Selling Scarlett (Love Inc 1)

I press my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God. Loveless, I am 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…there are questions about Hunter.”

My stomach bottoms out. “Holy shit.”

“But there’s nothing to it, Scarlett. I’ve known him for years. He would never do this. Anything like this. It’s just not who he is.”

I lean my head against the chair’s back, 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 awful.” 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 she 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 well. “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 from brothel found dead?!!’

And almost thirty minutes after the first text: ‘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 great. I’m here now.’

‘SO glad. Can I call him later, even if u aren’t 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 wish I had known.

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 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 wall-rattling stomps.

For half a second, I want to shut myself inside the bathroom and barricade the door. I’ve seen way too many meltdowns in my life. But my feet seem glued to the 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 vineyard party. I hear a muttered curse, followed by the sound of a door swishing open and then slamming shut.

I stand doe-still, barely breathing as shuffling sounds reach my ears from the room next door: a creaking sound that reminds me of a drawer being opened, a slamming sound, and then some 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 didn’t notice 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 check on her.

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—it’s just that when they’re breaking things, they probably shouldn’t be.

As I turn the doorknob, I remind myself that he isn’t using drugs. He isn’t drinking. At least not like my mom does. He’s upset because someone he knew died.