Selling Scarlett (24 page)

I look him over, from his damp blond hair, the handsome face that's bruised along the jaw and around his right eye; the green eyes he's barely holding open. He's wearing a faded blue button-up that's rolled up to his elbows, over black slacks and casual loafers. My eyes make it to his hands and I can't suppress a gasp. They're wrapped in white gauze, but the brilliant stain of blood is already showing through the knuckles.

"Holy crab cakes."

"Lost my gloves," he murmurs, looking weary and distracted. I remember; he didn't lose them—he pulled them off, to go at Lockwood with his bare fists.

I step a little closer to him, enticed by the warm, earthy smell of his cologne. "What happened out there?" Immediately, I wish I hadn't asked that. It's so nosy. Prying. So I rephrase. "Are you okay? You just look...really tired and I noticed you were bleeding on your back."

He blinks, and whatever daze was over him, it's lifted. His eyes narrow, and he's back to shrewd Hunter. He brushes a hand down one of my pig-tails, fingering my brown hair gently. I can see his tired face soften as his eyes search mine. "What are you doing here, Libby? I saw you sitting with Geneese Loveless.”

I shrug, scrambling for a way to play it off. "We're old friends."

"So you’re friends, are you?" His tone sounds weird. Almost..too interested.
As if
. He chews his lip, and I think I just might die of Sexy. "It's...anthropology or sociology. Ethics?"

I grin, irrationally pleased. "How'd you know?"

He shakes his head, bringing the glass of amber liquid to his lips. When he lowers it, he's smirking. "Lucky guess."

My heart is probably about three beats away from bursting through my blouse.

But Hunter's expression quickly darkens. Worry creases his brows, and his full lips meld into a pensive line. "You should be careful with Loveless. She's...a hard-hitter. So are some of her friends."

I wonder what on earth he means by this, and then I realize and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to swallow back a laugh.
That's
how he describes prostitutes?
Hard-hitters?
I lick my lips, somehow managing to restrain myself. It's probably best to play it off. I don't even crack a smile as I casually say, "Her friends have been nice so far, but I'll remember that. Although," I can't help adding, in defense of my new friend, "Loveless seems pretty level-headed to me."

"She is." He leans closer, so I get a magnificent whiff of his cologne. With his other hand he's swirling the liquid in his glass like he's starting to get edgy. I notice he's scanning the crowd once more.

I edge away from him, and his fingers loosely curl around my hair as his attention boomerangs back to me, and his eyes grow soft again. "Just be careful, that's all I'm saying."

I'm hit with the full force of those green eyes, and there's no mistaking the concern there. He withdraws his hand from the loose curls of my pigtail and grabs onto the bar counter behind him.

"Why do you care?" I whisper. The question comes from some self-destructive place, because I expect him to say, “Well, I don’t, really.” Part of me hopes he will say it. I hope he’ll tell me that he and Priscilla are forever, and she might be a porn star but I’m fat virgin garbage.

Okay, crazy, we’ll deal with that later.
I smile tightly, blushing furiously in the dim lights of the bar. "I'm sorry. I appreciate your kindness. I'll be sure to think on my feet."

The universe smiles on me for a moment, because as I speak, Hunter is tossing down the rest of his drink; this means I can't see his face. In the last glimpse I have of him as I turn to go, he's rubbing his forehead with a pained look on his face.

"Have a good night, Hunter. You be careful, too."

I point myself toward the booth where I last saw Loveless and I tell my heart to keep beating. Hunter West is still a mystery to me, and a mystery he'll stay. We're moving through this world at two very different speeds: his is light, and mine is much slower.

Chapter Twenty-Two
~HUNTER~

I've scared off Libby, but I can't go after her because I'm going to be sick.

I look down at my drink and groan at what a stupid SOB I am, but then I remember Marchant ordered this drink, before he left to meet Dave. The drink's not drugged. It's me. My back. My shoulder. Lockwood got a knuckle shot right on my shoulder blade, and it's been bleeding ever since. Fever is pulling on me like undertow. Marchant got me a prescription painkiller, and he tried to make me 'talk' like he used to do in college sometimes, but in the end he just talked at me. Not smart to beat the shit out of Lockwood. Not smart to break mirrors. Not smart to let Priscilla whip your back to shreds.

Thanks, bro.

We came up to the bar together, and for a long time I was watching Lockwood, over in the corner surrounded by a bunch of strip girls. He looked bad, but not as bad as I’d hoped. Both his eyes were black, and his nose was swollen—probably broken. But he was enjoying himself.

Marchant ordered me two drinks, and I downed one before he left and the second right after that. Combined with this fucking fever and not a lot of sleep...

Fuck me.

My eyes are almost closing on their own as I stumble down the dim hall to the men's room. I lost track of Lockwood when I saw Libby, but it's okay; one of our people is here somewhere and they've got their eyes on him, too. Christ, I can't even remember who it is. Was Julie gonna stop by here? I rub my burning eyes. Whatever.

My mind pulls me back to Libby and the look on her face when she asked me why I cared if she was safe. It bothers me that I couldn't think of anything to articulate that was...more significant than nothing.

I should be glad. She takes up way too much space in my thoughts anyway. I don’t know what she’s doing here, but I need to stay clear. I definitely don’t need to be drawing the wrong kind of attention to her, and the thing with her and Priscilla…I still don’t know what’s going on there, but I don’t need to aggravate the situation.

