Selling Scarlett (8 page)

Suri inhales softly, and I watch her face as she sucks her lips in and makes a classic Suri Thinking face. Then she drops a bomb. "Ever since then I kind of had a secret crush on him."

I shriek. "Suri, you have got to be kidding me!"

She shakes her head, blushing three shades of pink. I slap her arm. "How could you harbor such a huge secret?"

"I don't know." She smiles, and shakes her head, and I know the answer before she says it.

"I guess I just met Adam and...that was that." Her eyes tear again. "I still love my Cross."

"Me, too."

“I want to do something for him,” Suri says.

I do, too. In fact, I have to.

*

Maybe it's because of Mom that I freak out. I don't have that many childhood memories of her being whisked away to rehab, and I think that's mostly because she never went. Not until I was a teenager. But she was locked away from me in other ways. Always in and out of altered states, sleeping just like Cross is now.

I have too many memories of watching from the foot of her bed as one of the many private nurses Mom went through hooked up saline to the IV stand she stashed in her make-up room. Sometimes, when I was really little, I would cry and my dad would tell me she was sleeping.

"She loves you, honey, but she's sleeping today."

After Suri leaves, I feel gripped by that old sensation, panic at my lack of access to someone that I love. But I'm not a child anymore. I grab my car keys and race to my old, powder blue Camry. I'm out of breath by the time I crank it, but that doesn't stop me from speeding to Mom's house, a massive, white Southern antebellum-style home with a huge wrap-around porch, situated in the rolling hills fifteen miles northwest of downtown Napa.

The gate password is still the same. It's been a month since I've been here—several weeks after Cross's accident—but I notice no cobwebs stretched between oak trees as I fly down the arrow-straight driveway. I remind myself that a maid service is still coming; I hired them myself after Cross got hurt, mainly to check on the house so I don't have to drop by regularly.

The front of the house is lit up like usual to deter gate-hopping criminals, and as I see it for the first time in weeks, my heart squeezes, because no matter how much time passes and how much changes, this awful place will always feel like home. I throw the car in park and fly up the square staircase, unlocking the door and stepping inside quickly, so I can disable the alarm whose panel is one room away, inside the piano parlor.

The code is my birthday backwards. I picture Cross pressing the keys, probably standing in this very spot wearing old jeans and one of his bomber jackets, and tears sting my eyes.

I'm here for one thing and one thing only, and that's Dad's number. I don't keep it in my cell, because it's too enticing. I don't allow myself to call him on a whim. When Dad wants to talk to me, he calls, and as soon as we're finished talking, I delete the number from my call log. It's a Salt Lake City number, so it's not one I could accidentally memorize.

When I call from the rotary phone in our vast, dark kitchen, I'm grateful that it's new wife Linzie who answers and not one of her daughters, Fern, thirteen, or Hollow, nine. Her hello is flat and Midwestern; I can almost see her on the other end of the line, clutching a cordless phone and standing in a slightly dated kitchen. The picture of normal: that's Dad's new family.

"Um, hi Linzie, it's Elizabeth."

She pauses for a second, then responds in a crisp, telemarketer-sounding voice. "Elizabeth. Can I help you?" Whoa, her tone is brisk. I swallow back my irritation.

"Yeah. I want to talk to my dad." Biotch. I want to stick my tongue out and tell her he was my dad first, but instead I calmly say, "Is he around?"

"He is." I think she's gone to get him when I hear a breathing sound and Linzie says my name again. “Elizabeth?”

"I'm here."

"I know you are. Uh—" there's a fuzzy sound, like she's covering up the phone's mouthpiece. When she speaks again, her voice is tight. "Elizabeth, is this about your mother?"

"No." Now it's my turn to be surprised. And peeved. "Why do you ask?"

Linzie sighs. "I know that she's in rehab again, Elizabeth."

"Yeah. That's not news." I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to bang my head against the kitchen wall. What the hell does Linzie care what my mom's up to?

"I know it’s how things are there, but it's not normal here for us." She pauses, like she's rallying herself, and I try to put my armor on, because I can tell this is going to get me right between the ribs. "Your father is damaged from what he went through with that woman. You know how she treated him. But when things happen with her, he still feels responsible."

For some reason, this makes me want to punch Linzie in the nose. "Um, I'm not trying to be rude, but of course he does. He was married to her for more than twenty years." I inhale deeply, fighting to control my off-the-handle temper. "Like I said—I'm not calling about my mom, so can I talk to my dad now please?"

I hear silence, and for a long moment, I think she's hung up. Then my dad is on the phone.

"Elizabeth."

"Hi Dad." In the background, I can hear a girl's voice, and I know it's one of them. Fern or Hollow. 'One of my new girls'. I lean my head against the wall. "Look Dad, I just had a quick question for you."

"Okay. What's your question?"

I wrap the curly cord of the olive green phone around my finger, biting my lip, because I hate to ask this—but I have no choice. "I was wondering if I could get a loan. From the DeVille Trust, or from you."

My words are followed by a long pause, during which I honestly have no idea what he will say. Then I hear a sort-of snort.

