can't tell anybody but...they think Hunter did it."
My stomach bottoms out. "Holy shit."
"But he didn't, Scarlett. I’ve known him for years. He would never do this."
I lean my head against the chair, feeling dizzy. “If he didn't do it, why do they think he did?”
“That's what I don't know. But I thought that you would want to know that something's going down.”
I nod, feeling...stunned. “That's so crazy.” And then I remember myself, and what this call is really about. "I'm so sorry about your friend, Loveless."
"It could have been me. It could have been any of us." Her voice breaks. "But Sarabelle was so sweet. It shouldn't have been her."
“It shouldn’t have been anyone,” I say.
Loveless sniffs, then says, “Just be careful. Not from Hunter—well, you should be if you get a bad feeling, but I don't think you will. Be careful because something's going on, and now that you've been here at Love Inc., you're one of us.”
For some reason, her words make my eyes water. “Thank you, Loveless. Thank you so much. I'll be thinking about you. About all you guys. Take care of yourself, okay?”
I hang up the phone with a heavy feeling in my stomach and read two texts from Sur.
'Did u know one of escorts frm brothel found dead??!!'
Thirty minutes later. 'U ok? Msg me back. Paranoid here!'
I take a deep breath and tell myself that I can handle this. I don't need to message Suri for backup, and I don't need to go running home like a chicken.
All of a sudden it hits me that this must be why Hunter was so weird last night. He must have found out about Sarabelle then. Wow. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be falsely accused of something like that.
Unless he did it.
He didn't kidnap her, did he?
Of course not. I shake my head and send a reply to Suri: 'I'm fine. Cross??'
'Doing good. I'm here now.'
‘Gr8. Can I call him l8r, eve
n if u not there?’
While I wait for her reply, I change into my sexy clothes—a fresh red teddy and crotchless panties, followed by my black, silky robe—but I don't feel sexy. I feel sad. Sad for Sarabelle, sad for my friends at Love Inc., sad for Hunter. Last night he was clearly grieving.
I'm walking to my en suite bathroom, ready to lather myself with lotion in anticipation of the big event, when I hear a deep boom from somewhere in the house. I stop in mid-step, all the hair on my arms standing on end as I realize the sound is shouting. Hunter's shouting. It grows louder in time with loud steps down the hall.
For half a second, I want to shut myself inside the bathroom and barricade the door. I've seen way too many freak outs out in my life. But my feet seem glued to the oriental rug as I listen to Hunter coming down the hall. The rhythm of his footsteps is unsteady, but there's no more shouting. He stops, and I hear a loud bang that reminds me, eerily, of Cross's fist against the wall that night at Hunter's house party. I hear a muttered curse, followed by the sound of a door swishing open, then slamming shut.
I stand doe-still, barely even breathing as shuffling sounds start to come from the room next door. A creaking sound that reminds me of a drawer being opened. A slamming sound. A few heavy footsteps. The unmistakable sound of something shattering.
I'm shaking now. Sometimes Mom got drunk or wasted and broke things. Sometimes in proximity to me. It's not that she meant to hurt me; she simply never noticed I was there. Once, when I was nine, I had to have stitches in my left eyebrow because a piece of a glass bowl caught me as I came into the kitchen to make sure she didn’t hurt herself.
I don't want to go into Hunter's room this time, but just like last night, I can't seem to stop myself. I'm sweating, my fingers trembling as I wrap my hand around the doorknob. I know better than to knock. Angry people almost universally want to be left alone—only when they're breaking things, they probably shouldn't be.
As I turn the doorknob, I remind myself that he isn't doing drugs. He isn't drinking. At least not like my mom does. He's upset because someone he knows died.
Or maybe he killed them.
“Shut up,” I murmur to myself. He didn't kill Sarabelle. He was playing televised poker for the last two nights, and last night he was here with me.
I take a fortifying breath and throw the door open. At first, I'm not sure I'm in the right room. What, last night, stood out to me as a large space with elegant, imposing furniture is now a clothes tornado. I immediately notice his huge dresser is missing two of its drawers, and atop the dresser, I can see a picture frame lying face-down, surrounded by bits of broken glass.
A quick glance around the room reveals Hunter standing by his hulking, four-post bed, pawing through a sea of undershirts and boxer briefs. Mixed in with the crimson pillows and blankets of his bed are two hefty dresser drawers. He's bent over, arms moving in a frenzy as he throws clothes every which way.
He doesn't even glance up as I step closer. He doesn't seem to know I'm here. His face twists in fury, and he grabs one of the drawers with both hands and hurls it at his headboard, where it bounces off and lands on a pile of pillows.
“Hunter?”
He's breathing hard, his face white, his mouth and eyes standing out vibrantly against his skin.
