Selling Scarlett

by Ella James

  I hold my fist over the door, wanting to knock with all my might, but decide to ring the bell instead. Seconds pass before one of the massive doors swings open and I find myself staring into the eyes of an unfamiliar, gray-haired housekeeper.

  I stand up a little straighter and pretend I'm wearing a designer business suit. “I'm here to talk to Derinda Carlson.”

  The housekeeper frowns at me, then puckers her lips and shakes her head. "Mrs. Carlson is unavailable."

  I press my lips tightly together. There's no way in hell I'm leaving here without speaking to Cross's mother. "Look, ma'am, I'm a family friend.” I nod behind me. “I recognize her BMW and I know she's here this weekend. Tell her it's one of Cross's friends. I have something of his."

  I don't, of course, but I'm hoping curiosity will draw Derinda to the door. I haven't seen much of her since I left for college, but I remember she used to be a vibrant, funny woman—if a little cowed by her powerful husband.

  I spend the few minutes I'm kept waiting sending out pleas to the universe. Please let her come to the door. Please help Cross.

  I'm almost surprised when the door opens again and she's standing there in front of me. When we were in high school, Derinda Carlson was thin, elegant, and well-dressed, with vibrant blue eyes and short, stylish blonde hair. I remember her sorting through papers as she drew up house plans, but she would always make sure the housekeepers kept Cross, Suri, and I well-fed, and the few times she greeted me upon arrival, she was always kind and smiling.

  This woman is much different. Still dressed stylishly in an ice blue pant suit, Derinda has definitely aged. I can tell because her face looks ridiculously smooth, and the areas around her mouth and eyebrows don't move much as she looks me up and down. Her pale blonde hair, swept up in a casual up-do, bobs a little as her eyes travel from my moccasins to my hair, which is probably a mess.

  Her arms are hanging at her sides, but I notice her hands are splayed and stiff, even as she bends her mouth into a sour-lemon smile and nods slightly at me. “Elizabeth, how can I help you?”

  Tears flood my eyes as I think about Cross, with a tube down his throat and all that gauze around his head. My voice cracks as I struggle not to sob. “Why is he in that awful place?”

  She frowns, and lines appear—well-worn tracks she can’t completely hide. "We can't insure him anymore. Drake is paid by taxpayers these days.”

  My face says I’m not buying it, and Derinda’s frown deepens. “I really don't need to justify anything to you, but do you have any idea how much the facility he was in cost?"

  "No."

  "Four thousand dollars every night he’s there. That's after insurance pays a percentage."

  I blink, stunned that these things matter. "He was waking up! He talked to me."

  She's shaking her head briskly, like she can't stand to hear my words. "There's been no response for months."

  “This was days ago! I told the nurse. It's probably on the cameras! They were doing that therapy on his brain and it was working. I could tell!”

  Derinda shakes her head. “We love our son, Elizabeth. We just simply can’t afford it.”

  I want to call her on her bullshit. Governor Carlson was a prominent litigator before he entered politics. And they certainly aren’t acting like they love him. I want to tell her she’s full of shit, that I know she never visits, but all that will get me is a door slammed in my face.

  I change the subject. "What happened in the ambulance?"

  She opens her mouth, pauses as she fixes me with an even stare. "They're not sure. He was on so many different medicines..." The corner of her mouth tucks down, like we're talking about a broken vase.

  "He had a stroke,” I snap. “You don't know why?"

  "There are no whys, Elizabeth. Don't you think I'd be crazy if I sat around asking why any of this happened. Maybe you can tell me. You were there that night."

  I clench my jaw. I want so much—so much—to tell her how their estrangement impacted Cross. How he'd lost weight and closed in on himself. How he spent most of the time he wasn't working at my Mom's house all alone.

  My eyes simmer with angry tears. "They said he had the stroke because he was in pain. That sounds like someone's fault."

  Her mouth draws up like a rotten fruit. "They shouldn't be discussing this with you."

  I ignore her. "He was waking up. Why did you move him? He was doing well."

  "He has no idea where he is, and he isn't doing anything, Elizabeth. I know it hurts, but it's time to be realistic. Cross is gone, and he's never coming back again.”

  I flinch, but I remind myself that she's the one who's misinformed, not me. "I'm telling you, he talked to me the other day. Just ask Nanette or anyone who's there. I don't get why you don't seem to know this!"

  Derinda’s face is hard when she says. "You love him, so you want him to get better. I love him, too, but palliative care is the best we can do for him now. We must also be prepared for his condition to…deteriorate."

  I feel my heart go cold as stone. "They said that?"

  "It's too soon to tell, but with what happened..."

  "With what happened, you're just giving up? That place in L.A. is not the best. Not even close! He won't get well in that hellhole. He needs to go back to the place in Napa!"

  Her eyes go cold, and I can tell I've crossed a line. "You have no idea what's best for him—"

  “I think I'm the only one who cares what's best for him!” I whirl around and fly down the driveway before she has a chance to shut the door.

