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.45 inside. I don’t think she knew that, but she must have guessed, based on the way I moved.
“It’s just me, Hunter.”
I turned to find her in a form-fitting trench coat and high-heels. "What the hell are you doing here?"
I can still see the determination on her Botox'd face as she smiled. “How many people know about your mother?"
My gut clenched, but I held my poker face. "Rita?"
"No. Roxanne. The escort who worked for Lotti Bleaufont at the Hartland Casino in the early '80s. She died in child birth. Some big-headed boy." She grinned wickedly, and I felt my heart constrict.
She held out a folder, and I looked inside. It was mine. It came from my safe—or from my financial planner's office. Inside were all the papers. My birth certificate. The certificate of adoption, when my father's high school sweetheart and second wife, Rita, adopted me. This shit was kept under lock and key—mainly because no one knew my upstanding paps had once been head over heels for a Vegas escort.
"This would be such a lovely story for Page Six, don't you think? Your father would be known for something besides pissing off North Africa."
"What do you want, Priscilla?"
She'd smiled coyly. "I just want to get into your bed. I think you’d enjoy it." She shrugged. "If you disagree, I think you will agree that your story is just too salacious, given what's happened lately. Mother was a prostitute. A prostitute disappears after you fuck her. Sounds kind of creepy, kind of kinky, doesn't it?"
I feel a tingle down my spine. “Sounds like you know a lot of things you shouldn’t.”
Her eyes widened, and she smiled widely. “Of course it sounds that way to you, silly man…”
I inhale deeply, returning to the here and now. I hear the sound of fabric swishing on the other side of my bedroom door, and seconds later, Priscilla strolls in.
“Hunter.”
I hate the way she says my name. Like she's talking to a puppy. Like she owns me, for a secret I don’t give a shit about, personally. It’s other things I need kept quiet—things more likely to come to light if people start snooping around my family's past—but I know Priscilla doesn't know those things. Almost no one does.
Priscilla reaches behind her back and the long, suede robe she's wearing tonight falls dramatically to the floor, revealing...only skin. She's on me, has me stripped and on my mattress in seconds. Her hand slides around my cock, and I can't help but respond. I grit my molars as I harden and throb, forced along by nimble fingers and a warm, damp palm.
“Cum for me, Hunter. Cum for Mommy.”
I slit my eyes open, and the glare of the bathroom light on her face causes them to shut again. I'm having trouble finishing. I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly, think of another face instead. I'm done in no time, cumming into Priscilla's hands.
"What a good man. If you want to keep your mommy happy, we'll do chains tonight. It's your night to wear them. I hit you."
I shut my eyes again. Truth be told, I like that best.
“I brought your surprise.” It’s E, and I roll my eyes at the little pill. “I’ve never been a fan.”
“I think you’ll like it.”
I pretend to take it, we fuck, and when Priscilla leaves, I follow her. I catch up with her a few blocks later, and follow her another thirteen miles to a small brick home with a familiar address. It's the home of Michael Lockwood, the film assistant who recently quit working for Priscilla. The one who used to work security for Governor Carlson. Drake Carlson—the political heavyweight Priscilla used to fuck.
I park down the street and dial our new guy, Dave. "I've got a change of plans. You remember Lockwood? Lives on Anderson? I want him followed, night and day. Priscilla Heat, too.”
Chapter Four
~ELIZABETH~
"I already told you, I'm his sister." I look the evil nurse right in the eye and lock my jaw, like I mean business, because I do.
"Mr. Carlson doesn't have a sister," she says after glancing at her clipboard.
I reach into my worn Coach bag and grab a fifty, shamelessly sliding it across the high-gloss counter. If I had more, I'd offer it all to her. But the only rehab I could get Mom into this time is seriously pricey, eating up our meager allowance from the DeVille Trust, and my fellowship money only goes so far. If Suri didn't let me live at Crestwood Place with her for free, I'd never make ends meet.
The nurse raises her right eyebrow and looks from my money to me, and I cross my arms in front of my chest. "How many visitors?"
