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I tell her an abbreviated version of the Hunter saga, and then I steer things back to Cross. He's so much more important than my romantic angst.
“Suri, did he seem okay? I mean...did he seem the same?”
I can hear her voice break as she says, “He really does.”
“I can't believe it,” I breathe. “I mean, after the stroke, I was worried he would...”
“I know,” Suri says, “me, too. But he seems okay. At first glance, anyway.” She laughs a little. “I asked him all the silly TV questions, like did he remember the year and who's president, and he did. He even asked about his bike.”
I wipe my eyes, grinning like I've won the lottery. “That's just freakin' amazing.” And it really makes the anxiety and drama of tonight seem about a million times more worthwhile.
“You should feel really proud of yourself for having the guts to do what you did,” Suri tells me. “It wouldn't be a course I would have taken, but you got what you needed, and for Hunter to be the winning bidder...call me crazy, Liz, but I think it's the universe repaying you.”
I snort. “I'm not so sure about that, but I'm over the moon about Cross. Suri, I want to hear from you soon. I mean very soon. Within hours.”
"We'll call you, Lizzy! As soon as we can, I promise."
'We'...
That sounds strange.
By the time I hang up the phone, my mind is reeling in three different directions. I take my time in the luxurious, two-person shower attached to my room, then change into a big, old University of San Francisco t-shirt and my favorite pair of comfy, bikini-cut panties—deep red, with a white pattern of Xs and Os. The huge, canopy bed is cold, and the pillow smells strange, like vanilla and lavender, and I can hear the air whooshing through the ducts somewhere nearby.
It takes me a long time to go to sleep, and I remember the last thought I have before I shut my eyes is 'I hope I sleep through some of the awkwardness of tomorrow', followed by 'I don't want to miss a thing with Cross'.
So when I find myself staring at a pitch-black bedroom sometime in the wee hours, I feel confused and ill at ease. The curtains are deep green with gold accents. They're thick, so they stand out as black against the creamy wall. I can still hear the air whooshing through the noisy vent somewhere near my head, and I wonder if anyone's ever had the balls to tell Hunter it's annoying.
Hunter...
I'm at Hunter's house. And I'm still a virgin.
I feel so disarmed, I push myself up on my elbow, reaching for the bottle of DeVille bottled water on my night stand, which doubles as a mini-fridge. I take a deep chug, and then I sit there, still as a portrait, listening to the sounds of the house and wondering what woke me. Is it something with Cross? Maybe I got a text.
I'm reaching for my phone when I hear it: a moan. It's a guttural sound from somewhere deep in Hunter's chest. It sounds like pain...or pleasure. Worry slices through me, but on its heels is dread as I make an educated guess about what's going on.
It isn't long before shame, anger, and hurt are pounding through me. I feel sick. Disgusted—with myself or him? As I slide from the bed, I wonder why he's doing this. Is he really so awful that he would bring me to his house and then screw Priscilla Heat in the room next door?
I clutch my chest as I step closer to the door where I can hear another moan. I put one hand over my ear, wishing the noises will stop.
I want to run. To lock myself away. I need to get a house and two dozen cats, because I'm never trying this again. Never getting this crazy over any man again. Never hoping. Because if getting into fighting shape and offering my maidenhead isn't good enough, then nothing ever will be.
Tears sting my eyes and start to drip down both my cheeks.
Another moan, only this time it's more groan than moan. There's no mistaking: this is pain, not pleasure. And for some reason, it makes me crazy furious.
And maybe I’m just crazy, because I’m not even mad at him. I care for him—for his obvious unsettledness, his hard lifestyle, the lost look in his eyes at the bar the other night, the coldness of this gorgeous home where the only sex that's ever had is messed up sex. Maybe one day I can bring myself to hate him, but for now the light of sympathy still burns. And when I think about Priscilla Heat with him, I want to claw her face off because it's wrong. He deserves better than that. Everyone deserves better than that.
I pause at the door, but only for a moment. I'm here, and I have nothing left to lose. I lean against the cool, wood door, listening for Priscilla's breathing or her voice, but all I hear is Hunter.
I try the handle. I'm shocked when it turns. I hesitate again, but then my legs are moving, carrying me forward, into a den of darkness—so dark, I can't even make out shadows. Terror washes over me. Mortification at what I'm doing, but that is quickly steamrolled by the rage I feel at knowing Hunter and Priscilla are somewhere in this room, making a fool of me.
I'm tense, listening, and just as my eyes start to adjust I hear another low man.
My eyes fly to a chair on the other side of the room, and there's a person. Hunter...alone. He's hunched over, clutching his head, breathing like someone on the verge of hyperventilating. He's naked except for a pair of boxer-briefs, and sweet Jesus he is beautiful. My eyes can't help appraising him. My body warms. I glide closer, arms stretched out, and when I get within leaping distance of him I can smell liquor.
Oh no.
I remember how rough he looked earlier today, and at the bar the other night, and fear and worry twist my gut. Is he an alcoholic?
