by Ella James
"It's sure as hell’s not you," I growl.
"Oh, you better not back talk mama." She squeezes my balls and I let out a moan. I lay her down and thrust three fingers into her, stretching her as she writhes against my hand.
"You know who's a little slut?" she pants. "Elizabeth DeVille. I want to hear you say Elizabeth is a slut."
Shock like a bucket of ice water slides through my veins, and for the first time I’m actually worried for Libby. True, Priscilla’s been following her, but I assumed that was to keep tabs on me. Now I wonder if she knows I got to third base at my party. Maybe she’s jealous?
I press my forearm against Priscilla's throat and she fumbles with my fly, her cool, thin hands reaching for my cock. She starts to jack me off and I can't stand the thought of cumming as she gasps for air.
I lift my forearm from her throat and she sinks her nails into my wrist. "I'd like to fuck that little bitch. Shove a dildo right up that tight ass just like Marchant does."
I freeze, dumbfounded, then lit up with jealous fury, and Priscilla grins—more a leer. "Hunter West, jealous," she says, still jacking my cock. "I never thought I'd see the day."
"You think I'm jealous?" I am. Blindingly so. I bite her mouth, and Priscilla moans. "I don't give a damn about Elizabeth DeVille."
"You lie," she hisses. She puts her hand over mine, and she guides it to her throat. She wants me to choke her. I'd like to, because I'm angry, but the idea of actually hurting her makes me hesitate, a crime for which she slaps me.
I see Rita's angry face and am too disarmed to do anything but gasp for air.
“What a little pussy,” she hisses.
She cups my balls and pumps my dick, and my muddled mind shifts back to Libby. There's no way she's fucking Marchant, is there?
I shut my eyes and see a pointy little chin, lush lips, high cheekbones, wide blue eyes framed with dark lashes. Her smile is sweet. Serene. Just a little sarcastic sometimes. A full-blown laugh at others. I picture her delicate throat and collar bones, pretty just like every other inch of her voluptuous body. I have a flash memory of gliding my finger into her warm pussy and it sends me over the edge. I cum into Priscilla's expert hand and she clutches my balls so tightly I'm arching up, shoving her off me.
“Come and get me...” She dances a few steps away, wanting me to 'get her'. Wanting me to hit her. I wipe myself off on my boxer-briefs and tug them off, wishing I could leave the room, and her. All this pain for pleasure shit isn’t my style.
And yet, as our night winds to an end, I'm on top of her again with my hands around her neck. I can feel her tendons strain under my fingers as she jacks me off, and it's everything I can do to stay hard. I imagine another pair of hands, softer ones with short, pale nails. There was a time, a few months back, when all I could do was watch Priscilla, worried I was hurting her, but I've had to stop that. I can't get off if I'm worried, and she demands that I do.
I spend the next two hours getting whipped and slapped and trying not to get too head fucked. I'm not a child anymore. I can fight back, if I choose.
But I don't.
Chapter Fourteen
~ELIZABETH~
It's kind of like what I imagine getting sent off to college would be like if you're in a normal family, where at least one person really cares that you're leaving.
Suri fusses over me like a mama bird, making me egg soufflé and sparkling green tea, plus a giant bowl full of perfectly gooey orange cinnamon rolls for the road. As we sit and eat our soufflé at the breakfast table, she watches me like a mama bird, too.
In the last two weeks, I've hit the elliptical hard, and I've even worked out at a real gym three times a week, with a trainer, going through photocopied exercises Richard sent. I look better than I have in a long time. I refuse to weigh myself, on principal, but I'm wearing size six pants. I actually teared up a bit when they slipped on.
I smile a little, figuring Suri must be thinking the same thing, but instead of complimenting me she frowns a little and shakes her head. "This is your choice, Lizzy. Remember you don't have to go. I have money."
After a second reminding myself she's only looking out for me, so I shouldn't roll my eyes or get irritated, I snicker. "I do realize I'm not a sex slave."
"Speaking of sex slaves!" She hops up and opens the drawer of the desk where she keeps her fabric swatches. She holds out something small and black, and I'm shocked to find that it's a gun case.
