Selling Scarlett

chapter Twenty-One

~HUNTER~

Lockwood is in the corner opposite mine, looking surly but not threatening in red shorts and black sneaks. He's shorter than I am—maybe five-foot-ten—and without clothes to give him bulk, I can see his upper body is well-defined but lean. His biceps and pecs are oiled and his black hair is slicked back, so his sunken cheeks and sharply square jaw stand out like a caricature. His wary brown eyes haven't left my body since I came into the ring, but I've noticed he doesn't like to look me in the eye. The crowd around us cheers, and he widens his legs, trying to adopt a more intimidating posture.

Fat chance.

I've got maybe forty pounds on this guy, four inches or so, and I hate him down to his bones. I think I’d kill him with my bare hands here and now, if I didn’t need him alive. I flex my hands inside my gloves and try to ignore the pain radiating from my back.

We’re announced, and then we step forward to tap gloves. I look into Lockwood's eyes, and for a second he looks into mine, and there’s plenty of hate there. I keep my expression cool, because I can't let him know that I know what he's up to.

Lockwood swipes at the air as he bounces back to his corner, and the crowd cheers with excitement. In addition to doing camera and security work for Priscilla, Michael Lockwood also fights semi-professionally—meaning he has fans.

The fight begins with the loud honk of a bullhorn and the crowd roars. He steps out of his corner first but he’s waiting for me to come at him.

I circle, looking for an opening. Of course, he doesn’t give me one, so I lower my guard. He takes a swing. I jump back. He gets me in the shoulder, a hard sting that sends pain across my back in waves, but I keep moving, arms up, ready when the moment comes.

He peeks up for a second, and I smack the bridge of his nose. It feels good. He swings, and I think it’s wild but he’s aiming for my back. He connects, and as the pain erupts I curse myself for not expecting that.

The crowd cheers when my fist hits his jaw, but he was already turning out of it. I get a kidney shot, and then he’s on me. He hits me on the shoulder, and, choking back a scream, I hit him in the head with my elbow.

He dances back, and I follow hard, thinking I’ve got him. I go for a knock-out punch, and he side-steps to evade. A hard jab to my stomach, then a blow to my jaw. Everything whirls. He gets me in the hip, he gets me in the ear. I think I see Libby in the audience, and that moment of hesitation earns me a glancing blow across my cheek.

I get him in the teeth, and he spits blood at me. I slam him again in the nose and he goes down on one knee. I kick him in the shoulder, I punch him in the neck.

He falls back, and when his eyes flicker, he smiles a bloody smile.

"You're an evil bastard," he hisses. "Making that escort disappear."

And I change my mind. I'm going to kill this rotten bastard here and now.



*



~ELIZABETH~



Something's wrong with Hunter. I can tell the moment he steps into the ring. I've been watching him from afar for years, and I'm an old pro at his body language. Hunter West is a guy who's used to setting the agenda. His limbs are usually loose and relaxed, carried with the kind of self-assurance that comes from knowing you've got it all handled. So when he steps into the ring looking uncomfortable, those wide shoulders slightly hunched under a tight blue t-shirt, with eyes that look tired and heavy even from my vantage point, I feel worried.

Then the fight starts, and it's dirtier than the others. From Hunter's end and Lockwood's. A few times I catch his eye and I think he looks desperate. I cringe each time he gets hit, and I cringe each time he hits Lockwood, too. Eventually he knocks Lockwood down, and I sigh with relief. I watch Hunter lean over; words must have been exchanged, because Hunter settles on one knee and starts punching Lockwood’s face.

"Holy shit." Loveless, beside me, is leaning forward, both hands over her mouth.

My mouth is open, too, because Hunter is really going at it.

A whistle blows, but he won't stop. People in the crowd gasp. Men come and grab him, throw him down. Meanwhile, a nurse and a doctor are stepping in to check on Lockwood. Marchant steps in the ring behind them and helps Hunter to his feet. Someone throws a metal winner's chain sash over Hunter’s head and I see him wince when it comes to rest on his back. He stalks away with Marchant, and I wonder where Priscilla is.

"Where's Priscilla?" I ask Juniper a minute later.

"She's in Ontario. They're filming something huge there."

The crowd claps as Lockwood is helped to his feet. His face is a bloody mess, but he waves, drawing more applause.

The last fight is tamer, but the vibe inside this place is still a little...off. A little dark. I think about what Hunter did, and I begin to see holes in the story I created to make myself feel better about the whole Hunter-has-rough-sex-with-porn-stars thing. ‘Cause he certainly seemed to like violence in the ring.

"Want to go downstairs?" Loveless asks over the din of chatter. "See if we can get a view of the guys after they exit their prep rooms, post-shower?"

I do, but obviously I should not. "I don't think so."

"Then let's get a drink. You can spill your Hunter story."

“Yes. You can,” Juniper says.

I insist there is no story as I follow them to the bar that hangs out over the arena. We have to go up countless flights of stairs to get there, and when we finally arrive—in a dark den lit by flashing, multicolored strobe lights—I realize we’ve clomped to the very top of the arena.

Juniper goes to order our drinks, while Loveless and I take a seat at a yellow booth. She leans across the table, and I smile blandly, pretending I don't know what she's about to ask.

“What's your story, Scarlett? We trust you, now you trust us. What's your Hunter West Story?”

I swallow hard, aware that I'm going to have to tell her something. It's only fair. Finally, after looking twice at the bar, hoping Juniper will be on her way back and I can postpone my sad tale until she arrives, I jump in head-first.

“I have a crush on him. But he doesn't know that I'm alive. I promise.”

Loveless nods, like she's thinking this over carefully. She has a pretty good poker face, I realize as she purses her lips. “You know him from back home?”

I nod.

“So you are from Napa Valley?”

“Please don't tell anyone else. My family would be upset if—”

She reaches across the table, grabbing my hand, which is curled into a nervous fist. “Your secret's safe with me.”

“Pinky swear?” I smile a little, and we latch pinkies.

“Pinky swear.” Loveless stands abruptly and leans down. “Will you be okay for a minute by yourself?”

I nod. “Sure.”

Without giving me an explanation, she slips into the crowd. I'm following her as she drifts over to the right, back toward the stairwell, when my eyes latch onto Hunter.

He's leaning against a corner of a smooth, mahogany bar, drinking something out of a glass. Probably West Bourbon. He looks really, really tired, and he's holding his left shoulder like it hurts. He's swaying gently back and forth, and I get the impression he's looking for someone.

I consider not going over to him, because I don't know for sure that Priscilla isn't here. But I can't stop myself.

I stop right in front of him, and it takes his eyes a second to lock onto my face.

"Libby?" The word is low and almost strangled, and I immediately wonder if he doesn't want to talk to me.

"It's Elizabeth," I say smiling a little ruefully, "but I answer to Libby as long as it's coming from you." I look into his eyes, waiting for him to smile, and when he doesn't—the left corner of his mouth twitches a little, but he can't seem to summon a smile—I feel that worried sting again.

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.