Selling Scarlett

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Selling Scarlett Page 15

by Ella James


  I mutter an “excuse me” and shake my head. “Migraine,” I croak, and he says, “Ow. I'm sorry, man. Those things hurt.”

  “They do.”

  “Take care.”

  Fat chance.

  I spend the next five minutes in a frou frou yellow bathroom, where I text Dave and let him know I haven't seen Smith or Lockwood yet.

  'I'm here, outside,' he replies. 'Lwd just arrived.'

  Hell, yes. I'm stepping back into the formal dining room when I feel something trickle down my back. My stomach heaves—blood—and I whirl around to step back into the john just in time to see some lady close the door. Fuck. I step toward the food-piled table, telling myself to quit being such a pussy, but the punch is blood red and there's steak laid out on a platter right in front of me, swimming in...

  Fucking fuck!

  I set off down the hall, swallowing repeatedly, ignoring one of Priscilla's cohorts, a pretty porn star named Cinnamon Vern. The nearest door is only steps away, and I'm reaching for the crystal knob when I hear Priscilla's voice.

  I lean closer to the door, but her voice gets softer.

  What the—?

  I notice another door a few feet down, and walk swiftly too it. I hear a male voice, too, rising and falling in turn. I'm only standing there for a moment when I recognize it from a tape I heard in Marchant's office: It's Lockwood. He says something low that I can't hear, and Priscilla laughs.

  “I ripped up his back. He’s trying to play it off, but he can barely walk.”

  Lockwood chuckles, and she goes on. “Go for his left shoulder blade. I think there's some ceramic impacted. It was swollen and I noticed in the car he's not moving that arm much.”

  I clutch my stomach; it feels hollow.

  “I don't want to do that,” Lockwood says. I frown, confused. “I don't give a shit about the fight, and it's a bad idea to match me up with him anyway. I don't want anything to do with that sonbitch. I'm keeping my nose clean.”

  “Honey, there’s not a thing about you clean,” Priscilla drawls.

  He says something angrily, but for some reason it’s muffled.

  “Don’t be silly,” Priscilla says, and Lockwood groans, “Just finish the damn job.”

  Priscilla murmurs something I can't hear, followed by: "He doesn’t like to hurt a lady." She snorts, like the notion is ridiculous.

  “Which is why you’re supposed to make him like it,” Lockwood snaps. “And get it on tape.”

  She laughs under her breath. "I never have time for that."

  "Yeah, because you're thinking with your pussy."

  "He's a good fuck.”

  "Congratulations, now do you want to do time in prison, or do you want to frame this son of a bitch and go to Mexico with me?"

  "Is she still alive?" Priscilla asks softly.

  "Yes," he says, after a moment's pause. "Now get down on your knees and—"

  I slip into the next room and get sick.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ~ELIZABETH~

  I see Loveless's big, brown eyes, and I see her swallow, like it hurts to even think about. Juniper squeezes her arm and Loveless's mouth flattens. Juniper says, “Maybe we shouldn't talk about this.”

  Loveless shakes her head. “Scarlett should know.”

  “If you think.”

  And I can't hold it in anymore. “Are you talking about the girl who disappeared?”

  They both freeze. I watch as their mouths curve down in unison. Juniper nods. Loveless says, “Yeah. She was my next-door-neighbor. Sarabelle. I trained her when she started. Three years ago, I think.” She opens her mouth, like there's so much more she wants to say, but in the end she just shakes her head. “We’re praying for her.”

  “It makes me furious,” Juniper says.

  “Me, too, but here's the thing, Scarlett. You need to know a girl disappeared from here. I don't know if Richard told you but I'm the Head Girl and I want you to know. If you ever feel uncomfortable around any man, or something happens that doesn't seem right, you need to let me know.”

  I nod.

  “Probably best not to bring it up,” Juniper advises me. “We miss her, some of us more than others, but we're family here, so it's a hole in all our hearts.”

  “I'm sorry to hear about it,” I say as we reach the punching bags. “But, uh, what does—uh, was it Hunter?” They nod. “What does Hunter have to do with this?”

  “He was the last one to have her,” Juniper says with one eyebrow raised.

  *

  The next morning, when I eat with Juniper, Marie V., and Loveless, all I can think about is Hunter and whatever happened here, with Sarabelle. I'm disappointed when the subject doesn't come up again over breakfast, and I tell myself that's crazy. I should be glad no one's talking about Hunter. Just like I should be glad he doesn't come here to see the escorts anymore. I'm not glad about the reason he's staying away, but I'm glad I won't run into him.

  Juniper has today off, at least until four, so she shows me all around the place and I learn a little more about Marchant. Rachelle and him have had a thing since college, and everyone used to think it would be just a matter of time before they wound up in bed together.

  "But they use restraint," Juniper says. "I'm not sure who they fuck. Marchant seems positively virginal when he’s out here, although I know he must get most of his pussy in the city. Rachelle is different. I really think she's sworn it off. I'm not sure how. Orgasms are the best thing in the whole wide world. Don't you think so?"