She holds it out to me, and I wobble backwards. "Suri, have you lost your mind? I'm not touching that death machine.”
"It's a .38. You need it! Some escorts have been kidnapped and sold into sex slavery or murdered or eaten!"
"Really?" I pause, mid-chew. I've heard a lot of things about Las Vegas, but not that.
"Well, the cannibalism is just a pessimistic guess." She rolls her eyes, like the specifics don't matter. "They've gone missing. Two or three, I think. One of them was even from Love Inc. Surely you've heard about—"
"I have," I lie, because really—I don't need any added stress. I probably would have heard about it, had I done excessive Googling on Love Inc., but I didn't. Because I really don't care to know more about it than I do. I'll be there for a little over a week and a half, and then I'll be back home. Surely I can avoid getting cannibalized or kidnapped in eleven days.
Suri pushes the gun into my hand, and I take it. Not because I'd ever shoot someone, but because I want to ease her mind.
"Remember, if you have a problem, call me," she says, with her lip between her teeth.
"I'll just shoot 'em dead." I smile, waving my gun, and she says, "Don't do that! It may be loaded."
"You just gave me a loaded gun?"
"No, but you’re always supposed to act like it’s loaded!”
With a wide-eyed look at the little black case, I tuck the gun into my bag and turn to Suri, who's holding out the plastic box of cinnamon rolls.
"Don't forget these."
"How could I?" I'm an absolute sucker for orange frosted cinnamon rolls.
Together we walk to my jam-packed car, where I put that awful handgun in the trunk and Suri checks the tire pressure. She once had a flat outside Tyler, Texas, on one of those lonely country roads. She was rescued by a border patrol agent who was dressed like a smuggler; the experience was scarring, so since then she's always checked my tire pressure.
"Looks like you're good," she says, holding out the gauge. Then she throws her arms around me. "Lizzy, you look wonderful. I hope it's perfect and whoever wins the bid is a total prince charming. I'll come visit soon."
I squeeze her close. "The bidding's not for a week and a half, remember?"
"I can't be away from you for that long, crazy woman."
Suri and I hug once more, and when she closes me into my car, I'm reminded of Hunter, which makes my chest ache. I really need to try to forget about Hunter.
I roll down the window, preparing to wave until I reach the end of the driveway. Suri will do the same; it's our thing.
"Lizzy," she calls, as I shift into drive. She trots over to my window, her long sweater trailing behind her. "I'll visit Cross. Every day, if you want."
If I want...
It's hard to hide my smirk, but I manage. "Suri, that would rock."
She smiles a smile that's bigger than it ought to be, and then says, "Tell him 'hi.'"
"Huh?"
"Cross. Aren't you seeing him on your way out?"
"Yeah."
"Tell him I said 'hi.'"
*
I visit Cross at Napa Valley Involved Rehab and am thrilled to find him doing better. The gauze is off his head, and Nanette says his brain scans look much the same as they did the last time he was scanned at NVIR—meaning the stroke was minor and hasn’t affected his long-term prognosis. Amazing. His eyes drift open once or twice, which leaves me feeling buoyant. I'm similarly thrilled when I speak to Mom on the phone and find out it's a 'busy' day at Ultra Mod/Hip Rehab, and she doesn't have time to s
ee me before I leave town.
It takes me ten hours to drive to Vegas, but the driving is important. I have a lot to think about, and I need time to process it.
I'm really doing this. I'm really on my way to the Love Inc. ranch to sell my virginity.
I’ve dressed up. I'm wearing my new brown Armani slacks, the ones that make my ass look tight and perky, and a low-cut, sea blue wrap-around blouse that matches my eyes. I've pulled my dark hair into a playful up-do, and for once, I'm actually wearing lipstick. I feel sexy.
For a few hours, my mind cycles through practical concerns, like whether I have enough lingerie, and what kind of man likes garters. Superficial thoughts, like what kind of lotion I should use on the big night, and whether I need to shower before the bidding or if I’ll have time after.
Richard and I have agreed that I'll get more money if I offer myself to the winner the night of the bidding. What will I feel like, lying on a stage under those glowing lights, with my face shadowed and steam rolling around my mostly naked body?
