Selling Scarlett

chapter Thirteen

~HUNTER~

I swear to God, Priscilla is psychic. That woman knows how to find me after a bad day. And the worse the day is, the more likely it is that I'll end up rolling in the covers with her, whipping her and spanking her, pulling her long hair and pressing my hand over her mouth until her eyes are wide and I'm afraid I'm gonna kill her stupid, spray-tanned ass.

Tonight I'm on my jet. There's a bed and a recliner but I'm too pissed to relax. Instead I'm sitting at the table, twirling an unlit cigarette around in my fingers like a showgirl's baton. I want the damn thing, but I'm not a smoker anymore. I keep a pack of Marlboro Reds in the freezer of every place I have, but I don’t smoke them.

I've got my fingers tightened around the cigarette, thinking about snapping it in half, when the intercom crackles and Frank says, "There's something on the runway you need to see, Mr. West."

I dim the lights and look out the oval window, and the cigarette snaps. Of course it's f*cking Priscilla. A brisk breeze is tossing up her ass-short, blood-red skirt and I can see her panties. There are sequins around the seams, so they sparkle in the runway lights.

I can tell by the way she steps toward the plane, waving as she moves, that she's in high heels. I can see the red light of her cigarette's cherry.

My head pounds, letting me know it doesn't appreciate the handle of bourbon I gave it last night. I press the call button, sinking a hand into my hair and rubbing hard. "Let her in, Frank."

I sweep the pieces of the cigarette into my hand and dump them in a garbage can inside a cabinet. Then I sit back down and watch her sashay into my cabin.

“Well hello there, big boy.”

I grit my teeth. I am so not in the mood for her bullshit.

“I've got a little exhibitionist fetish I'd like to indulge with you,” she purrs.

"How the hell do you want to do that?" My gaze roams up and down her body, making her think I appreciate her so she doesn't feel the need to pull her claws out any earlier than necessary.

She grins, crossing the space between us to straddle me.

"I want to f*ck you somewhere public, Hunter. Somewhere like this runway."

She says it like she's doing me a favor. Like I've never been f*cked before and she's the sexiest woman on the planet.

Priscilla lowers her red mouth to mine, and I close my eyes, meeting her for a rough kiss. Sarabelle, Sarabelle, Sarabelle, I chant silently.

Today, I was questioned by the woman from the FBI—Lisa—who came to my home in Napa while I packed my bags for Vegas. I'm not a formal suspect yet, and I intend to keep it that way.



I sweep Priscilla off to Beau's, the gym I own in downtown Napa.

While she steps into the ladies' room, I tell Harriet at the desk to cut the cameras in one of the private cardio hubs. I also send a text to Marchant, telling him to send people to both of my Vegas residences. I can't think of another reason Priscilla would've dropped by just in time to stop me from leaving town.

I know from Marchant's guy, Dave, that she spent yesterday at Michael Lockwood's place in Vegas. My California PI, Todd, told me she spent most of today with the governor she claims to hate. I still don't know how all this adds up, but I know Priscilla is lying to me. I also know Michael Lockwood is about my height and wore a black jacket that night at Love Inc. Security cameras captured him wearing it when Priscilla and her crew first arrived. I gave that footage to Lisa, the woman from the FBI.

When Priscilla strides out of the ladies' room and squeezes my ass, I want to run the other way. Instead I guide her hand around to my erection. I can tell Priscilla overestimates her appeal so much that she expects my lust. She tries to unbutton my jeans as we step into the 3,000-square foot weight room. I push her against a wall and kiss her up and down her neck, cupping her ass and grinding my cock into her hips, and she laughs that sultry laugh. I’ve always imagined she practices until she sounds as close as she can to Marilyn Monroe. Which isn’t close.

"I don't know how you get by out here without me. Why don't you come with me back home to Vegas?"

Wrapping one arm around her waist, I guide her through the weight room, where a handful of men and women are working out. "You already know I'm going to Vegas for a tournament. I thought you were the one who wasn't going to be there."

I wait for her answer, curious to know if she'll go back on the lie she told me the other day, but she just makes a sour face and acts as if she's just remembered her plans.

"Such a pity."

Priscilla has led me to believe she'll be filming in Georgia. But Dave says her personal chef in Vegas has prepared a menu for the rest of the week.