  I blush, but I'm proud that I can manage a response. "They are."

  "So tell me how it is that you're a virgin, darling? Just never met the right one?" I think about Hunter and feel my cheeks and throat color again.

  "Yeah. Just haven't found the right one."

  "Well Mr. Right will pay you rather handsomely I'd bet. In fact," she laughs, "we're all betting. I'm putting my money on a randy bidder for those long legs of yours."

  I smile, feeling warmed by her compliment. "I've never heard anyone use the word 'randy.'"

  "I bet you've never had a lesson on deep-throating, either, am I right?"

  We're en route to one of 'the rooms', and I've been wondering exactly what we'll do. Hearing this, I nearly fall flat on my face.

  Juniper smirks. "I guess you do have virgin ears, but a virgin throat?" She shakes her head. "No more. No worries, though, you're learning from the best." She gestures to herself. "Men pay thousands for this throat. It's not as unpleasant as you might expect either, if you know what you’re doing."

  "So you're my sex teacher?"

  She winks. "Anything you want."

  "Does that mean I'm supposed to...give the winner a blow job?”

  "No, not at all. But Richard felt you might appreciate some bonus lessons, for whoever might be Mr. Scarlett one day, or boyfriend of Scarlett." She smiles. "If it weren't for this, you'd be with Brenda all day, and that's not good, I'm afraid."

  "Who's Brenda?"

  "Your trainer. She'll be responsible for all your beauty matters. And though they're few, she's sure to make them count. She might order you a waxing, or many miles of running, or perhaps a new hairstyle." Juniper yawns, and mutters, "Sleepless night. I've got a boyfriend in London."

  "You do?" I gape, and she nods. "He wants me to quit my job, but he's a poor man and he can't support me. A soldier, in fact. Coming here in several weeks. I'll have to take the time off, but truth is I'm rather excited for it."

  We slip into easy chatter, but behind it I’m thinking about Hunter. Sarabelle disappeared from his room. What happened? The girls have all been careful not to say, so I know there must be something there.

  *

  By the end of the day, I still haven’t learned anything else about what happened. I have, however, been waxed, tanned, toned, and pampered with an hour-long massage, and Brenda's personal shopper has brought me several outfits.

  "We like our girls and guys to look a certain way. One that speaks to a certain
kind of luxury,” she explained. “You might have wonderful clothes, but we'd like you to wear ours while you're doing business here."

  The outfits are beautiful—rich, soft fabrics and complimenting cuts—and the truth is, I love them. I feel sexy. I call Suri after dinner and get an update on Cross, who squeezed her hand today, and then call Mom, who's spending an evening away from rehab. I wonder who authorized that.

  After an hour alone, most of which is spent wondering about Hunter and Sarabelle, and Googling my butt off but finding nothing, I grab my bag and head downstairs, wearing gray leggings, a royal blue sweater, and tall brown leather boots, to meet the escorts who worked day shift. Those of us who have tonight off are going somewhere fun.

  As soon as I arrive in the nook nearest to the staff side door, Juniper pulls me into a hug and begins to brag about my prowess today. It makes me blush, but it also makes me a little happy.

  "I want to know how your next guy likes it," Juniper tells me.

  Everyone laughs, and Hannah, an escort all the way from India (they get a lot of international girls, I’m noticing) asks if we want to see Thomas Bourne.

  “Who?”

  “He’s a poker player,” Loveless explains. “And one of Marie V.'s, but Hannah wants to recruit him.”

  "He's a beautiful man,” Hannah says.

  "Too skinny," says a girl named Cat.

  "That's not why he's beautiful. It's more than just his body. It's his...everything." Hannah holds up her hands, miming a swoon, and Loveless bumps into her. "You sure it’s not that dick you want?"

  "Is it big?" Hannah asks innocently.

  Five minutes later, Hannah has been outvoted. We won't be going to watch anyone play poker, which leaves me feeling defeated; I'd hoped, against all good sense, that I might see Hunter there.

  "We'll go to the fight," Juniper says.

  As we spill out the side door, Loveless winks at me. "All the men who come to Love Inc. will have their eyes on you, wondering who you are. You'll have cocks across the stadium standing on end.”

  "I'm not sure how much I like that," I say as we walk across the parking lot.

  “You should like it, honey. It means more money for you.”

  “Do you guys feel safe, out and about? I mean...after what happened here?” I've taken her light moment and turned it deadly serious, but Loveless doesn't take the bait. She tosses her hair, which tonight she's wearing straight down her back, and gives me a funny look out of the corner of her eye—one I think says 'I'm not talking about that'. In a normal, cheery voice, she says, "I feel real safe." She opens her handbag and holds up a Taser, and I gape. For the remainder of our brief walk to a stretch limo, she shows me how to work it.

  We pile into the limo, driven by Rod, a Peruvian man who's also an escort, who declares, once everyone is in, "I'm tired of my female clients. I need a man tonight."

