Selling Scarlett

chapter Thirty-Nine

~HUNTER~

I tell her everything. I don't see why not. I don’t worry about how it will make her feel, either. This secret, with me for so long, can’t wait to leap out.

To understand how the FBI knows what they know, she has to understand that Priscilla—or Lockwood, AKA Jim Gunn—found out I spent a year or so talking to Libby back in New Orleans when I was a teenager, and sometime in the last week, the digital file cabinet in Dr. Libby's inbox got hacked. The information was turned over to the FBI, presumably by Priscilla.

“So if I were to try to pin this all on her, they'd immediately suspect I was just playing tit for tat with the person who turned me in. But even if they didn't think that, I'm going to have a real tough time proving that I'm innocent...when I'm not.”

I tell her about that day in the basement with Rita. I'm hesitant at first, but then I don't spare her any details. I tell it to her like I told the doctor. And, just like Dr. Libby, my Libby can't believe it.

“You wouldn't do that. Not without a reason.” And I can see it in her eyes that she knows I had a reason. I know she must, because she listened to my phone call with my dad, and it's not hard to deduce.

“She treated you badly, didn't she?”

“She wasn't good to me,” I hedge.

“She was abusive,” Libby whispers.

I shrug. “If you ask my father, he'll tell you I antagonized her all the time.”

“Well that's bullshit!”

“How can you be so sure?” Even I don't know half of the time. Not after hearing for so long that it was my fault.

“Because you didn’t mean to kill her, for one!”

I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what to say.

A shadow crosses Libby’s face. “You didn’t, did you?”

The other Libby asked me the same thing, and the answer to that question is what’s tormented me all these years. Did I intend to kill her? Did I think to myself, “Time to kill Rita!”? No. But the relief that I felt… Sometimes it’s easy to forget it was an accident.

Libby clears her throat, and she has my attention again. I can tell from her face I’ve been silent for too long. “Hunter?”

I shake my head. “No.” Even with my f*cked up point of view, I know that's the appropriate answer. I didn't set out to hurt her.

“Were you ever charged?”

I shake my head. “There was no chance. My father kept that shit quiet. Covered it up, even. Bought people off. Tried to get the coroner's report changed. He did get it changed. That’s a big part of the problem. He was in the middle of a tough race, and he thought the truth would be too distracting.” I chuckle sourly as I consider what I’m going to say next. “In the end, Rita’s death and our family’s story of loss is probably what won him the election.”

“So he never called it what it was? He acted like it was your fault?”

“He thought it was,” I tell her bitterly.

“Hunter, that's just not true. You don't have her blood on your hands.” Her voice drops. “She has yours.”

I shrug. I’ve told myself that before, but to little effect.

“Here’s something I don’t get,” Libby says. “Those files from your talks with Dr. Bernard should be inadmissible. Right? They were stolen.”

This is also true, although the files could certainly point the FBI in the direction of the people who were paid. Probably did, if what Dave told Marchant can be believed. The information, which will surely be leaked, will cause a big stink for my family—my father in particular. But, “Even if I don’t face any legal consequences from that incident, and from my father's cover-up of it, in the court of public opinion about Sarabelle, I’m pretty f*cked.”

“But there must be some way—”

I sit up straighter and lean my head back against the foyer wall. “There's too much we don't know. All we have pertaining to Sarabelle is a bunch of phone recordings of our villains talking in code. Lockwood—Gunn—if he has a place down in San Luis, our guy's never seen it. And Sarabelle was found in a damn ditch, not sold into Mexico.

“I know.” Her eyes glisten with tears. “But Hunter, we have to try.”

“And wait and see how long it takes them to drag out more of my story? The part about how Rita liked to hit me? The world already knows my mother was an escort. The media is having a f*cking field day with all my 'Mommy issues'. You know what it will be like when it comes out that I killed my goddamned child-abusing stepmother.”

“You didn’t kill her!”

I shrug. “It makes no difference to them.”

“What do Dr. Bernard's notes even say? I’ve been to enough shrinks with my mom to know she probably didn’t write HUNTER IS A MURDERER in red caps.”

That’s true. I have no idea what’s in those files. Libby Bernard hadn’t looked at them in seven or eight years, she said. But it doesn’t matter. “I don’t know, but that’s not the point. I think the FBI already knows about the cover up, which sure as shit makes me look guilty. Even if they don't, in the court of public opinion, I’m f*cked. And when I get charged for Sarabelle’s murder, I’m doubly so.”

“So we have to set the record straight,” she says. “We have to try. Please try. Please.” She kisses my mouth, and I can't help groaning. “Libby. You're so good.”

“You are.”

She's tugging at my gym shorts, and all of a sudden I'm hard as f*cking rock and aching for her. I sweep her hair out of her face and press my palms against her warm cheeks. “Libby, are you sure?”

