Selling Scarlett

chapter Twenty

~HUNTER~

By the time I get to the Joseph Club at ten on Monday night, I'm going on forty-eight hours without sleep, and I know I don't need to be here.

The last two days have been...intense. In addition to my adventures with Priscilla, Marchant and I are going after Lockwood with everything we have. We’ve expanded the team—Julie, Roberto, and Dave have been joined by a retired CIA guy named Ted Burts, as well as Julie's friend Lay1a, a forensic IT specialist who once worked for the Las Vegas mayor’s office—and our surveillance is 24/7.

If wishes were fishes I'd have a f*cking sea, because I've spent the last two days wishing I'd had the sense to use my phone's video recorder. When I'm not wishing that, I’m making absolutely sure I heard what I think I heard. Can I trust myself?

I know I can, because there is one thing I remember clearly. It's that gut-shot feeling I got when I heard Priscilla say "He doesn’t want to hurt a lady." Before that, I'd let myself believe that Priscilla really didn’t have anything to do with Sarabelle, or if she did, she was as much a pawn as myself.

But I know now she’s not, and it feels like someone stuck their steel-toed boot through my abdomen. I've only felt that way one time before. It was when I was nine and Rita turned on me for the first time.

I'd had the chicken pox, and I was itchy and whiny. I overheard Dad worrying about my fever, which was high enough that I'd been delirious—although I was lucid at that moment, wrapped up in my Power Rangers sheet and spying on them from behind the couch. Rita sighed and said, "Maybe he'll sleep for a few days." She did this funny laugh that was deeper and said, in hushed voice, "Or more than a few."

Dad just laughed, and he told her to drink another glass of wine, but I had known by the tone of her voice that there was more. And there was.

I don't like thinking about that, so I try to stop. I'm in the basement underneath the arena, in a small, tiled locker room that reminds me of another basement. I need my mind clear tonight, so I try hard to think of something else as I shower and wrap my back.

I've been given some small black shorts to wear, but I can't face thousands of people in something that looks like an overgrown Speedo. Those things are bad enough in the damn pool, but I'll be jumping around out there. I'm well-endowed, and half the town doesn’t need to see it. I pull my black gym shorts out of my duffel bag and tug them on over boxer-briefs.

I take a long look in the mirror, running a critical eye over my sallow face and tense shoulders. If I went out shirtless with this gauze wrapped around my torso, I'd look like a hospital runaway, but I can't stand the thought of lifting my arms to put a shirt on. Tough shit. I pick a light blue shirt from a charity triathlon I did last year and I feel sick by the time I've got it on.

I think I have a fever, and I know why. It's because of my back. I should see about getting some antibiotics, but for some reason, I haven't. I tell myself it's because I don't want the headache. I tell myself it's because I can't go in for an exam; word would get around. Last time I went to the ER, with a fractured ankle from an impromptu game of soccer with one of the neighborhood kids in Napa, one of the local San Fran gossip rags ran some bullshit story about me coming from a 'certain' area of town where I used to get my coke.

That stroll down memory lane makes me pissed, and that should be a good thing, since I need a little energy boost for the fight. But pissed leads me only one direction, and that's Priscilla's. All I want to do now is smash my own reflection in the mirror.

My fist curls, and I come so close to doing just that, I have to go sit on the bench beside the shower and start taping up my hands. A shrink once explained to me the concept of mindfulness. It’s been useful before, and I try it now—paying attention to the stickiness of the sports tape. To the shape of my fingers as I wrap each one. I even give some thought to the scalding pain on my back, telling myself it hurts like hell, but I'm not dead or anything. Just keep breathing.

And I do.

But with every breath, I want to punch that f*cking mirror.

How could I be so stupid?

How could I let her get so close?

Even before I thought I was being set up to take the fall for—for whatever the f*ck is going on, I knew she was trying to blackmail me for sex. Why did I ever go along with it?

You know why.

Rita’s face follows me as I pace.

I check the clock on the counter: twenty minutes till show time. I inhale deeply, and I remember Marchant's reaction when I first told him Priscilla and Lockwood were trying to frame me, after the gala the other night. I remember the pity. He knows how much I loathe her, and he has to know there must be something more to my f*cking her. Something sick and twisted.

And he's right—he just has no idea about the details.

I start jumping jacks. It's mundane and makes me dizzy from the horrible pain in my back, but it takes the edge off for a minute. Then I get too dizzy, so I sit on the bench beside the shower. I close my eyes and try to be still.

