I slide my phone between my thighs and try to think of something non-Hunter-related. “I want to hear more about you and Cross.”
It's an intentional turn of phrase, because I think there's something going on, even though Suri won't spill.
She shrugs. “We've been hanging.”
I haven't had a chance to visit Cross yet, unbelievably. My first day back, Mom's rehab called and wanted me to do a discharge visit. It actually went better than they usually do. Mom looked more fit and happy than I've ever seen her. They’ve got her on a new antidepressant, and I'm trying to be positive about her recovery. I even stayed the night in one of the guest rooms at the 'spa'—where I lay awake on my little cot half the night, combing Google for news about Hunter or the investigation into Sarabelle’s death. The next day, yesterday, Cross got a visit from his father, so I couldn't visit then, either.
“I can't wait to hear how the visit with his father went,” Suri says. “I hope he wasn’t an asshole to Cross.”
“I hope so too.” I try to squash the awful curiosity about what Hunter's father said—about the governor—but I can't. So I look out the window and focus on the grass and trees.
A few minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of NVIR and I start getting butterflies. “Are you sure he doesn't mind if I come?”
It seems ridiculous asking. Cross has always been more my friend than Suri’s. But I’m struggling with the feeling that in just two weeks, Suri has taken my place.
“Of course, you silly goose. He's dying to see you and hear how your 'class trip' went.”
“Ugh. I hate having to lie to him.”
“ Are you actually going to write about it for school?” she asks as we get out of the car.
“I don't know. Maybe. Probably.”
We're quiet as we walk through the door, and there's Nanette. She's got her long brown hair pulled up into a pretty bun, and she's wearing purple scrubs. She reaches out her arms for me, and I'm kind of surprised, and kind of thrilled.
“Nanette. Long time!”
“Too long. How are you?”
“I'm good,” I say. It only feels a little like a lie.
“That's great.”
“How is Cross?”
“He's up and moving. He shaved today and he's been playing games on my cell phone. He's still having some trouble with his left hand and leg, but we’re seeing improvement in the leg.”
“Not his hand?” Suri asks.
“Not much,” Nanette says. “But we’re not anywhere near the end of his rehab.”
I tear up, because it's so amazing to hear that. Cross is awake, and he's doing rehab. Suri and I hold hands as we walk back to his room.
“Ready?” she whispers.
I nod.
She pushes the door open, and I feel like a kid at Christmas.
Cross is leaning against his bed, wearing gray scrubs and a dark blue t-shirt, which is enough to knock me off my feet. Then I see his face, and I feel like I've been punched. As soon as his eyes land on me, he looks...infuriated.
I open my mouth to say his name, but he beats me to the punch. “Suri,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. “Give us a minute. In fact, come back later.”
Suri looks confused. She shakes her head, and there's no mistaking the worry on her face. Cross notices it, too, and sighs. “Everything is fine. I'm doing fine,” he tells her. “I just want a minute to talk to Liz—alone.”
After shooting me a clueless look, she steps into the hall, and I'm alone with Cross.
“What's wrong?” I walk slowly to him, crumbling under the weight of his horrible, accusing gaze.
“Why did you do it?” he asks hoarsely.
“Do what?”
He swallows, and for the first time he looks upset instead of mad. “Why did you think that I would be okay with that?”
Obviously he knows I went to Love Inc. I feel like a kid getting scolded by my dad, and I play like I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Okay with what?”
“So you’re going to deny it?”
“Deny what?”
“You sold yourself. For me.” His voice cracks, and I'm filled with awful, ice-cold dread. Cross steps toward me, and for the first time I notice his limp. His face still looks the same. Except colder. “My father told me. You know how he feels about Vegas. He's got spies there. Lizzy, tell me what would make you do a thing like that.”
“Why do you think?” I croak. “I couldn't stand to see you in that awful place they transferred you to! And,” I add quickly, “I didn't need to be a virgin. What's the point? At twenty-three, it's almost a joke.”
He opens his mouth, looking anguished, and I hold up my hand. “It went just fine, Cross. I'm okay. Right here, in one piece.”
“You went home with Hunter West.” His voice is soft fury—and it makes me mad.
“What do you have against Hunter West?”
“He fucks Priscilla Heat. Don't you know that, Lizzy? Don't you care?”
I can't say anything to that. It's not my secret to tell, so instead I say, “Do you believe everything you hear?”
“I saw them that night. They were having sex before the party. Did he tell you that?”
“I didn't ask.”
“So you don't care.” His mad face crumples into hurt. Frustration. “What is it about him, Lizzy?”
I still don’t have the answer to that question, and I definitely don't want to talk about it with Cross. “I’ve got a better idea: Why don’t you finally tell me why you hate Priscilla Heat.”