As we walk through the back doorway of the weight room, Priscilla's fingertips graze my wrist, and I feel a strange ache behind my breastbone. I know why—and I wish I didn't. I want Priscilla to be someone else. Someone I have no business thinking about, especially considering what kind of black cloud I've got over my head at the moment.

I push that out of my mind, vowing to try harder to keep it out in the future.

Our little space, known to the Beau's security system as Cardio Hub 4, is a glass-walled room just behind 2,000 square feet of women's-only weights space. It's got six elliptical machines, three treadmills, and an adjoining sauna and massage suite. The room is almost always used by members with personal trainers, and since it’s almost nine p.m., no one is around.

I pull Priscilla inside, hoping she mistakes my pent-up aggression for ardor. When I reach around behind me to flip the lock on my glass prison, she shakes her head.

"I want it unlocked." She smiles, straight blonde hair falling around her face as she cups me through my jeans. "Part of the thrill, Hunter."

Her palm against my dick makes me lose some of my steam, but I imagine it’s Libby and I'm stiff as steel. I grab Priscilla by the wrists and lay her over the deck of one of the treadmills, buns up. I jerk her red skirt up and use the cord that goes to the machine's heart monitor to whip her ass, and she starts panting.

I still haven’t puzzled out why Priscilla wanted me that night at Love Inc.—or why she hasn’t gotten bored with me yet. We hadn’t met before that night.

I still don’t know what happened after she drugged me, either. She says she f*cked my brains out, but I didn’t feel like I’d had my brains f*cked out. I'm sure if Lisa from FBI knew Priscilla claimed to have roofied me and f*cked me, she'd be looking at Priscilla with a magnifying glass, but I didn't tell her that, and I'm not going to. Not yet.

Because the more I think about Priscilla coming out with the news that Rita wasn't my biological mother, the more I worry about what could come out next. What conclusions might people draw if they find out she and I weren’t blood.

So I'm letting fear dictate the vile things I do with Priscilla. Letting fear keep me in this trap until Marchant and I figure it out for ourselves—or Lisa does. I wonder how long that will take, being certain, as I am, that Josh Smith from the LVPD is surely covering Priscilla's ass.

I feel a pang of regret for not being completely straightforward with FBI Lisa about Priscilla and the roofie and the f*cking of lead detective Josh Smith. But the FBI hasn't taken over the case yet, and Lisa told me they likely wouldn't unless another girl went missing. So, for right now, Josh Smith is the top dog responsible for finding Sarabelle—and if Priscilla is one of the guilty parties, Sarabelle's only hope is Dave, Marchant, and I. At least, that's what I tell my guilty conscience when it starts howling.

Speaking of howling…

Priscilla.

It doesn't take her long to grow tired of the hair-pulling and whipping. I can't appease her by slapping her p-ssy, either, and I don't have the right kind of condom to do her in the ass.

"A condom's a condom, Hunter." She twists her red lips into a pout.

"You know damn well that's not true." I’m not a fan of anal, but we both know a thicker, tougher condom is required.

I can see it in her eyes when she decides she's pissed off. She shoves my chest, and when I just stand there, she slaps my face. I haven't been slapped since I was fourteen, and the fierce sting sends me reeling back into the past.

While I'm off balance, Priscilla shoves me again. I wobble into the wall between the workout area and the sauna, and she giggles, then whistles seductively. "I think I've figured out what you like, big guy."

I feel the trembling start in my chest, and I want to throttle her. I don't care if she's a woman. I want to grab her hair and throw her against the wall and tell her to go f*ck herself—and extra f*cks for trying to dig into my family's past.

"You don't know shit about me," I tell her, struggling to breathe as I lean against the wall.

“I know you're nice and hard and I like to slap you around.” She grins and slaps me again, and it takes all the self-control I have not to lose my shit.

My heart is racing. F*cking flash-back land. "You're a cunt—you know that, right?"

I feel my cock twitch as I look at her, and I hate myself for it. I'm becoming just as deviant as she is.

She bites my neck, the sting hard enough to draw blood, and I push her head away. I scoop her up in one arm, shove through the glass door to the darkened sauna, toss her onto one of the benches that line the four walls of the room, and start the steam. I turn her over and spank her again, hoping to ward off what I know we'll end up doing, but of course it only makes her shriek and pant.