I wonder for the dozenth time about motive. Why me? And how far back does the plan go? Did Priscilla find out about my mother and decide that I would be the perfect patsy? Did Sarabelle get snatched simply because she was with me? Or was it just chance? Did Priscilla drug me out of spite, because I'd chosen Sarabelle over her, and Lockwood went for Sarabelle out of simple opportunism?

I think about the governor's mistress going missing two and a half years ago, right before he started f*cking Priscilla. Just sixteen months after Lockwood stopped working security for him and started working security for Priscilla. How likely is it that Lockwood simply spirited the other woman away? Down to San Luis. Then into Mexico.

I feel sick, because Sarabelle is alive somewhere, being forced into God knows what. I want to go get her right now. And tonight in this fight, I want to bathe in Michael Lockwood's blood.

I slide thin gloves over my taped knuckles and remind myself that I can’t. He could be all we have to lead us to Sarabelle.

Ted Burts and Roberto are scouring San Luis at this very moment—starting with MIGHTY'S bar—and Julie and Dave are with Lay1a visiting Priscilla and Lockwood's places of residence while they're out. We think we’re close.

I’ve decided we’ve got three days more. Three more days to find Sarabelle or I'm going to the FBI myself. Priscilla can say whatever she wants.

I stare at myself in the mirror again, hoping I won't have to take that risk. Just the thought of it has me vibrating with rage. I check the clock. Marchant will be here in two minutes. I inhale deeply, trying to find the chill zone before we have to walk upstairs.

There's not enough time. I swing at the mirror, shattering it—and maybe my knuckles—in one mighty punch that sends glass raining all around me. The pain in my fist is good, blazing like fire.

I let myself drink it up. Inhale it. I take it inside.

I don't have time to clean this mess, so I meet March outside my door. He's got an envelope containing the name of my match-up.

Lockwood.



*



~ELIZABETH~



The Joseph Club is like nothing I've ever seen. As far as gyms go, it's fairly ordinary; the yellow circus-tent exterior, with its sparkling, blood-red sign and showgirl ticket-punchers remind me we're in Vegas, but it's the crowd inside that widens my eyes and makes my palms sweat.

"Got them packed in like sardines, no?" Juniper is pressed against me, a vision in a skin-tight white pant suit and red pumps, her dark hair pulled into an elegant pony tail. Swimming through a sea of shoulders and elbows on my other side is Loveless, wearing a flouncy peach-colored dress that whirls around her gorgeous legs.

"It's like this every year," Loveless tells me as we battle our way through the crowd. "Priscilla Heat knows how to throw a party."

I'm chewing fruity gum; I nearly choke. "Priscilla Heat?"

"The one and only." She says it casually, but when she glances at my face, I must have that swallowed-a-bug look—and that gives me away. "I sense a story here."

"There's no story."

"Sure there's not."

"Story?" Juniper pipes in.

"No." I shake my head, making my loosely curling pigtails tickle my bare shoulders. "There's no story, I swear there's not. I've just heard of her. Kind of surprised she's doing something for charity."

"Ooh, there is so a story here. One that perhaps will tell us more about who Scarlett really is.” Juniper smiles slyly, like she's already dredged the rotten truth out of me.

"I'm not saying a thing." I mime zipping my lips and follow Loveless, who's flattened her body against a cement wall and is trying to make her way through the gate that leads to our seats. Finally we make it from the outer walkway and concessions area into the arena. Loveless stops, eliciting several irritated shouts from the stalled crowd behind Juniper and I, and holds up her ticket. "Looks like we're that way," she says, pointing at the bleachers below our walkway.

She takes my hand and Juniper grabs my other one, and behind Jupiter, Hannah, and on we go. I glance down at my bright red daisy dukes and loose, silk strapless top—it's white and sparkly—and I pray I don't stick out like a sore thumb. Already I've noticed that the biggest difference between these gorgeous women and myself is my lack of muscle tone. Yeah, I've lost weight, but you can see my flab and cellulite if you look closely; they, on the other hand, are built like gymnasts, plus big boob.

When we finally make it to our seats, I'm stunned to find how close we are to the fighting platform. I guess it's called a 'ring'. It looks bigger than anything I've seen on TV: a bouncy-looking blue platform about a third the size of a basketball floor, surrounded by red 'ropes' attached to four yellow square posts at each corner.

There’s a platform around the ring that’s sunken, sort of like a moat, below the first row of seats, which is level with the ring. It’s packed with men in tight pants and women in bikinis. I notice a lot of fake tans and faker boobs and even what I think is probably fake hair. I wonder how many of these people are porn stars, and feel kind of embarrassed that I have no idea. I've never watched a porno.