  *

  I drive to a park and spend the next half-hour crying again, reliving every detail of that night. It doesn't help. There's one detail I can't reason away, I can't forget, I can't ignore, and that's this: He was upset—because of me—when he left. It didn’t matter if that was fair, or if he had upset me, too. I hurt Cross bad enough to make him climb onto his bike half-drunk, and even if it was his choice, even if he made the wrong one, I was the precipitating event. I was the catalyst. And I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get over it.

  Chapter Nine

  ~HUNTER~

  Priscilla is having Libby followed. That means when I follow Libby, I have to be discreet. The last thing I need is Priscilla knowing that I know what she's doing. It would ruin everything. And I’m beginning to think there's really something here.

  According to my guy, Priscilla has visited Michael Lockwood twice in the last week. The rumor was she’d fired him in a fit of rage—no one knew what over. So why visit? In the meantime, my bank girl found a Swiss account in Michael’s name with more than $5 million. That’s a lot of money for an unemployed video production tech. How does it connect to Sarabelle? I’m not sure, but I have a terrible suspicion.

  In the meantime, I'm fucking Priscilla, and when I have a spare moment, watching Libby’s new watchers. Of course I’m also watching Libby. Like now. I followed her to Napa Valley Involved Rehab, where Cross Carlson enjoyed seven weeks of the best care available before his family moved him to the county shithole. I watch her walk in with a notebook early this morning, greeted at the door by a nurse in pink and purple scrubs. Half an hour later, I see her fly through the door and sink into the grass, sobbing into her hands. I have to cross my arms to keep from opening the door and going to check on her.

  Priscilla's spy doesn't follow Libby home, but I do, despite there being no reason for it. I watch until she's in range of Crestwood's security cameras and the driveway guard. I shut my eyes and imagine that warm, sweet hand closing over my cock, and it's all I can do not to bust a load right then in my pants.

  Instead I go to the vineyard and jerk off in my bed. When I'm finished, I call Marchant.

  I can't tell him about Priscilla's threats, because even March doesn't know about Roxanne, but I can tell him I'm fucking her for information. So I do. I come clean, and then I tell him about how edgy she's seemed lately—I don’t mention the whips.

  When I finish, he drops a bomb: "She's also
fucking Josh Smith. I'm looking into it."

  “Well fuck.” That little bit of info makes my head reel.

  “One more thing," March says slowly. "A woman from the FBI came out to the ranch today. She interviewed just about everyone. She said she’s looking into 'several' disappearances. And as far as I could tell, she had the most questions about you."

  *

  ~ELIZABETH~

  Arnold is driving me home from a swim at the country club's heated pool, and Crestwood’s porch has finally come into view. Someone is waiting there, and I activate the security system app on my phone to find out who. I pick the porch feed, and immediately recognize Suri’s favorite lilac Vera Wang day dress and stylish flats. She's waving at me. I glance up, smile, then turned back to my phone. I’m reaching to shut the app down when I notice Suri is waving her left hand. I zoom in…

  "Holy moly."

  I'm out of the car before Arnold stops. I fly up the stairs, and she's beaming, laughing, and then we're both screaming. She shoves her hand into my face and a giant rock winks at me; it's surrounded by tiny fire opals: Suri's favorite.

  "Holy crap, Sur, HE DID IT!"

  "And he's moving back to Napa!"

  "Oh my God you're getting married!" I grab onto her and we're swinging in a circle in front of the rocking chairs, both screaming like lunatics, and suddenly my throat is squeezing like I might cry. But Suri's laughing, and the crying feeling turns into hysterical laughter.

  When we finally stop spinning, I'm dizzy and giddy. I grab her left hand and pull her inside, where it's warmer. In the full light I can see how pretty her makeup looks, and I can see the fire opals in her ears, surrounded by tiny diamonds.

  Suri beams.

  "Sur, how did he do it? I want every single detail right now. I can't believe he finally made the move!" Suri tried her best to act cool about it, but I know that girl, and she's been wanting to marry Adam since our freshman year of college.

  She grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the kitchen. "Come in here. I made this tea that has a dash of vodka in it. It's called wedding tea. You're going to love it."

  We walk into the kitchen, and, ever the hostess, Suri pulls out a chair for me and then sits herself. The tea is already cooling in crystal glasses beside wedding cookies that look homemade, and I laugh when I realize she's been waiting here for me—almost the whole time I've been at the pool if I'm correct about how long it takes her to make wedding cookies.

  "Lizzy, it was perfect. We went to Banana Beau's"—Suri's favorite piano/ice cream bar—and they started playing 'Rhapsody in Blue', and then they brought out this huge cake, and it was a red velvet cake, and I realized that the whole place was empty, and Adam tells me he got a new job." She grins. "All I could think about was how it was going to be in like Bangladesh, and then he says it's a freelance job with several different options, and he says he's thinking San Francisco or Napa, and he slid onto his knee and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring!"

  I listen to Suri for the next hour, and then we talk weddings. I'm not surprised to find she wants to get married here at Crestwood, with white bows on everything—even the horse's necks.