She glances back at me and I can see it in her eyes that all she really wants is to be hit. A dom who wants to be dominated. It's what she thinks she deserves, and I know all too well the reasons why.

One night at my house she drank too much and spilled the story. How her mom left her with an uncle who sold her to his friends, and when she was old enough to change her fate, she ran off to a brothel where she made her own money and set her own rules. Later, she started making films. Got herself a C-Class ticket to the Hollywood shindigs and f*cked some desperate actors, desperate politicians, desperate gamblers. Got herself a red Jaguar and tattooed eyeliner, eyelash implants, breast implants. God knows what else on her is fake.

She leans closer, giving me a nose full of expensive perfume, and whispers something in my ear. Not understanding it, I blink at her. As much as I loathe her—even loathe her beautiful face—I wonder for the first time if perhaps I should try to make the best of this: our f*cked up coupling. I don't do sex with regular women, because too many of them expected affection in return. And I'd quit going to the brothels months before the night with Sarabelle. Escorts don't excite me anymore. So maybe I should be glad I have Priscilla. Maybe she and I deserve each other.

"What did I say?" she purrs.

"I have no idea," I tell her, squeezing her big, fake tits.

"I said who's your mama now, you son of a bitch."

My heart pounds in my chest, and for a second it doesn’t seem real. That I'm here with Priscilla Heat. That Sarabelle is gone, Sarabelle who always did what I wanted and never asked questions. I didn't know her well, but she was always pleasant to be around.

"It's sure as hell’s not you," I growl.

"Oh, you better not back talk mama." She squeezes my balls and I let out a moan. I lay her down and thrust three fingers into her, stretching her as she writhes against my hand.

"You know who's a little slut?" she pants. "Elizabeth DeVille. I want to hear you say Elizabeth is a slut."

Shock like a bucket of ice water slides through my veins, and for the first time I’m actually worried for Libby. True, Priscilla’s been following her, but I assumed that was to keep tabs on me. Now I wonder if she knows I got to third base at my party. Maybe she’s jealous?

I press my forearm against Priscilla's throat and she fumbles with my fly, her cool, thin hands reaching for my cock. She starts to jack me off and I can't stand the thought of cumming as she gasps for air.

I lift my forearm from her throat and she sinks her nails into my wrist. "I'd like to f*ck that little bitch. Shove a dildo right up that tight ass just like Marchant does."

I freeze, dumbfounded, then lit up with jealous fury, and Priscilla grins—more a leer. "Hunter West, jealous," she says, still jacking my cock. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"You think I'm jealous?" I am. Blindingly so. I bite her mouth, and Priscilla moans. "I don't give a damn about Elizabeth DeVille."

"You lie," she hisses. She puts her hand over mine, and she guides it to her throat. She wants me to choke her. I'd like to, because I'm angry, but the idea of actually hurting her makes me hesitate, a crime for which she slaps me.

I see Rita's angry face and am too disarmed to do anything but gasp for air.

“What a little p-ssy,” she hisses.

She cups my balls and pumps my dick, and my muddled mind shifts back to Libby. There's no way she's f*cking Marchant, is there?

I shut my eyes and see a pointy little chin, lush lips, high cheekbones, wide blue eyes framed with dark lashes. Her smile is sweet. Serene. Just a little sarcastic sometimes. A full-blown laugh at others. I picture her delicate throat and collar bones, pretty just like every other inch of her voluptuous body. I have a flash memory of gliding my finger into her warm p-ssy and it sends me over the edge. I cum into Priscilla's expert hand and she clutches my balls so tightly I'm arching up, shoving her off me.

“Come and get me...” She dances a few steps away, wanting me to 'get her'. Wanting me to hit her. I wipe myself off on my boxer-briefs and tug them off, wishing I could leave the room, and her. All this pain for pleasure shit isn’t my style.

And yet, as our night winds to an end, I'm on top of her again with my hands around her neck. I can feel her tendons strain under my fingers as she jacks me off, and it's everything I can do to stay hard. I imagine another pair of hands, softer ones with short, pale nails. There was a time, a few months back, when all I could do was watch Priscilla, worried I was hurting her, but I've had to stop that. I can't get off if I'm worried, and she demands that I do.

I spend the next two hours getting whipped and slapped and trying not to get too head f*cked. I'm not a child anymore. I can fight back, if I choose.

But I don't.