“She fucked my father,” Cross says bluntly. I blink, and he rubs his eyes with his right hand. “I told you that he had affairs.”
“With her?” He chose Priscilla Heat over Cross's beautiful mother? My mouth hangs open.
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Cross rolls his eyes. “He likes hookers.”
What pops out of my mouth next is unplanned. It's only meant to be a thought, but I guess it's so powerful, my lips forget the message and I murmur it aloud. “One of them was Missy King.”
Cross’s eyes pop. “What do you know about Missy King?”
I bite my lip, not sure what to say now that I've divulged that I know something. That was stupid. I don't want to point anything back toward Hunter, so I shrug. “What do you know?” I ask him.
“What do you know?” he snaps.
I hug myself, feeling small and stupid, but I've already put my foot in my mouth. Might as well keep going now. “Is that why you and your dad don't talk? Is that the secret you found out last year? That he was seeing an escort, and she disappeared?”
Cross's eyes squeeze shut, and my heart pounds—hard.
“It is, isn't it?” Holy shit, this is big news. I fumble for the other name I heard in Hunter's conversation with his father. “Cross, have you ever heard of someone named Lockwood?”
He frowns and shakes his head. “Who is that?”
“What about Jim Gunn?”
He blinks slowly, his face losing all its color. “How do you know that name?” he asks hoarsely.
“I heard he dated Missy King.”
Cross swallows, wrapping one hand around his stomach. “You don't need to say that, Lizzy.”
“Why not?”
He gives me a sharp look that makes me feel like I'm being warned. “Just don't say it. Don't ask me about it. Sometimes there's stuff you just don't need to know. Do you get that?”
His face is deadly serious, and I almost feel like I’m in some kind of crime drama. I shiver, and for a long second, I consider letting it lie. But then the stern look on his face starts looking kind of...fearful. “Cross—what's going on? Do you know something bad?” I suck in a deep breath. “Did Jim Gunn do something to her?”
My question seems to hit Cross like a punch. He bends at the waist, clutching his head and moaning. “How do you know this shit, Elizabeth?”
“So he did?” My eyes are a centimeter away from popping clean out of my head.
&nb
sp; Cross looks at me through his hands, and when he speaks, his voice is ragged. “Suri told you, didn't she? She told you what I said about the guy I saw who was messing with my bike.”
I shake my head. “But if Jim Gunn did something bad to your father's ex-mistress and you know about it, and if you think the guy beside your bike that night was him... That's bad, Cross. That's scary bad.”
Cross is leaning heavily on the side of the bed, breathing hard, and I notice there are wires running out of the bottom of his t-shirt as one of the machines starts to hum.
I step close enough to touch his shoulder. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
He sucks his breath in, and just as I get really worried, his right hand clutches mine. I lace my fingers through his, and someone knocks on the door. “You okay in there?” Nanette calls.
“Fine,” he says, but it sounds like he's gasping.
“Oh my God, Cross.” I wrap my arms around him and he pulls me close.
I drag a deep breath in, and the monitor stops beeping. I run my palm over his soft, short hair and look into the handsome face I've known for my whole life. I can't imagine someone hurting Cross. “I'm sorry that I mentioned that stuff. I didn't mean to upset you.”
I'm expecting him to brush his freakout off, the way Cross would. I'm expecting anything but what he does, which is push my hair back and kiss me, his lips touching mine for half a second before he jerks away.
I touch my mouth, horrified. “Cross—”
“I know, okay?” He holds his hands up. “I know I'm not the one you want. Jesus, Lizzy, just give me a second.” He turns away, and out of nowhere, tears are spilling down my cheeks. I feel like I can’t do anything—for Cross or Hunter.
I'm standing there with my arms around myself, wishing I had never come here today, when Cross turns me around to face him. There's space between us this time. “I'm sorry, Lizzy. Please forgive me.”
“I do. Of course I do.” I look into his blue eyes. “But I'm worried about you. If you know details of a...I don't know, some kind of crime—”
“Shhh.” He reaches for me, but he doesn't touch me. He brings his hand back to his side. “Don't talk about that, please. And don't think about it either, okay? I'm fine now. I'm good.”
I wipe my eyes, smirking. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”
“Would that be bad?”
“Yes.” It would be terrible for Cross to go through this alone. Just like it's terrible for Hunter. “It was him, wasn't it?” I whisper. “Jim Gunn did something to make Missy King disappear, and you know he did.”
He shuts his eyes.
“Did your father...ask him to?” It's such a horrible question, I can barely get the words out. It seems impossible, but if Conrad West is right, and Missy King turned into trouble... God, he really might have had her killed or sold as a sex slave or God knows what. I drop my voice an octave lower. “Do you have, like, evidence or something?”
