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Chapter Twenty-Six
~HUNTER~
Even as I'm playing, I know Lady Luck is with some other guy tonight. I imagine the headlines, stupid puns arranged in that kind of cadence that journalists and bloggers like.
West doesn't know which way is up in tourney
Bourbon heir floats in first-day tourney
What-the-fuck-ever.
I screwed up last hand, and I'm screwing up again this time. A Zen master couldn’t play with all the shit I’ve got bouncing around in my head. I want to tell that to the annoying blonde holding the camera. She looks a little too much like Priscilla for my liking, and I'm having trouble not snapping as she pushes her mic into my face.
Today has sucked. Scratch that. Everything has sucked since the other night at the Joseph. Priscilla didn't really go to Ontario. Today she rode down to San Luis and Julie tailed her, but she didn't seem to do anything except have dinner with a client at a swanky hotel.
I’m obsessed with her now. Priscilla. Obsessed with bringing her down. I go over every detail of her conversation with Lockwood at the gala again and again, and the worst thing is, without a recording, we’ve got no proof. Zip.
Doesn't help that Lisa from the FBI stopped by this morning to ask if I have ever been to Sarabelle's house. I don’t say a word. I’ve got nothing to hide, but I’m not dumb enough to cooperate when I’m clearly emerging as suspect número uno. There are a million ways your words can be used against you once they leave your mouth.
Then there's Libby. Libby, Libby, Libby. I know she's been in Vegas, but Dave hasn't been able to find her. I finally broke down and texted Loveless an hour before play began.
'Elizabeth DeVille still with you?'
She texts me back near the end of the second hand, and I read her messages between the second and third hands.
'Who?'
'Elizabeth.'
'I don't know who that is. R u ok, Hunter?'
'Elizabeth,' I punch furiously. 'You were with her the other night at the Jo.'
When Loveless doesn't text me back, I take a few minutes during a commercial break and call Marchant.
I was right about my luck tonight. I lose the game.
I'm so furious I don't even give a damn.
*
~ELIZABETH~
The big day is a busy one. So busy, in fact, that I have almost no time to think of what's coming. I'm grateful for that as I am waxed, worked out, fitted, and eventually sent to my room with a red lingerie set I will wear when I lie on the bed for bidding.
I review the contract, which is a lot longer than I anticipated but appeared to contain everything that Richard and I worked out. The winning bidder is paying for six hours of my time, either at Love. Inc. or at another location. I can bring guards. I will provide vaginal intercourse. OH MY GOD, it sounds so technical this way! But luckily, I am only required to do this once to fulfill the contract.
If I provide only oral stimulation the bidder will be refunded 95 percent of their bid. If my hymen is broken but I stop intercourse before the bidder reaches climax, the bidder receives a 40 percent refund. Love Inc. takes a cut of my final total.
There’s also a list of nos. No photography or video or audio recording. No hair pulling. No name-calling. No spanking. And no contracting me in any way after—although, oddly, there is a provision for me to contact the bidder. As if. This isn't Pretty Woman.
After eating a light lunch, I return to my room and have a last-minute freakout. I look in the mirror, at the stubborn bit of cellulite on the back of my thighs—it just won't go away, no matter how many lunges I do. I look at my not-quite-six-pack stomach and wonder if the winning bidder will want more. What about my breasts? They are nice, but they're just full Cs, not DDs. My fingernails are bare, but my toe-nails are painted red. I have weird toe-nails. The one on the big toe looks like a space helmet. And my voice... In third grade, Holcomb McVey said I had a stupid voice. I don't think I do, but—
My cell rings, and I whirl around naked to face my bed. Suri.
"Thank God," I answer.
"What is it?"
