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 me. 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 most of 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 all the other players combined, and I get my drinks for free.
Priscilla Heat finally surfaced a few weeks ago, trying to cross the border with a drug dealer. She was arrested and is now awaiting trial, along with Lockwood. 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 sometimes.
In the last two months, so much has happened between Hunter and me, 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. 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.
“You’re mine, Libby DeVille. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Ever since he woke up after his surgery, Hunter hasn’t been shy about saying things like that. Neither have I. Some mornings, I wake up beside him in his penthouse here and I’m amazed at what we have together. It isn’t always easy, but I can honestly say it’s always fun.
His wounds have healed up perfectly. Except for a small, round scar on his chest and the Captain Hook slash on his shoulder-blade, you’d never know he collapsed a lung or that a bullet barely missed a crucial artery.
The FBI has closed its files on Hunter, and on one of those early days in the hospital, his dad even offered an apology of sorts for not doing more to protect Hunter from Rita. I’m not sure how much Hunter cares, but it’s a first step, anyway.
Marchant has given Dr. Libby one day off each week, and on that day, she comes to Hunter’s penthouse to talk to one or both of us. I think it’s doing Hunter good to talk to her again, and I’ve even begun dealing with the resentment I’ve always carried toward my mom. It hasn’t been quite two months yet, but she’s still sober.
Tonight after the tournament, Hunter and I are flying back to Napa. I haven’t seen Suri in weeks, and Hunter and I need to spend some time in the vineyard house together. I think we both need to make some new memories there, since the last one involved Lockwood.
Marchant and Cross get along like old friends as we watch the tournament, talking about cars and bikes and women as I train my eyes on Hunter’s infamous poker face.
“Can you tell if he’s got a winning hand?” Cross asks me.
I tell him, “no, of course not,” but the truth is—I kind of can. I’m getting to know all of Hunter’s tells.
It’s fun to watch him play. Even with that fixed expression on his face, I can tell he’s in his element. Maybe it’s because of his experience with Rita, but Hunter likes a certain element of control. Playing poker seems to give him just enough so he can handle the lack of it in other areas.
The tournament passes quickly as I sip my Diet Coke and bourbon and Cross and Marchant load up on the straight stuff.
This is Cross’s first time out since leaving rehab. The good news is he’s doing great for the most part. The bad news is he’s still taking painkillers for his neck, and his hand’s not back to normal. Suri tells me he hasn’t re-opened his bike business, and I don’t think he’s ridden yet, either. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s put on a good act, like he’s doing fine—no more of that sullenness he had in the weeks after he first woke up—but I’m not betting on it. As far as I know, neither of his parents have made a move to reconcile with him.