"Elizabeth, are you serious? We’ve talked about this. You can't spend money like your mother used to. I know it's hard for you, growing up the way you did, but this is life now and you're twenty-three—"

"Dad, I'm not. I'm not spending any money." I clench my jaw, breathing deeply as my pulse races. "I never buy anything. It's not for me."

Pause. "So you are calling for your mother?"

"No." I grit my teeth as rage builds in me, pooling underneath my breastbone and radiating out over my shoulders like venom from a snake bite. I huff my breath out, so angry now I'm seeing stars. "Dad, did you tell Linzie to screen my phone calls?"

"Screen your calls? Of course not, Elizabeth. Linzie would never do something like that. She cares a lot about our relationship."

I can feel my lower lip tremble. "Why don't I believe you?"

He sighs, and it's the sigh he used to save for Mom. I get the eerie feeling Linzie is standing right beside him, encouraging him, with her deep brown eyes, to stick it to me.

"Elizabeth. You have issues with trust."

“What?”

“There’s money available for counseling—”

His comment takes me off guard and makes me furious. "Oh yeah?" I demand, cutting him off. "You think so? Maybe Linzie could see me. Do herbalists take insurance? I know they’re great advice givers, so maybe I could fly out—"

I'm still going—verbal vomit, that's what Cross would call it—when the dial tone dings.

My mouth stays open and my eyes fill up with tears. "I need counseling?" I slam the phone down with all my might, feeling the impact in my fingertips as I whirl around to face the empty kitchen.

At least, it was supposed to be empty. I was supposed to curl into a ball and sob, because when I get this mad, it's the only thing I can do to discharge my anger. Instead, I find myself staring at Hunter West.

Chapter Six
~HUNTER~

Her face is blotchy, like she's been stung by a bunch of bees. I can tell she might cry because her sea blue eyes are glowing brilliantly, and she's got them wide open, the way girls do when they don't want tears to spill and smear up their mascara.

Her wavy, dark brown hair is messy, hanging just above her shoulders, and I want to run my fingers through it.

Shit.

I shouldn't even be here.

I saw the gate open and I threw on my superhero cape. Then I saw the unfamiliar car with the San Francisco plates and found the door unlocked. I know nobody's living here. I keep an eye on the place, because I want to buy it soon; its acreage backs against my bird-hunting lodge, which is where I was heading when I made this detour.

Batman or not, I've screwed up. I shouldn’t be in Libby DeVille's childhood home, standing in this massive, outdated kitchen with her, just like I shouldn't have crept close enough to hear her talk to her father.

I tell myself that I should turn and go—after all, Priscilla's waiting for me—but my feet have other plans. I take a small step closer, my eyes never leaving hers, even as she looks me over, Lakers cap to boots.

"Asshole father?" In the tomb-like silence of the house, I'm surprised at how deep my voice is.

I can see her shoulders rise and fall; she's trying to control herself. Judging by the bit I heard, it makes sense that she would be worked up. If his reputation is anything to go on, Benjamin DeVille didn't do much for his wife or daughter when he was with them, and does even less now that he’s left town.

Libby quickly smooths the pained look from her face and crosses her arms. "How much did you hear?" she asks me with a wary wince.

"Enough to know you're probably not the one in need of therapy."

She squeezes her eyes shut, running a hand through that silky hair. "Wow, well that's embarrassing."

If only she could be a fly on the wall at the family home in NOLA back when I lived there with Dad, Rita, and my half-sister, Amber. This wouldn't even register on our drama-meter. I want to tell her that, but I've got no clue how. Besides, the best way to keep a secret—that Rita is not my real mother, for instance—is to avoid mentioning anything to anyone that even comes close to the truth.

Libby chews her succulent lower lip, and it's my turn to stare her down. I’ve only seen her once, from a distance, since the night of the party, and I’m surprised by how much weight she’s lost. I wonder if it’s intentional, or if she’s stressed, and I’m surprised to find I actually kind of give a damn.

She plays with the ends of her hair, and I let my gaze linger, from her low-cut royal blue sweater down her loose jeans to her suede shoes—some kind of moccasins. She looks cute. Casual. I feel a pleasant tingle, just from being near her.

Finally her eyes flick up to mine, like she's waiting for me to say something. So I do. "What do you need money for?"

Her mouth draws up like she's sucking on a lemon. I like this face on her. The you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself face; it's kind of sexy mistress. To top it off, she arches her eyebrows primly. "That's not really your business, Hunter West."

Maybe not, but I have a pretty fair idea. "Is it the Carlson boy? The governor’s son?"

Her eyes flash, dark blue now. "The son the governor cut off and sent to a shitty state hospital because he's a dickhead who deserves to be ridden out of California on a rail?" Her cheeks flush. "You probably shouldn't ask me about that right now." I watch her delicate eyebrows meet as her sea blue eyes narrow to slits. "What are you even doing here?"

Her eyes wander the expanse of my chest and I know she's taking in the size of me. I saw the Mace on her key chain in the parlor, and I wonder if she's thinking about running in there for it.

I nod toward the back of the house, relaxing my shoulders so maybe I look a little friendlier. "I saw the gate open and wanted to check in on things. I own the property behind you."