As I sink into my plastic bucket seat, I'm listening to Juniper and Loveless with only half an ear. So when I hear the name “Hunter” I actually whirl around toward Loveless. She's got her head craned toward Juniper, who's reading the program and speaking loudly to be heard over the crowd.

“He'll be fighting someone named Lockwood,” Juniper is saying. “There are five fights. Theirs is fourth.”

Loveless is nodding when I realize my mouth is hanging open. I shut it and turn back toward the ring, but it's too late. Juniper reaches around Loveless and grabs my elbow, shrieking, “You are holding out on me!”

I frown, trying my best to give her a ‘what the hell look,’ but Loveless is catching on now, too. She turns to Juniper. “Do you think she knows him?”

“Oh, I think she does.”

“I don't know what you guys are talking about,” I say loudly. A guy with taped fists and tiny black shorts is leaning up and waving to the crowd on the other side of the arena, so the noise level is at max.

Loveless gently grabs my chin and makes me meet her eyes. “Hunter West. You know him? Don't you lie to me, woman.”

“I'm not,” I say, but I can feel my stupid eye brows arching like they do sometimes when I lie. I look down at my knees, then Loveless shrieks and I put my head down in my hands.

“Holy shit, Scarlett! You sneaky little bitch!”

“I'm not sneaky,” I wail. “There's not a story here.”

“Oh, I'm quite sure she's lying,” Juniper says.

From around her, a blonde, gray-eyed girl leans. “What are we talking about?” she asks in a Southern accent.

“Oh, nothing,” Juniper says.

“Later,” Loveless says in my ear. She gives me a pointed look, one that says I should be sorry for lying, and I shake my head a little guiltily.

A minute later, music I think I recognize from Rocky starts playing over the intercom, and everyone's attention is shifted to the ring, where two guys are now stretching. I try to feign interest, but all I can think about is Hunter. I wonder how much space stretches from my chair and the ring. Twenty yards? Fifteen? Could he see me from the fight? What if he gets hurt?

You can't care, I tell myself. He's not your boyfriend.

He's a guy who has sex with escorts and dates porn stars. A guy who has been nice to me a time or two. On a rational level, I know my feelings for him are about as realistic as a middle school girl’s crush on a pop star—and the chances of it being realized are pretty much the same, too.

But I have a bad gut feeling when I try to feel okay with the idea of him dating Priscilla. It’s her I should be worried about; I did see his hands around her neck. But when you look at Priscilla, you can see the bad in her. It's a woman thing, I think. Women convey so much without using words. Once you've seen one catty bitch, you've seen them all. And I know how to spot a catty bitch. Whatever Hunter is doing with her, she wants it, and what I really believe is that he does not.

The two men fighting first start to circle each other, and it’s a good distraction. As I watch the fight, I'm buoyed slightly by the other girls' enthusiasm. It only takes a second before word reaches my ear that the fighter with long black hair, Dominique Domino, is one of Marie V.'s clients. His opponent, a muscled guy with buzzed hair, is a porn star.

Loveless cups her hands around my ear. "But he also pays for Marie V."

I gape. "Why?” I say near her ear. I try to lower my voice while still being audible. “Can't he get all the booty he wants, like...on the job?"

She nods. "But he likes it kinky," she hisses. "He wants to keep his image clean, so he pays for Marie V. for the weird stuff.” I don’t even want to imagine what depraved acts could ruin a porn star’s reputation.

“I think he kind of likes her more than just professional," Loveless adds, and I arch my brows. "Oh."

She rolls her eyes. "That's a nice way of saying it."

I spend the rest of the fight wondering what she means, eventually deciding Marie V. is probably not a fan of Domino's affections.

The fight only lasts two more minutes before Domino clocks the porn star—hard—making his nose spray blood and gaining his title in a fit of screaming and applause, and Loveless leans in close to me. "He's the possessive kind. Marie V. will have to cut him soon."

I wonder how many of those types of situations working women find themselves in, and I think I’ll ask later. I'm feeling more comfortable with Loveless and Juniper now—more like we're friends. For not the first time, I wonder if I'm just a job to them, just like the men are, but I shove the thought away. If they think of me that way, it's not a bad thing. I don’t need to get too attached. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to pretend to be friends when they don’t even know who I am.

Juniper passes me a huge tub of popcorn, smiling, and it's like a confirmation that I'm right. We are becoming friends. I don’t want to enjoy the feeling, but I let myself off the hook. It’s easier to face everything with friends, even ones that don’t know your real name. I feel truly at ease for the first time since I arrived at the ranch.

That feeling lasts through two more fights. Then Hunter walks to the ring.