Selling Scarlett

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 f*cking fever and not a lot of sleep...

F*ck 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 f*ck?

…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 f*ck 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 a*shole in public. F*ck.

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 f*cking whip bite into my back.

"You're such an a*shole, 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.

"It looks awful," I say bluntly.

He shrugs, but his nonchalance is completely ruined by a wince. I look at his back, through the reflection in the mirror. There are a lot of welts, and they all seem to be about the same size. “Did Priscilla do that?”

"You think I'd let a woman do this to me?" He looks so stern and masculine, I feel stupid for asking such a question. Not my business.

But there's something in his eyes. Something hard, almost a challenge, and I can't help feeling like I'm being warned away.

I suck in a breath, struggling to speak as I try to pull the answer from his eyes. "Did you?"

He’s quiet again, giving me a chance to examine his face. There’s a nasty bruise on his jaw. “This was a choice," he finally says.

A choice? My stomach rolls. "Are you saying that you did that to yourself?"

He reaches for me, grabs my hand, and as he pulls me closer, I know I'm in trouble.

"I'm not saying anything." His free hand comes behind my head, his fingers in my hair as I look into his handsome, bruised face. "You're the one talking."

"About you,” I whisper.

"About me."

"I think you need to be more careful,” I say, throwing what he said at the bar back at him. “I don't want to see you hurt."

His eyes flare, and for a second I think he's going to walk out, but then he groans and pulls me even closer. "You know what hurts?" he grits, his hand splaying over my ass, squeezing as he pushes me against his chest. "This hurts," he says, and I can feel him through my shorts.

He's hard and ready, totally jacked up. For me, I realize. I shock myself by reaching down—I want to touch him—but I stop and hover over his hard, smooth abs. His eyes widen and I feel his hand close over mine. That's all it takes. The world folds in on me, and the small, dim room becomes a fantasy. I'm rubbing my fingers up and down his bulge, amazed by the hard, stiff length of it.

Hunter moans, and I press a little harder. The way he flinches makes me worry I'm hurting him, but he's rocking into my hand like he wants me to press harder. I roll my palm around the round head of him, and he pushes his face into my shoulder. "Christ."

I stroke him up and down, eager to feel all of him.

"Unzip your pants," I say. It sounds unsteady, because I'm trembling.

He looks down at me, his face bent into a question, and I nod, nuzzling his throat as I pant. I'm still aware that this is a terrible idea—I'm going to get hurt; of that I'm sure—but right now, I want to keep his eyes wide and his mouth open, his body curled over mine, his hands clutching my shoulders. Right now, Hunter West is lusting for me hard.

He unzips his slacks and I reach for him, pushing past the elastic of his underpants so I can feel him skin-to-skin. Oh my God, he's hard as steel. So soft—and burning hot. The second that my fingers touch his velvet skin, he gasps and jerks inside my hand. I smooth my fingers down him, feather-light until I reach the base, and then I stroke a little, like I learned today.

He starts to pant, and I stroke up and down again before I tentatively cup my hand and reach lower. I've never fondled anyone's balls before, and I'm loving the shock on Hunter's face as he pulls away to look into my eyes. His are dazed, almost glowing. I can feel his body shaking. His knees are shaking.

"Libby," he groans. "Jesus."

Then he's pulling me against him, pushing my blouse up, shoving my strapless bra away and closing his lips over my breast.

I moan, and he cups my ass and pulls me closer, so I can feel him, big and hard, through what I can now see are boxer briefs. My hand comes out of his pants and I rock against him just a little; he groans and grips my hand in his. He thumbs me through my shorts and I whimper as his fingers push past my underwear to stroke over my lips.

“Hunter,” I pant, and his finger glides inside.

I could die happy right here, but then we would be Hunter 2, Elizabeth 0, and I can’t let that score stand.

Using every bit of willpower I have, I reach around his arms, pushing past the elastic of his boxer-briefs to cup his head. My fingers glide down on each side of his cock and he moans, pressing his forehead against mine, kissing my mouth. His is open, panting. "Elizabeth."

The way he says my given name, all breathless and lustful, is conditioning. I wrap my fingers around him, pumping him near the top. With my other hand I cup his balls. I'm surprised by how heavy they feel.