Cross hesitates, his lips pressed into a firm line. And I know Cross. That's a confirmation.
I feel cold all over. Icy. For a long second, I can't even find my voice. When I do, it's high and squeaky. Scared. “What are you going to do about it?”
He holds his arm out, then lets them fall against his scrubs. “What is there to do?”
“There's gotta be something. Especially if the guy found out you know. Cross, that's terrifying.”
“My dad's a terrifying guy.”
I don't plan to tell him, especially after what happened a few minutes ago with that monitor when he got freaked out, but his face is so defeated, I can't help myself. Cross is in danger and I have to tell him what I know and find out what he knows.
It takes me almost an hour with the two of us sitting hip to hip on his bed. I whisper near his ear as we play music on my iPod in the background. After that, he whispers in mine. Then we get approval for Cross to leave the grounds tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
~HUNTER~
I'm in my library at the vineyard playing cards with myself when Marchant calls. I ignore him. My head is aching and I didn't get a damn bit of sleep last night. I don't want to talk to his hen-pecking ass. I'm sleeping worse since Libby left than I did before she got here. I guess I know now what I'm missing. I finish the game and re-deal my cards. I'm looking at them as I play, but I'm seeing Libby's face.
And I'm thinking about the other Libby—Dr. Libby—who came by again today, to “talk”. I know March put her up to it, but I can't find the energy to be angry. It's kind of nice to have my old shrink tell me I'm a good guy. Even nicer since it looks like that might hold.
Priscilla's threats are seeming more and more empty. For the first few days after she dropped by my house, I waited for the other shoe to fall, but it just hasn't. The FBI has stopped coming around, and Josh Smith from the LVPD has closed his case, giving it over to the shit-head, crooked cops in San Luis. For the past few days, Lockwood has been at his house doing nothing but watching satellite TV. Priscilla has been fucking a cop buddy of Smith's. If her phone conversations—recorded by Dave—are to be trusted, she's thinking of putting him in one of her films.
Sarabelle is dead, and that can't be changed. Her funeral was this morning. Dr. Libby was dressed for it when she came by.
Sarabelle is dead, and the case appears to be going nowhere. But I’m working on my own play for Lockwood and Priscilla. Mainly Lockwood. But Priscilla will get hers, too.
Marchant calls again.
I hit ignore.
Again five minutes later. “What is it, dude?”
“Hunter—fuck. Have you read the L.A. Times today?”
“No.” My whole body tenses. “Why?”
“There's allusions to you left and right in that story. House in California, one in Vegas. Heir who visits brothels. They're saying that the FBI has you as their prime suspect. I'm surprised you haven't missed a call or had them show up at your fucking house. The Times even put a bit in there about Rita. How she wasn't your real mother and your mom was an escort. Damn, man, I'm glad I knew that or I'd be shocked.”
“How'd you know?” I whisper. I feel cold.
“Dave found out. Man, are you okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You want me to come over? I've got Dave all over this; he's checking with his contacts at the FBI. But he's started acting suspicious, dude. Says he found some shit in your family's closet that he wants to talk to you about. What do you think—”
I kill the call and walk slowly to the liquor cabinet. I've downed two shots when three men in gray suits ring my doorbell.
*
~ELIZABETH~
“Are you sure this is a solid plan?”
Cross is sitting beside me in the Camry, wearing a ball cap and looking grumpy.
“Oh, yeah. Hunter will tell me everything he's found about Jim Gunn AKA Michael Lockwood. I'm willing to bet there's something that could help you.” Now that I know Jim Gunn is Michael Lockwood, I'm even betting the information might help Hunter. I look back at Cross. “Hunter trusts me enough to share info, I think, and I trust him. It might turn out to be lucky for you both.”
Cross gazes out the window, the way he's done most of our drive, and I feel so sad for him. I take his hand before I think about which hand it is: his left one, the one whose fingers don't all work. I only have it for a second before he draws it back into his lap.
“It'll get stronger,” I murmur.
He looks down at the hand. “Can't draw up any new design plans.” He means for the motorcycles he designs. “Can't steer, either.”
I want to cry for him. To scream about how unfair it is, that Cross was almost killed for knowing something he hadn't even meant to find out. Instead I try to keep the pity off my face and say, “I know.”
He uses his right hand to give my hand a squeeze, and then he's looking out the window again as we roll through the valley. It's a sunny morning, with a crisp blue sky stretching over miles of vineyards. E
ven the grass beside the road looks especially vibrant. But the pretty day doesn't do much to calm my nerves. After what I learned yesterday from Cross, I've got a lot riding on what Hunter tells me. I think all three of us might.
“So in and out?” Cross asks, tapping his right hand on his knee. “Wham bam?”