There’s only one reason I can think of that Priscilla would be in Napa all the time—only one reason excluding the fucked-up business that she has with me, and that’s Priscilla’s ex: the governor. Drake Carlson and his wife live here some of the time. Drake Carlson is also the only link I can find between Priscilla and Michael Lockwood.
Which is why I’m here at the courthouse. According to my PI in Napa, Priscilla arrived in the courthouse parking lot an hour ago—on the morning of a hearing regarding the governor’s son, Cross. It doesn’t seem like much, but I’m chasing any lead I can find, and with the governor linking Priscilla and Lockwood, I’ll take it.
I feel confident she doesn’t expect to see me here. That’s good, because 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.
I get a fucked-up feeling when I come here, probably because the scent of cheap floor shiner reminds 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 right now.
The judge today, Diana Mendez, is an old friend of mine. 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 the fantasy just turns into Libby. 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 I find it.
Speaking of trouble, Priscilla is standing by the courthouse doors in black stilettos and a shiny silver dress that shows too much thigh and too much tit. When I see her, I put on my surprised expression.
The look on her face is confirmation: She’s definitely 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 all 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. The truth is I feel awful for the guy, but Priscilla doesn’t need to know that.
“No, the governor and Mrs. Carlson are cutting him off.”
“Come again?”
“He’ll belong to the state, soon.”
I arch a brow. “How do you know the Carlsons?”
I know this answer, of course, but I’m interested in what she’ll say.
She rolls her eyes and gives me a you-should-know-this look. “I was almost his step-mother, Hunter. Surely you know that. I care for him. They say he’ll never be the person that he was.”
She’s wearing her liar’s face, the one where her big, blue eyes are bigger and her skinny, sharp-looking brows are almost in her bleached hairline.
“I’m surprised you and the governor still keep in touch,” I dare.
“We don’t,” she says, and this is what makes my morning. I happen to know, thanks to the efforts of my new Napa PI, that she was spotted pulling out of the governor’s driveway yesterday. “That man has forgotten me entirely,” she continues. “Son of a bitch, I’d like to have his balls in a glass jar by my bedside.” She says all this in a sing-song voice.
“You and the rest of the state,” I say.
Priscilla holds out her arm for me, and I dread the next hour the same way I dread getting my blood drawn and flying in helicopters.