The hand that's stroking his cock moves over his head, finding it slick. I made Hunter wet. That thought makes me wet. His cock is pulsing and when I glide up and down again, he lays his cheek against my shoulder, holding onto my back with one hand while his other teases my *.

"Libby..."

The nickname brings me back to the here and now, and I loosen my grip on him. His hand, holding onto my shoulder, trails down to cup my ass; his fingers in my panties shove deeper inside and I feel pressure building there. I shift my hips, desperate to relieve it.

"Hunter," I groan. I feel shaky, almost scared.

He tugs me to him, lifting me up and carrying me across the room. We go through a big, glass door and into somewhere hot—the sauna, where he gently lays me out on one of the benches. I watch through lust-heavy eyes as he grabs a red towel and lays it on the wood plank floor; then he lifts me in his arms again and spreads me out. My pants are unzipped and folded down. His hand is moving and I'm gasping.

Hunter West.

Oh, yes.

No. I shouldn't be doing this.

"You're with Priscilla," I whimper.

He laughs, a hard, dry sound. "I'm not."

"I don't even...know you," I pant. It doesn't matter to me, but it should.

He thumbs my * and I arch against his hand. "What’s to know?"

He's kissing my breasts, with one finger inside me. I've got one hand inside his boxer-briefs, and he is groaning in my ear.

This is wrong, this is so wrong. I know it is, but I can't stop.

"We're in a bathroom. I must be crazy."

"Sauna," he pants.

Then his finger glides out of me and skates over my *. I clench my knees around his arm, barely able to keep my hand on his cock moving as I tremble.

"I can't do this," I whimper, although I obviously am doing it.

He rests his hand atop my mound, but I still have him by the shaft. My hand trembles, and it must feel good, because he shuts his eyes. As he does, his hips rock into me, and heat blooms all over my hand. His eyes flip open and I'm shocked to find that this is...wow.

I blink up at him, fuzzily aware that Hunter is coming and I should stroke him. He groans so loudly it hurts my ears, and his hands come down on my shoulders.

He pants, and drops his head against my shoulder in a way I love. I cup his cheek. My mind is racing, and as my pulse calms, I ask, only loud enough to rise above the sound of our deep breathing, "Why do you call me Libby?"

He lifts his head, his eyes on mine. His softens, like he's remembering something nice. "I used to know someone named Libby. She was kind...and when I met you, you reminded me of her."

I flush with shame. So the name is not for me. Of course not. He's dating a porn star, for crying out loud. Is he like this with everyone, I wonder? Sex on a stick, making women everywhere drop what they're doing and give him a hand-job in club bathrooms? I think about his back, unable to reconcile the grisly wounds with the look of kindness burning in his eyes right now. He must be some kind of fiend.

I draw my hands back to my sides, scooting away so I dislodge the hand that's still in my panties. I'm staring at his handsome face while telling myself that this is it. This insanity with Hunter West is over now.

"Libby, what's—" wrong?

How could I ever begin to explain?

I stagger to my feet and throw open the sauna door, and I’m into the bathroom before Hunter is even on his feet. I'm crying before I get into the hall. By the time I sprint into the parking lot, I know I have a lot to learn about more than sex—starting with how to shield my fragile heart.



*



~HUNTER~



I can't go after her. I can't even move. I'm shaking everywhere. I can't believe I told her that—the name Libby. I’ve never mentioned her to anyone, ever—not even Marchant. But I told Elizabeth DeVille. I told her something secret, something as personal to me as flesh and blood—and she looked at me like I'd just slapped her. Why did it make her so upset? Does she think Libby is a girlfriend?

'Libby' came into my mind the moment I saw Elizabeth DeVille trying to pop the hood of an old Porsche in the middle of the road in the middle of the night. She'd begun as a neon blip on my infrared security camera, but even then I could see her temper, her determination. As she watched me in my garage later that night, her perceptive eyes brought the first Libby back to mind. I have a thing for names, so the few times I saw her again over the years, I would remember how she reminded me of Libby.

I don't bother asking myself why I always end up doing crazy things with Libby DeVille. I already know I don't have the answer. She just does it to me. Gets under my skin like a rash.

As I leave the sauna and stroll back into the stall where I left my shirt, everything on my body aches, but nothing more than the regret inside my chest.