  So we set off, to find Rod a man and watch a fight. I lean my forehead against the window and I hope more than I should that I will find one too. I'm tired of Hunter's memory—and the mystery of what happened to the missing escort—following me all around here like a ghost.

  Chapter Twenty

  ~HUNTER~

  By the time I get to the Joseph Club at ten on Monday night, I'm going on forty-eight hours without sleep, and I know I don't need to be here.

  The last two days have been...intense. In addition to my adventures with Priscilla, Marchant and I are going after Lockwood with everything we have. We’ve expanded the team—Julie, Roberto, and Dave have been joined by a retired CIA guy named Ted Burts, as well as Julie's friend Lay1a, a forensic IT specialist who once worked for the Las Vegas mayor’s office—and our surveillance is 24/7.

  If wishes were fishes I'd have a fucking sea, because I've spent the last two days wishing I'd had the sense to use my phone's video recorder. When I'm not wishing that, I’m making absolutely sure I heard what I think I heard. Can I trust myself?

  I know I can, because there is one thing I remember clearly. It's that gut-shot feeling I got when I heard Priscilla say "He doesn’t want to hurt a lady." Before that, I'd let myself believe that Priscilla really didn’t have anything to do with Sarabelle, or if she did, she was as much a pawn as myself.

  But I know now she’s not, and it feels like someone stuck their steel-toed boot through my abdomen. I've only felt that way one time before. It was when I was nine and Rita turned on me for the first time.

  I'd had the chicken pox, and I was itchy and whiny. I overheard Dad worrying about my fever, which was high enough that I'd been delirious—although I was lucid at that moment, wrapped up in my Power Rangers sheet and spying on them from behind the couch. Rita sighed and said, "Maybe he'll sleep for a few days." She did this funny laugh that was deeper and said, in hushed voice, "Or more than a few."

  Dad just laughed, and he told her to drink another glass of wine, but I had known by the tone of her voice that there was more. And there was.

  I don't like thinking about that, so I try to stop. I'm in the basement underneath the arena, in a small, tiled locker room that reminds me of another basement. I need my mind clear tonight, so I try hard to think of something else as I shower and wrap my back.

  I've been given some small black shorts to wear, but I can't face thousands of people in something that looks like an overgrown Speedo. Those things are bad enough in the damn pool, but I'll be jumping around out there. I'm well-endowed, and half the town doesn’t need to see it. I pull my black gym shorts out of my duffel bag and tug them on over boxer-briefs.

  I take a long look in the mirror, running a critical eye over my sallow face and tense shoulders. If I went out shirtless with this gauze wrapped around my torso, I'd look like a hospital runaway, but I can't stand the thought of lifting my arms to put a shirt on. Tough shit. I pick a light blue shirt from a charity triathlon I did last year and I feel sick by the time I've got it on.

  I think I have a fever, and I know why. It's because of my back. I should see about getting some antibiotics, but for some reason, I haven't. I tell myself it's because I don't want the headache. I tell myself it's because I can't go in for an exam; word would get around. Last time I went to the ER, with a fractured ankle from an impromptu game of soccer with one of the neighborhood kids in Napa, one of the local San Fran gossip rags ran some bullshit story about me coming from a 'certain' area of town where I used to get my coke.

  That stroll down memory lane makes me pissed, and that should be a good thing, since I need a little energy boost for the fight. But pissed leads me only one direction, and that's Priscilla's. All I want to do now is smash my own reflection in the mirror.

  My fist curls, and I come so close to doing just that, I have to go sit on the bench beside the shower and start taping up my hands. A shrink once explained to me the concept of mindfulness. It’s been useful before, and I try it now—paying attention to the stickiness of the sports tape. To the shape of my fingers as I wrap each one. I even give some thought to the scalding pain on my back, telling myself it hurts like hell, but I'm not dead or anything. Just keep breathing.

  And I do.

  But with every breath, I want to punch that fucking mirror.

  How could I be so stupid?

  How could I let her get so close?

  Even before I thought I was being set up to take the fall for—for whatever the fuck is going on, I knew she was trying to blackmail me for sex. Why did I ever go along with it?

  You know why.

  Rita’s face follows me as I pace.

  I check the clock on the counter: twenty minutes till show time. I inhale deeply, and I remember Marchant's reaction when I first told him Priscilla and Lockwood were trying to frame me, after the gala the other night. I remember the pity. He knows how much I loathe her, and he has to know there must be something more to my fucking her. Something sick and twisted.

  And he's right—he just has no idea about the details.

  I start jumping jacks. It's mundane and make
s me dizzy from the horrible pain in my back, but it takes the edge off for a minute. Then I get too dizzy, so I sit on the bench beside the shower. I close my eyes and try to be still.

  I wonder for the dozenth time about motive. Why me? And how far back does the plan go? Did Priscilla find out about my mother and decide that I would be the perfect patsy? Did Sarabelle get snatched simply because she was with me? Or was it just chance? Did Priscilla drug me out of spite, because I'd chosen Sarabelle over her, and Lockwood went for Sarabelle out of simple opportunism?

 

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