Okay…I really hate that.
The image of Hunter leaning down to kiss me flits like lightning through my mind. I can almost feel his lips on mine—so warm and soft and gentle. The look in his eyes as he watches me from the foot of the bed, and I can see he’s haunted by something and I know I’ll never know what it is.
Tears well in my eyes as I think of Hunter finding me in his borrowed bedroom that night and ravaging me like we’re characters in a romantic movie. Is that the closest I’ll ever get to a fairy tale?
I wrap my hands around the wheel, and I can’t help but think of Mother in her curlers, behind the wheel of a much older, larger car; her foot on the pedal; my foot on the pedal as we hurried to the E.R. And for a quick second, I want to run the car into the crag of rock off to my right.
I really kind of want to. Crazy is a siren call.
But I’m too practical. Practical Elizabeth. Elizabeth the whore.
I wonder what Cross will think. I wonder what Mom would think. I wonder what my dad would think.
I wonder what Hunter West would think.
I pass the sign marking the Vegas city limits with a lightness deep inside me. Like the part of me that matters is somewhere up above, floating in a helium balloon. This me behind the wheel is hollow. Brave and ready.
This me is older and stronger and smarter.
This me can handle anything. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Hunter
I’VE GOT ON my monkey suit when Priscilla calls. The Heat Enterprises Brawl for Innocence Gala begins in an hour, and I’m pacing around my penthouse, chewing on the laundry list of bullshit I just got from Dave the PI.
I feel a hot stab of guilt—that I’m worried about myself when Sarabelle is God knows where—when my phone rings, flashing a red “P.” I groan.
When Priscilla heard I volunteered for the ‘brawl’ tomorrow night, earning myself an invitation to the gala even after all the charity plates had already been purchased, she demanded to be my date. But we’re not riding together, so I shouldn’t have to see her until I arrive at the Heat Enterprises Mansion in an hour.
“Dammit.” I bring the phone to my ear, working to sound calm and aloof, the way I used to sound before I realized Priscilla was going to Michael Lockwood’s house on a regular basis, in addition to fucking Detective Josh Smith.
I take a deep breath. “Priscilla.”
“Hunter.”
I roll my wrist, which is sore from the last time I saw her. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m coming up in ten.” I can hear her Cheshire Cat grin through the phone, and then her laughing hiss. “Get ready.”
I strip out of my tux and swear that this will be the last time. Tonight, I’ll figure out Priscilla’s game and end it. Josh Smith will be at the gala, as will Michael Lockwood. If I can find out what Priscilla wants with Smith—other than his dick—or the nature of her relationship with Lockwood, maybe I can finally put a stop to this farce.
I wait behind the front door of my penthouse. I’m planning to grab her from behind when she walks through it. Maybe rip her gown off. Bind her wrists with my neck tie and fuck her doggy style—so I don’t have to see her face.
I shut my eyes, inhaling slowly while I wait in my darkened foyer like the crazy S.O.B. I am. This whole thing is so fucked. I like to pretend I’m doing this shit for Sarabelle’s sake, but the truth is I won’t end things with Priscilla until I know my skeletons will stay in the closet where they belong.
It’s not just my father’s political career I care about—although, as a West, I’m forced to consider that, at least minimally. His reputation would be tarnished if people knew he’d knocked up an escort, and tarnished further if they knew the measures he’d taken in order to cover it up.
My father returned from his business trip to Vegas with a newly pregnant Roxanne, but for most of her pregnancy, she stayed secluded in West Manor. Less than a week after she died in labor—at the house—Rita came knocking. Dad was somehow able to hush the whole thing up, and I was presented many months later as Dad and Rita’s child.
Things went just the way Rita had hoped, and ten months later, my half-sister Amber was born. She still lives in New Orleans, managing the advertising arm of West Bourbon, and she knows exactly what kind of insanity went on in our house before Rita’s death. What she doesn’t know is how Rita died—and that’s the part that keeps me up at night. That’s for me and me alone to know. Well, and Dad and the coroner he paid off.