  I'm caught up in her happiness and slightly drunk when we take the elevator to bed.

  "Screw toned thighs," Suri giggles.

  "Screw 'em." I grin. "Why worry about being in shape when you've got a freakin' rock?"

  Suri flashes it one more time, then leans down to kiss it. "I love my ring."

  "I love it, too." Feeling spontaneous, I pull her into a bear hug. "You're the awesome-est, Sur."

  "No, you are."

  She wobbles off on the second floor, and I manage to get off on the third without face-planting. When my buzz wears off, I get a glass of cold water from my kitchenette and go into my study, where I keep my new friend the elliptical.

  I work out for an hour and ten minutes, reviewing the events of the night before I get a shower. I think through the Suri-Adam thing, which from all angles seems to be awesome. Then I make myself revisit the subject of Cross. Within five minutes, I'm feeling so sad I can hardly move, so I deliberately turn my thoughts to Hunter.

  I climb into bed, and I want him so badly I can practically feel him here beside me.

  *

  Monday morning, I'm up early. I'm doing a paper on Victor Hugo and whether I agree with his thoughts on prostitutes, and in the drama of the past few days, I've gotten behind. Still, I'm having trouble focusing as I sip my French vanilla coffee in one of the massive window seats that line the left side of my room.

  I cross my legs and balance my laptop on my thighs, skimming that passage in Les Misérables where he talks about how prostitution is slavery. I type a few thoughts on that, and then I pause to look out over the dew-drenched pastures, glowing faintly orange with the sunrise.

  Suri's paint horse, People Whisperer, prances near the white fence closest to the house, and I'm thinking about Cross again. We rode horses here just two weeks before the accident, and I remember how he grinned after he'd run on Trojan.

  He'd tugged the horse's reins, slowing to a trot, and Suri and Adam had raced past us.

  "How'd you know I was going to slow down?" he'd asked me.

  I shrugged. I remember thinking on it for a second: Had my horse, Delilah, slowed because she knew Trojan and had picked up on his intentions, or had it been me that pulled on the reins? It had been me.

  "I guess I just saw your face or read your body language," I'd offered.

  Cross just nodded. He sucked his lip into his mouth. I remember the dusky, indigo sky reflecting off his high cheekbones. How blue his eyes had looked. "I used to want to do this, remember?"

  "Breed horses?"

  He nodded.

  I looked down the length of him—strong arms, lean, muscled legs—and back into his eyes. "I bet you would've been good."

  "It's the speed I like," he'd told me, and after a quiet second: "It sounds trite, but it really does push everything else out of your mind."

  And I had known just what he meant, because I'd always felt that way, too. Whether I was swimming, riding, or even reading—maybe especially reading—I liked being in motion, because it let me go away.

  "I know just what you mean," I'd told him, and he'd leaned over, just close enough to skim my blue jeans with his fingertips.

  "I'm really glad we’re friends, Lizzy."

  As I think about that now, tears well in my eyes. Why couldn't I just like Cross back? Why is he my old comfy sweatshirt instead of the hot designer outfit I covet from the window? Why have I always felt so at ease with him, my hair never standing on end in that perplexing and wonderful way it does when Hunter is near? Cross is such a good guy. Loyal, funny, complicated. A talented bike designer and a good friend. He's always been there for me when I need him.

  I think about my conversation with Dad the other night, and I want nothing more than to talk to Cross. I blink at my computer screen and two tears slide down my cheeks.

  I look down at my abs—flatter than they've been in years—and think about my kidneys. How much are they worth on the black market?

  I sigh. Private care is so expensive, one Grade A kidney probably wouldn't last Cross a week.

  I shut my eyes and lean my head against the wall, trying to think of a way to get a loan. I wonder if I could sell the house while Mom's in rehab. No. It’s not in my name. It's in Dad's, and I'm sure as hell not calling him again.

  I think about my car and want to scream. Three days. Three days is all my car would buy Cross at Napa Valley Involved Rehab. And that’s if I got a good price.

  I think about Suri again. I think about robbing a bank. I feel so trapped right now, prison doesn't seem much worse, and as soon as I have the thought, I start to cry, because the truth is I'm not trapped, and Cross is.

  I think about the story of Sleeping Beauty, about how I used to kiss Cross after every visit. I remember his body wrapped in my blankets, and my cheeks get hot as I remember being pres
sed against that very same body on the night of Hunter's party. I know he cares for me—why can’t I get him to wake up?

  My thoughts wander to Hunter. For some reason, I think I could get him to wake up. I also bet he could pay for Cross's care. I wonder if I have enough money in my savings account to ask Hunter to gamble for me. He's a good gambler. He plays poker professionally.

  But I’ve only got $7,820. So no.

  Still, I imagine Hunter sitting at a poker table in a Vegas casino. He's resplendent in black jeans, a black shirt, and a Stetson. His poker face is beautiful; intriguing. I feel my body heat again as I think about kissing his lips. I wonder if the women there fall all over him. I bet the escorts would pay him to take a tumble.