What if I’m still to pudgy? What if the winner doesn't like having sex with me and wants a refund?
Will the escorts treat me nicely?
The California hills flatten and the grass turns into sand. The air through my vents feels hot and dry. I loosen up a little and my thoughts dip deeper—to Cross. It's still so strange, the way things are now. He should be talking to me. He should be on a bike.
I have a strange and fleeting memory of the shape of Cross's fingertips, holding a pencil as he sketches. How, as a girl, I used to picture those hands when I thought about being fingered.
My eyes water as I think about his hair. How soft it was when it was long and dark and messy. How brilliant blue his eyes are. How they widened that night in the hall when I ran into him at Hunter's party.
He was just trying to watch out for me, even if he was being dick-tastic about it.
I go another round of wishing I'd acted differently. What the outcome would be. I think of Suri, secretly visiting Cross every day while he was at the county hospital. For how long? What were the logistics? I try to imagine her sitting in that awful, stinky place, legs crossed, her wavy hair pulled back, and everything about her radiating Suri; privileged Suri. I wonder if Cross felt safe when she sat there by him. I wonder if he felt loved when she pecked him on the forehead or smoothed his covers—two so very Suri things to do, I know she must have done them.
The sun climbs into the middle of the sky and starts to fall behind me. Cacti dot the barren land. For the longest time, I think of random things, like the cologne Cross wore in high school, which I loved so much. I remember Suri telling me one night when I slept over that if she turned thirty and she wasn't married, she would marry Cross. At the time I was surprised. She'd acted nonchalant and shrugged. "I bet I would never get bored with Cross."
I remember how Cross's jackets used to smell when he put them around my shoulders: like pepper and mints. Remembering a time when Cross lent me his jackets reminds me of being younger, and of course, I think of Mom. How she never had sex with my dad, and how I really wished I didn't know that.
Thinking of Dad makes me think of Hunter. I remember a younger Hunter West, grinning, on his back, gliding underneath Mom's Porsche. I remember his gorgeous golden hair. How, for years, I thought he was the consummate playboy, fucking wealthy, silk-robed women by the pool before the sun was fully up. I recall the glitter of his eyes as he looked up from Priscilla, on the fireplace, in the same room where he and I had...
I don't know if it's because it's dusk and cool, or if it's that thought that gets me, but I'm shivering. I feel naked, and I hate it.
In a few days I'm going to sell my body. I'll strip naked and let a stranger shove his stranger dick inside me.
And it's true, I don't place much value on it: my virginity. For eons it was traded in exchange for land, cattle, power, whatever, so I know full well I'm in good company. I'm okay with that. But the idea of the act as a sensory experience—the knowledge that someone I won’t choose will invade my body... I guess I kind of hate that.
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—warm, soft, 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 start to fall as I think of Hunter cutting a path to me as I'm hounded by media outside the courthouse. 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. And for a long 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 will 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.
When I think about the tears that I shed back there in the dark, I know they won't come so easily again. And I am fine with that. I am.
Chapter Fifteen
~HUNTER~
I've got on my penguin 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 deep in my gut—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 fight tomorrow night, earning myself an invitation to the gala even after all the charity plates have 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.
"Damnit." I bring the phone up 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 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 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.
I shut my eyes, inhaling slowly while I wait in my darkened foyer like the crazy SOB I am. The small amount of enjoyment I've begun to get from these games with Priscilla makes me sick. I'm further disgusted by my cowardice. I pretend like I’m keeping her close for Sarabelle’s sake, but the truth is I won’t turn her in, just like I won’t stop fucking her, until I know my skeletons will stay in the closet where they belong.
I don't give a shit about my father's political career, about what people would think if they knew he fell in love with an escort. Their relationship would be painted in the most tawdry light possible by the press, but would it jeopardize anything about my father's position? Very unlikely. Would it shock all of New Orleans? Yes. My father returned from his business trip with a newly preg
nant 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 got cancer. She also knows just how Rita died, and what went on afterward.
I lean my head against the wall and go over what we’ve got so far. The PIs—Dave and the two other Vegas PIs we just hired, Julie and Roberto—have found a few good leads: