Selling Scarlett (20 page)

“There are privacy issues,” Juniper says.

“That makes sense. Is Marchant Radcliffe here often?” I ask. I feel slightly nauseated, but Juniper shakes her head. “He's in and out. He trusts Richard and Rachelle to keep us straight.”

The door opens for us from the inside, and we step into a smaller, more relaxed version of the 'big house'. It's decorated in vibrant lavender, deep purple, and silver, with silver fixtures, a ping-pong table, a pool table, and a cheery fireplace.

"This is our building," Geneese says. "You can call me Loveless, by the way. Everybody else does.”

I follow them to the second floor, past identical faux wood doors decorated by welcome mats and the occasional potted plant. While we walk, Loveless and Juniper tell me about the gym below the building. As I wait for them to change, sitting in a plush chair outside Juniper's room, I feel awkward again, like the new girl, and I wonder how much they like me, or if they feel obligated to entertain me. I decide eventually that they both seem real enough, and even if they're being phony, there's no point in worrying about it.

A few minutes later, Juniper emerges from her flower-adorned doorway in nothing but a black leotard and hot pink sneakers. She smiles and hands me a bottle of Evian. “I'm glad you're working out with us. I was wondering about you.” Before she says exactly what she was wondering, she asks, “Do you have your own bag?”

“Gym bag?”

She shakes her head. “Punching bag.”

“Not my own, but I've used them at gyms.”

“It's therapeutic,” she smiles, but I get the feeling she doesn't have too many demons.

She slants an eyebrow at me and gives me a look that's caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “I know what you're thinking,” she says coyly. “I'm British, and I don't seem like a whore.”

I gape, although that isn't really what I was thinking—I'm too shell-shocked to have gotten that far—and Juniper bursts out laughing. I make a mental note that
she
doesn't think she seems like a whore. I’ll enjoy dissecting that later.

“I am an escort,” she says, “but I'm also a cliché.”

“Huh?”

She grins. “I’m a student. I'm studying at a distance, and later I'll probably also teach that way. But this has been my job for seven years.”

My eyes widen, and she nods. “I'm an expert in the field of cock and balls.”

Now it's my turn to crack up. We're both smiling when we get to Loveless's room.

She comes out in turquoise tights, an orange sports bra, and high-top trainers, looking like a model for sports clothes. As she turns to lock her door, she looks over her shoulder.

“I can't wait to get to know you. We haven’t had any new blood in months.”

“Druscilla,” Juniper reminds her.

“That girl's as exciting as a roll of toilet paper.”

Juniper elbows Loveless. "A soft, sweet roll."

“True,” Loveless says. “But Scarlett, she's got secrets."

I laugh, though my heart is in my throat. “Secrets?” I shake my head. “I'm afraid I'm an open book.”

But Juniper nods. “Richard hasn't told us anything about you. I mean, flat-out nothing. You're shrouded in mystery.”

“Am I?”

“Well, a few of us know you want to keep everything quiet,” Loveless says.

I chew my lip. “Wow. I didn't realize Richard had discussed me with anyone else.”

“Just Loveless and Rachelle,” Juniper tells me. “Rach is the manager here, as I'm sure you know, and Loveless is the Head Girl." I arch a brow, and they both laugh. "We try to keep it light," Loveless says. "And I do give mean head."

I blush, and Juniper says, "You will, too, before it's over. We'll teach you."

When my eyes widen, she says, "Don't worry. We'll use a dildo."

Loveless nods as I try to get my face to return to its regular color. "A big, blue dildo. You've got a whole box of treasures waiting in your room. But we can talk about the sexin' later. For now, we want to hear more about you."

My stomach flips, and I hate myself for it. For being so un-smooth. I'm in my twenties now. I should be more confident. Less afraid of what everyone thinks. After firing off a quick, sarcastic thank you to my Mom, who's got to be the source of my perpetual fear of others' judgments, I sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Where are you from?” Juniper asks.

Seeing no reason to lie, I say, “I'm from California.”

“Wouldn't be the Napa Valley area, would it?” Loveless asks me. She's wiggling her eyebrows.

I gape, truly taken aback, and they eagle-eye me.

I quickly pull it together, feeling a little more confident as we file into a stairwell. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Juniper says. “We've got one of those Superman kind of clients. Loveless and a few of the other girls are half in love with him. Quite pathetic, really.”

“I am not,” Loveless says defensively. “He's just a mystery. Well, he was," she says, looking troubled.

“Who is he?” I ask, trying maybe too hard to be one of the girls. Honestly the thought of any client scares the poo out of me..

Loveless looks over her shoulder, casual as can be. “His name is Hunter.”

“Hunter.” I barely have enough air in my lungs to get the word out; I'm slayed by the image of Hunter locked around beautiful Loveless.

“We should go by first name only,” Juniper interjects. “Privacy,” she tells me with her brows arched. “Hunter's been a client here for years, but he mainly just sees Sarabelle, Loveless, and Marie V.”

I'm silent as I imagine Marie V. and Loveless with their paws on Hunter.

Hunter visits Love Inc.? The shock of it makes my chest ache, although why am I surprised? His BBF owns the place.