Speaking of…Lockwood deliberately goaded me—so now the whole damn town thinks I'm a hot-head. I should probably care about what's coming next. Should probably care about myself. What will happen if I'm drawn further into this cluster fuck?

…I just don't care.

Everything at the end of the hall has been moved around in the club's redesign last year, so I have a hard time finding the men's. I'm starting to feel like I might tip the fuck over when I get a text from Marchant.
Might have lead in SL on SB. Stay there, Balboa. You need an alibi in case it goes down.

After tonight's show of rage, that’s especially true, and I realize that's how Priscilla planned it—putting me with Lockwood. So I would look like a reckless, violent asshole in public. Fuck.

By the time I get to the bathroom, aqua blue and gold and tidy, I don't feel sick anymore—just dizzy—so I lean over the sink, painfully aware that my back is exposed. Someone could jump me. One of Lockwood's boys.

The floor is tilting. I think about telling Sarabelle to close her eyes. I see Rita's hand flying through the air, straight for my face, and I can feel that fucking whip bite into my back.

"You're such an asshole, Hunter."

I splash my face, but I forget about my bandaged fists and one of them gets wet. I sit down on a glittery gold bench in front of a mirror. In a minute, I'll get up. I'll go home. I'm not making things any better by being here.

I decide to test my shoulder blade before I get to my feet again. It feels broken, but that might just be infection. I shudder just thinking of the pain I'll feel when the liquor and the pill wear off.

Priscilla has turned me into a masochist. Except I know it isn't her. I raise my left hand toward the ceiling, drifting under sparks of pain that point to a broken bone somewhere back there. I stand up and take a few deep breaths that only emphasize the pain’s point. I step slowly into a bathroom stall and work my shirt off. Maybe if I re-work the bandages Marchant applied. He's not very handy with gauze and some of them are pulling...

*

~ELIZABETH~

I can't find Loveless. It seems strange that she would leave our booth and not return, but then again I wasn't there; maybe she did. Since I don't have anyone's number in my cell, I've started looking for Loveless or Juniper—or anyone. I've checked three dance floors, and now I've moved on to bathrooms and saunas. If I don't find someone here, I guess I'll go leave a message at the valet station asking our group to page me when they leave. Maybe I'll just wait there. It seems stupid, but I'm not sure what else to do. I could call Richard, but I'm too embarrassed.

When I get inside the ladies' room, dimly lit with a strobe light in the ceiling, the stall door swings open, revealing a man leaning against the inside of the stall. On another day his tone back and thick shoulders would have turned up my temperature, but dude’s exquisite body has been through the ringer. His back is marred by long, straight welts, covering him vertically and horizontally and every way in between. The streaks look painfully swollen, and up by his shoulder, there's an open gash that's oozing.

I try to catch my breath, but the twisty feeling in my stomach just won't leave. Slowly the man turns his head slightly, and I gasp
. Hunter.

All of a sudden I'm overwhelmed by heat, a strong sensation that's at war with the concern I feel over the sad state of his back.

I hesitate a second, wondering if Priscilla put those marks on him. What must be wrong with him if he's in that kind of relationship? I remember the distracted look in his eyes back at the bar, the awkward way he looked behind his glass when I asked him why he cared, and wonder what is wrong with me for wondering at all.

Then I remember him helping me outside the court house, and I tell myself that
this is something
. This spark I feel when I'm around him—it’s worth something. Then I picture him leaning over Priscilla, and I’m back where I started.

When am I going to learn to stop spinning fantasies around this man? He's a rich-as-sin poker player who lives half his life in Vegas and is in a very weird relationship. What am I thinking? He hits a double, shows me a few moments of kindness, and now I’m hanging on every word and reading into every glance.

Am I really that pathetic?

I reach for the handle on the big wood door that leads into the hall, and I hear the stomp of footsteps behind me. My mind spins madly, projecting its wicked wishes into reality. As I pull the door open, I can practically feel the rush of air from Hunter's body, moving after mine. His strong hand grips my bicep and his low, rough voice says, "Libby."

He turns me to face him, then pushes the door shut behind me. I stare at his face with suspended disbelief. The wide green eyes. The sweat-slick skin. His hair is wild, like someone's fingers have been in it, and his mouth is drawn.

I tug my arm away from him, or try to. His grip tightens as his gaze holds onto mine. "Were you leaving?" His voice sounds ragged, like he's out of breath.

"Yes. I...need to go."

"Because of me?"

I can't seem to find my voice, so I pull out of his grasp, grabbing the door handle and wrapping my fingers tightly around it. I don’t pull it open. I don’t even turn my face away from his. He’s weary, obviously, but I’m certain he doesn’t want me to go.

I wonder why, and a thought occurs to me that makes my knees quiver. Does he want another romp? My bedazzled mind screams:
This is Hunter! Take the chance!

Being this close to him is like stepping onto the surface of a star. I feel like I'm melting. My mind speeds up in time with my racing pulse, and all of a sudden I have to know. "What happened to your back?"

His eyes are still on mine, and I can't breathe as they flicker to my lips.

"I hurt it." The words are warm and gruff, like he's telling me a secret but he's not sure that he wants to. The simple answer surprises me. So does the bare look in his eyes.