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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 pressed 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.
My throat goes dry.
That's it.
My eyes fly to the soft, damp spot between my legs, and the room around me tilts.
Holy crap. Holy insanity. Holy vagina.
I know what I can do to help Cross.
Chapter Ten
~HUNTER~
I've been watching Libby's house, and I don't like what I've seen. Priscilla's got someone following her at times that to me seem random, and at least once I've seen Priscilla herself do a drive-by.
I don’t get it. There's no way Priscilla could know about the misplaced fantasies that plague me, so why the sudden interest in Libby? I'm losing my patience with this game we're playing—more so because our new guy, Dave, has a contact at the LVPD and she tells him they don't have any leads on Sarabelle's whereabouts. Knowing Priscilla is fucking Josh Smith, lead detective, really makes my hair stand on end. But I can't seem to find anything to fill in the wide gaps.
That's why I'm here at the courthouse. I want to buy a warrant, or rather let Diana know what I'm up to and give a little under-the-table donation to our lovely county. Doesn't hurt that on this particular day, I know Priscilla's here as well. According to my PI in Napa, she's been here for an hour already. There's no reason she should be. No reason she should even be in the state this week.
I feel confident she doesn't expect to see me here, and catching her off guard is important to me. I slide my Audi into a narrow space and put it in park, then step into the radiant California sun.
I've got on one of my Vegas getups: cheap suit—still tailored for my shoulders and chest, but not from Seville Row—and my regular joe shoes, a pair of Ralph Lauren loafers. Marchant likes to look like a slick bastard wherever he goes, but I'd rather not stand out.
The Napa County Court House is a smart, Italianate building: two stories of smooth stone arches and brick detail-work with cement stairs that lead into a covered entryway where people like to mingle before going in. I get a fucked up feeling when I come here, probably because the décor on the inside and the scent of cheap floor shiner remind me of Rita; she worked, for a time, as a secretary to the probate judge back in Orleans Parish. I try not to think about that.
Diana Mendez and I have been friends for years. She’s objectively beautiful—long black hair, fantasy-long legs, doe brown eyes. Her ambition—she's the youngest probate judge in Napa County’s history—only adds to her appeal. I try to imagine her naked as I make my way from my spot to the building's front—I have actual memories of her naked body to draw on—but Diana turns into Libby. Just like every other woman I’ve tried to jerk off to in the last few weeks.
I sigh, only because no one is around, and I want to let the birds know how troubling the girl is.
Speaking of trouble, Priscilla is standing by the courthouse doors in black stilettos and a shiny silver dress that, in her fashion, shows too much thigh and too much tit. When I see her, I paste on my surprised expression. The look on her face is confirmation: She's not expecting me. As I start up the steps, I notice a news van pulling up and I wonder if my Libby will be here. I wonder if he called her Libby, too, and decide it's unlikely. Lizzy, Liz, or even Beth are more likely. I like to think Libby is mine.
"Hunter, darling." Priscilla grabs me by the shoulders, like she owns me, and plants a kiss on my mouth. I know from experience that it leaves a slick red mark, just like I know that if I wipe it off, I'll pay with skin later.
"You look surprised to see me. I take it you don't know what's going on today?"
"What?" I lie.
"There's a hearing. The governor is coming."
"A hearing for what?" I ask, sticking my hands in my pockets, a submissive move I'm adopting purely for Priscilla's benefit.
"For poor Cross Carlson." Her voice oozes insincerity. She isn’t able to feel empathy.
"He get a speeding ticket?" I ask dryly. Truthfully my stomach churns thinking of what happened to the younger man, but sarcasm makes our ruse more palatable.
"No, the governor and Mrs. Carlson are cutting him off."
"Come again?"
"He'll be in a state facility now, instead of a private room at a private rehab. It was too expensive, so I heard," she says, winking.
