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Thinking of that, while looking at her delicate face, makes my heart pound uncomfortably, and I realize how afraid I am that it might come to that. I’m completely innocent, I remind myself, but I know better. There’s a common perception, partially true, that rich people are above the law. It’s true for a lot of us, but I have a feeling my notoriety could work against me. I’m the kind of guy prosecutors like to stick a case to. And I've got a dirty past.
Libby can read my mind. I think she can. Her eyes are latched to mine, and I can see my heaviness reflected on her face. She slides her hands into her pockets, stepping closer as she speaks. “What I mean is, most people only see what you want them to see. Like the night my mom’s Porsche broke down."
I remember that night. It was back when I was fucking an escort from Los Angeles. The sex was explosive, but I always felt like shit after, and I'd been relieved when my security manager interrupted over the intercom. A few minutes later, after pulling on some pants, I'd gotten my first glimpse of Elizabeth DeVille. She'd had her hair in a pony-tail that stuck up off the side of her head, and she'd been wearing short red shorts and a light blue tank top with a whale on it.
“You like whales?” I'd asked her when I finished with the car.
Her face had gone all soft and pretty, making me feel more like one-hundred-and-three than the twenty-three I was, and she'd shrugged. “Yeah, but not a lot more than any other animal. I just like saving things.”
The car was a piece of junk that likely wouldn't make it a hundred more miles, so I convinced her to spend the night in my guest house. After Marietta went to sleep I found myself sitting out by the swimming pool, hoping Elizabeth might wake up and come outside. It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. When I fell asleep in one of the plastic chairs, I dreamed of Libby DeVille holding my hand.
She's inches from me now, and she's reaching toward my face.
For a second, I feel a thrill of fear I haven’t felt since I was a boy. It settles deep inside my stomach, and I steel myself. Then her hand touches my shoulder, and I start to sweat from every pore.
Her free hand grabs one of mine, and she tugs me closer to her, closing the distance between our bodies with a gentle tug. I lean closer to her, moving in small jerks. I'm getting seriously dizzy, as her thumb touches me between my brows.
"I see a frown mark, though," she whispers, "right here." I blink, surprised to find the soft sensation makes my eyelids heavy.
"I thought you were upset that night," she murmurs as she strokes. "After..." She colors, and I blink my heavy lids.
"I could see you at the foot of the bed, and I was kind of worried for you. I don't know why, but something about you..." That frown is back, visible through my lashes, and someone is scooping out my insides. I feel gutless and emptied, like I might dissolve into a puddle at this woman's feet.
"Something about you just seems sad. I don't know what about poker-playing would make a man sad, but I'm watching these," she says, gently thumbing my frown lines one more time. "Try not to let them get any deeper."
I nod at her, feeling like I'm in a dream. As I'm walking out the door, I turn again, fighting a vision I have of kissing her mouth.
I take her porch stairs two at a time, and my knees ache from my misadventures with Priscilla. I swing into my F-250 and before I can get a handle on myself, my phone buzzes. Priscilla. Seeing her name on the screen is like jumping into icy water.
I hit the button to answer, but I can't bring myself to say 'hello'.
I can hear the static on the other end, static and the clinking sound of hooker heels. "Hunter?" she says; it sounds like the lash of a whip. "Where are you? I'm waiting."
"Keep waiting," I spit out.
"Believe me, I will. But you'll pay for this."
I grip the steering wheel and wonder if Sarabelle is dead already. I tell myself I’m playing this fucked up game for her. My past doesn't matter. If my father doesn't want word to get out—if he's worried about people finding out what happened to Rita—that's his problem. Christ knows it always has been.
I can hear Rita's low voice, a whisper in my memory where it should have been a scream, and for the briefest moment I can feel the sticky sweat I used to get when she was mad. I can hear her say, “You're trash, just like your mother.”
And I can see her crumpled in my arms, as her too-thin face turns white.
I lower the phone and I am punching the 'end call' button when I hear Priscilla on the line. Her voice is low and sultry, but it's wicked all the same, giving me flashbacks of being beholden to another evil bitch.
"I know where you are," she says. "And I don't like it."
Chapter Seven
~ELIZABETH~
I leave my mom's house feeling like a changed woman. It's dangerous for me, because it involves Hunter. I can't imagine what gave me the courage to be as candid with him as I was. It's true I'm not exactly shy, but this is Hunter, golden god, my oldest, only crush.
Maybe it was because he was intruding, technically; maybe it was that he heard me with dad and obviously got it. Regardless, in one fleeting interaction he went from Hunter West Fantasy to Hunter West Real Person, and the bad thing is, I like him more now.
I remember the sympathy in his tone when he asked about my dad. He cared that I was upset; at least that's the feeling I had in my gut. I could be wrong.
But not about the end, when we were in the parlor and he told me he'd been angry that night at the vineyard. I know I'm not wrong about that, and while I admit maybe I'm being self-indulgent, I feel like I can say almost for sure that what I saw wasn't really what was going on. Hunter seemed disgusted with himself when he looked at me. And tonight... He seemed protective. Kind. Not at all the kind of guy who gets off strangling porn stars.