He straightens, shoulders heaving as he sucks back air. He looks so furious, it's like he's in a daze. He's not looking at me, but rather at something in front of him. Something behind me.
Without moving a muscle or glancing my way, he whispers, "Go away."
I follow his vacant gaze to the wall behind me and find that he is staring at a mirror. Staring blankly at himself. No, not blankly. Desolately.
As I watch, he leans down against his bed, elbows on the mattress, face going into his palms as his shoulders hunch and one of his hands tunnels back through his messy hair.
Oh, Hunter. “I heard about Sarabelle.”
He straightens, whirling toward me. His mouth is twisted into a bitter pinch, and his eyes are harder than I think I've ever seen.
"I'm so sorry. I know you knew her.”
“You don't know the half of it,” he murmurs hoarsely.
“I'm sure that's true.” I hold his gaze. “I know you're upset, but throwing things won't help," I say softly.
"Nothing will." I watch the edge in his eyes fade back into dazed desolation, and I take two steps closer. When he doesn't react, I close the distance between us and gently touch his elbow.
He jumps a little. “Jesus, Libby.” He lifts up his hand, like he's going to touch me, but instead he takes an unsteady step back. “You need to get your shit and go. Just go.”
"I don't want to go yet." I want to wrap my arms around him, but he grabs my hand. His fingers grip me hard and his pretty eyes grow tortured. "I can't make any promises...unless you go. Sometimes when I'm upset, I..."
"Throw things?"
He swallows, and my eyes rake over his body. I can't miss the erection straining against his jeans.
"Sometimes when you're upset, you want to have sex?" I whisper.
He nods, just barely.
"That night at your house, you were upset, weren't you? I saw your room. There was a broken glass and the pillows were all over the floor." That was just after I'd heard him having sex with Priscilla. “Hunter...what's going on with you? I'm worried.”
His eyes slide over me, and I think it's the most honest I've ever seen him look. I'm reminded, oddly, of an angry, despondent child before he reaches out and grips my shoulder. “You should leave.” His voice is hoarse and low. “Libby, please. Turn around and leave.”
I bite my lip, and I consider doing just that. But I can't. This is Hunter. And maybe I'm a crazy idiot for feeling how I do, but when I'm with him, I feel better. More me than I am without him, and that's not something I can just let go of, even if it is insane.
“Do you think that you could talk to me?”
Hunter looks into my eyes and I feel like he's seeing everything inside my past and future. Then, suddenly—roughly—he tugs me to his chest and wraps himself around me. I feel his head come down on top of mine and my gut clenches.
“Libby.” It sounds like he's pleading with me. I look up at him, wishing I knew what he needed, and his hands come up frame my face. “Libby...honey. Why don't you do what I say?”
“I don't want to leave yet.” I clutch his biceps and press my cheek against his chest. “I really wish that you would talk to me.”
He nuzzles my face with his, his cheek stroking mine as our mouths join in a kiss. I expect that it will quickly turn hard and fierce, but instead his lips are feather gentle, so soft it doesn't feel quite real.
I pull him close and hungrily deepen our kiss. His tongue glides past mine and he's tugging deep breaths while never moving off of me. I'm feeling dizzy when he whispers, “Keep your eyes closed.”
This is what he said to them. To Loveless and Marie V. and Sarabelle. Keep your eyes closed. I shudder, and he shoves clothes off the bed and lays me down as my limbs stiffen and I feel a shot of fear.
I can hear him in the limo: “You're riding an awful fucking lot on intuition.” I try to feel some of the recommended skepticism as his fingers stroke my cheeks, his lips moving over my temples, teasing my ear. And, right there, he groans and presses his heavy body into mine.
“No, open them. Open them, Libby. I want to see your beautiful blue eyes.”
His eyes are wide, and when I look into them, I feel like my insides have gone molten. I nod, then arch up and press my lips to his. We kiss for what seems like hours. Hunter's body is warm and weighty, and as things between us heat up, I grab his hips and he rocks into me with increased frenzy, panting, “Oh God, Lib. Oh God.”
He's got my robe unfastened and it lies in heaps around me. His lips are sucking my breast, his hand holding my teddy up, and I can feel him trembling.
“Hunter, can I...?” I fumble with the button of his jeans, and he groans.
“Libb
y, sweet. Oh no.” He pants. “You first.”
He ducks and pulls my panties down, and before I know it his mouth is covering me right where I'm throbbing. I'm coming off the mattress, tugging on his hair, and he is moaning like he loves it.
I cum with a strangled scream, clamping my legs around his head. He grins when he disentangles himself, and I can feel his stiff length pressing against my leg through the denim of his jeans. I try to reach for it, but he lifts his weight off me.