We push through a metal door, into hallway that quickly leads us into a fabulous gym, and my brain is so rattled I'm barely able to follow them over to a hot pink mat. Hunter visits escorts to have sex. Hunter comes
here
. Holy shit, this is bad news. Holy shit. I can't run into Hunter
here
!

“What happened to make him stop coming?” I manage after a moment. Automatically I expect a joke about my wording, so I'm kind of surprised when they exchange a dark look.

They both look somber. Loveless, especially, has a blank look in her eyes. “It makes me so upset, to think about that,” she says quietly. “Something terrible happened.”

Chapter Eighteen
~HUNTER~

I find a receipt from a bar in San Luis in Priscilla's handbag while she's cleaning herself up in the guest bathroom off the living area. It's from a place called MIGHTY'S. Interesting.

I fold it and slide it into a desk drawer. I'm surprised to find my fingertips shaking just a little. With what? Anger? Excitement that the trail of clues seems to be leading somewhere, even if I still don’t know where?

I realize belatedly, as I sink down on a leather chair to catch my breath, that I'm shaking because my back is ripped to shreds. The next heartbeat, I'm raging, because she
did
come to my place to keep me away from the party tonight, and my stupid ass let her. I let her whip me because when she placed it in my hand I heard Rita's voice inside my mind, and I would rather be whipped to shit than have to go through that.

But when the fog clears, I feel so stupid that I let her whip me. I also feel sticky blood on the back of my briefs.

I stand up. “Fuck.” I even got a little on the chair.

I'm shaking in earnest now, because if there's anything I hate it's fucking blood. I turn a circle, squeezing my eyes shut as I realize I can't leave Priscilla alone in my house.

I grit my teeth against the throbbing pain and push a chair in front of the bathroom door. Then I rush back to my bedroom, where I keep a first aid kit. I grab a fresh pair of boxer briefs, a black towel, and an Ace bandage, figuring gauze won't be enough to keep the blood off my tux.

My stomach churns as I stride back into the living area. Priscilla is pounding on the bathroom door. “Hunter, you bastard! I have a party to host at my mansion!”

I shove the chair aside and she strides out, looking like an evil creature in her fluffy coat. “Hunter,” she says with mock concern as her eyes flick over my face and shoulders. “You're bloody and you're pale as a ghost. You need to go lie down. You look like hell.”

When I lock my jaw and hold out the bandage, her blue eyes widen. “Surely you don't expect me to...”

“Yes, I do, Priscilla.” I hand her the bandage and the little metal clasps and turn around, trying to ignore her as she gasps and starts piling on the faux sympathy. “Oh you poor doll. This has to be excruciating.”

“Yeah yeah,” I mutter. “Just start wrapping.”

“But Hunter, what you need to do is shower. If I wrap it like it is, you'll get an infection.” I can hear the subtle improvement in her tone, a little happiness as she thinks her plan falls into place. “Hunter, I know we agreed to go as a pair, but why don't you stay in tonight? Just relax. You've earned it, surely?”

“Wrap my back, Priscilla.” I level a look over my shoulder that I hope kicks her ass into gear, and a second later she starts wrapping.

She works quickly and she's not gentle. The bandage is tight as she steps in circles around me, wrapping me from abs to collar. I clench my jaw and shut my eyes and inhale through my nose. Fucking Priscilla.

I can gauge the width and depth of the wounds by the way they feel under the bandage. The superficial cuts near my shoulders and my hips just sting, but the deeper slashes throb with every heartbeat.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” she says in her sing-song voice.

I wouldn't tell her this shit hurt if my life depended on it. Priscilla is a masochist, but she has a sadistic side, I learned tonight. She brought the whip to keep me out of the party, but she definitely enjoyed using it.

“All done,” she says after what feels like a thousand years. Pain is a hot vice around my throat, clouding my mind, making my body cold and light enough that I feel like I could float away. I ignore this and dress myself, trying as hard as I can not to wince or even move stiffly.

“You have a high pain tolerance,” she remarks as I slip into my coat. My stomach is churning because it hurts so much to lift my arms, but I give her a smug smile and move briskly as I grab my keys and slide my phone into my pocket.

Priscilla wants to take her limo, and I make the calculated decision to indulge her. I'd like to get as far off her radar as I can tonight, and acting easy-going will help with that goal. I tell her as we slide into the limo that I don't plan to be at the party long. I can see her perk up as she pours two glasses of chardonnay.

I arch my brow, roll my window down, and dump the glass out, and Priscilla laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever seen. I smirk and lean forward a little in my chair. There's something irritating about being around a woman who knows she got the drop on me. Makes me feel weak. I'm pissed off by the time we roll up to the gaudy monstrosity that is the Heat Enterprises mansion: two stories of sleek gray stone with massive gold lions guarding the blood red doors, but before we get there, there's a moat and drawbridge. The water in the moat glows sparkly red. Priscilla grins when she sees the place.

We spend thirty minutes, if not longer, greeting a long line of Priscilla's 'business acquaintances', everyone from city officials to local mafia. I get caught with her when a gossip columnist pulls out her camera. I don't duck out of the picture, but I don't smile either.

The house is tricked out with cameras in every wall; speakers in every ceiling; and a red, orange, and yellow (“heat”) color scheme in every room, and every table is stocked with pamphlets explaining domestic violence, the charitable cause to benefit from tomorrow night's fights.