Maybe she’s the one who kidnapped Sarabelle—out of jealousy that I chose Sarabelle over her that night they were filming. Until I know for sure she’s not, I’m going to keep this hellish charade rolling.
Priscilla reaches behind her back, and the long, suede robe she’s wearing tonight falls dramatically to the floor, revealing only skin. She’s on me, has me stripped and on my mattress in a matter of minutes. Her hand slides around my cock, and I can’t help but respond. I grit my molars as I harden and throb, forced along by nimble fingers and a warm, damp palm.
“Come for me, Hunter. Come for Mommy.”
I slit my eyes open, and the glare of the bathroom light on her face makes them shut again. I’m having trouble finishing. I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly and picture another face…another pussy—tight and slick, puffy and pink. I’m done in no time.
“What a good man. If you want to keep your mommy happy, we’ll do chains tonight. It’s your night to wear them. I get to hit.”
I shut my eyes again and rub my temples.
“I brought your surprise.”
It’s molly, and I roll my eyes at the little pill. “Never been a fan.”
“I think you’ll like it this time.”
I pretend to take it, we fuck, and when Priscilla leaves, I follow her, thirteen miles to a small brick home with a familiar address. It’s the home of Michael Lockwood, the film assistant who recently quit working for Priscilla. The one who used to work security for Governor Carlson. Drake Carlson—the political heavyweight Priscilla used to fuck.
I park down the street and dial our guy, Dave. “I’ve got a change of plans. You remember Lockwood? Lives on Anderson? I want him followed, night and day. Priscilla Heat, too.”
Chapter 4
Elizabeth
Napa, California
“I ALREADY TOLD you, I’m his sister.” I look the evil nurse right in the eye and lock my jaw, like I mean business, because I do.
“Mr. Carlson doesn’t have a sister,” she says after glancing at her clipboard.
I reach into my worn Coach bag and grab a fifty, shamelessly sliding it across the high-gloss counter. If I had more, I’d offer it all. But the only rehab I could get Mom into this time is seriously pricey, eating up our meager allowance from the DeVille Trust, and my fellowship money only goes so far. If Suri didn’t let me live at Crestwood Place with her for free, I’d never make ends meet.
The nurse raises her right eyebrow and looks from my money to me. I cross my arms in front of my chest. “How many visitors?” I ask.
“Excuse me?”
I meet her pale brown eyes and hold her gaze. “How many visitors has he had since I came Monday?”
Her lipsticked mouth twists, and her eyes flicker down the hardwood hall toward Cross’s spacious, private room. “Thirty minutes,” she says, shoving the fifty back at me. “That’s all you’re getting. And I know you’re not his sister.”
I slide the fifty into the pocket of my pea coat, where my phone is hiding, and hold my contraband-filled purse close to my side. I walk quickly to Cross’s room, the way I always do, because I truly am eager to see him, coma or not.
For the first four weeks, it was medically induced, but when he began healing from his neck and hip surgeries, they decreased the sedatives so he could wake up. But he hasn’t. I think I might know why, and I can’t stand how much that knowledge hurts. But Cross’s secrets are safe with me.
I push through the door, the lemony scent of some sort of cleaner fills my nose, and I feel angry that I’m the only person who visits him. Suri came the first two weeks, but she had to stop. All she can do when she sits in Cross’s room is sob, and the nurses say that he can hear us. Cross’s parents—I could skin them both alive. They got him this swanky room at Napa Valley Involved Rehab, but neither Cross’s mom nor his dad has visited since the first twenty-four hours after the accident.
It makes me queasy remembering that first day. How I couldn’t sleep at all and how I itched to be here by him. I even bought a fake ID with the surname ‘Carlson’ so I could slip into the ICU with him.
The next few weeks weren’t much better. He looked a lot different then, all bruised and swollen. One of the saddest things about right now is that he looks like Cross again.
Today the top half of his bed is raised. His head is propped between two pillows. As always, he looks peaceful. Beautiful. His almost-black hair is short—they shaved it for his surgery—and his long, dark lashes make his face seem pale as porcelain. The awful tube that once went down his throat has been removed, because he’s breathing on his own. A tube that feeds extra oxygen into his nose is taped to his cheeks, and I know that under his gown, snaking into his abdomen, is a feeding tube. Sometimes I peek because I want to understand what’s going on with him. I wish I was his next of kin so I could get all the information, but there’s a nurse who likes me—Nanette—and she’s told me they think his brain is fine. He sometimes squeezes my hand, and once when I kissed his forehead, he moaned. He just won’t wake up yet.