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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 pregnant 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:
Josh Smith is Michael Lockwood's third cousin. Last time Smith saw Lockwood: the morning before Smith told the FBI that I liked to tie girls up.
Michael Lockwood took a bus to San Luis two days ago. He had lunch in a hotel and went to the men's room twice.
The night Priscilla invaded my plane, a man searched both of my homes in Vegas. Marchant's guy, Dave, captured the whole thing on film, proving that, for now at least, the bad guys have no idea that we are onto them. When he later pulled up an image of Gus Victor, the man's mug shot matched the face of the guy searching my homes.
Two years ago, just before Priscilla's affair with Governor Carlson began, one of the governor's mistresses went missing. Maybe. Missy King was a working girl and rising porn star the governor met on a gambling trip. He put her up in a fancy Vegas apartment complex—that part, we've confirmed is true—where she lived until she didn't. There are no missing person reports, and there has never been a police investigation. But her friends tell Dave they think she was kidnapped, and the LVPD did nothing to find her.
Priscilla's phone is bugged as of today, so I'm looking forward to the next time she talks to the governor. Or to Smith. Or Lockwood, for that matter. I'm hoping they’ll fill in some of the pieces, because right now I don't know what this is.
In a few days, I'll go down to San Luis myself to see what the hell could be down there, but tonight, the most important thing I can do is go to the gala. In my most ambitious plan, I can get my hands on Lockwood's cell phone. He'll be there because, like me, he's brawling at the Joseph Club tomorrow night in the name of charity.
Marchant wouldn't sign up for the brawl—something about winning making him look like a pimp and losing making him look like a loser—so I paid my five grand and slid into a spot vacated by a Vegas councilman who sprained his ankle.
There was nothing Priscilla could do to keep me out of the party at the Heat Mansion, so she pretended to be pleased. I wonder if she's coming up here now to try to keep me away.
As if on cue, the door to my penthouse swings open with a swoosh of air. I let her get a few paces inside before I slam the door shut, jumping on her from behind. I sweep her up into my arms and tear her mink coat open.
She squeals, and I hear something drop. I spin her in a circle and see a big, leather bag sprawled on my floor.
"What did you bring me?"
"Why don't you open it and see?"
I strip Priscilla to her open-nipple bra and crotchless panties before I dump her on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and open the bag.