She knows what I’m asking, and she leans in closer for a kiss. As I lap into her sweet, warm mouth, I realize I just told her. I just told her everything. My eyes flip open and I squeeze her shoulder. “You don't care? What I told you—it doesn't...change anything?”

“Hell yeah, it changes things. It makes me want to kill your father, but that’s about it.”

I let out a long breath, and she shakes her head. “I’m so made for you, that you had to go through that. That you still are.” She leans her head against my cheek. “But does it change my feelings for you? No.”

That's all I need to hear. I swoop her up, throw her over my shoulder, and stomp to the bedroom doing my cave man impression. She’s trying to grab my ass and giggling as I spank hers. I carry her to the green room—it’s clean, this time—and toss her on the pillow-stacked bed. I climb up after her and tug her shirt over her head.

“I think it's time to cash that check.”

“Yes, please,” she gasps.

My cock twitches as my gaze rakes her shirtless body, and I bend over and start to work her bra. “Is this okay?” I murmur between our kisses.

“Oh yes.” She leans up, kissing my throat as her warm hands pulls my shorts down, and when my dick springs out, I swear to God she actually shivers.

“Oh...Hunter. I want you so badly.”

“You can have me. But I want to taste you first.”



*



~ELIZABETH~



His eyes are molten as he crawls over my limp body and pinches my nipple in between his teeth. “Oh,” I moan. “Hunter!”

He sucks me for another second before he lifts up and kisses both my eyelids, then my cheeks, my nose, my mouth. He's breathing hard, and his dick is rubbing against my thigh.

I lean up and kiss his mouth. “I want you inside me.”

He nods, his shoulders rising and falling with his need. “No promises, remember? You know I can't yet.”

I stroke his jaw, feeling warm inside because he said 'yet'. “I only need you, Hunter. I just need to know you feel this, too—right now.”

“Yes. I feel you.” He cups his hand between my legs and glides a finger inside. I'm wet and ready for him. I reach down between his legs and gently stroke his head. He pushes himself into my hand. His breath is coming in harsh tugs, and I can tell by the way he kisses my mouth that he's getting hungry.

“Christ,” he pants, “you're so beautiful.”

“You are.” I kiss his shoulder and his pec and his mouth and his knuckles. He's got his fingers inside me and I'm trembling and needy.

“Please, Hunter.”

I roll over the edge with a shuddering gasp, and Hunter reaches for the drawer beside the bed. He pulls out a rubber and I sit up a little. “Can I help?”

I work it over his weeping, plum-sized head, and he gasps as I curl it down his shaft.

He dips down and licks me one more time, and slides another finger in. “You're so wet.”

“Ready for you,” I say, breathless. I want to scream it at him.

He crouches his body over me, leaning down to nibble at my throat. “It’s going to hurt. I wish it didn't.”

I nod.

He strokes me some more, bringing me close to climax again. I'm aching. “Hunter...”

And then he's taking himself in hand, pressing his head against my heat and gliding gently over my entrance. He rocks against me, sliding his head against my wetness until I'm desperate. Then his hands find mine, our fingers intertwine, and his wide, green eyes cling to mine.

“Baby.” I feel him, hard and hot against me. Then with a press of his lips on mine and a thrust of his hips, he pushes in. It stings—badly. I gasp. He's wincing, still pressing my hands against the mattress. His eyes close as he pushes once more, deep, and I'm impaled.

“Oh God.”

“Are you okay?”

He leans down for a trembling, open-mouthed kiss, and I can feel the vibration from the movement deep inside me. It makes me...want to move. “Oh...Hunter.”

It still hurts, but as I rock against him, just a little, it also feels really, really good. Like I might burst. I open my legs a little. Gently lift my hips to take in more of him. I'm rewarded by a strangled groan, and Hunter's forehead falls against my cheek.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so f*cking tight.”

He kisses my lips; our tongues stroke, and then he's pumping in and out. I'm moaning—loud, deep mews that spring from my mouth unbidden. As we find a rhythm, I begin to lose myself. This is not like other things we've done. This is...hypnotizing. We're rocking together, and I'm clinging to his shoulders and he's bowed over my chest. He drops a quick kiss on my mouth, gasping as he rocks in such a way that his shaft glides down my *. It feels so good, I grab his ass. I want him all.

“Hunter,” I pant. I'm flying high, my eyes squeezed shut, raising my hips, scratching his back. “Hunter!”

“Libby.”

“Hunter!”

His thrusts come harder. My legs are boneless as I push against him. Heat blooms inside me, sweeping through my body like a tidal wave, and my eyes flip open. I can see his nipples tighten as I feel him stiffen. He groans. “Libby.” I think he shudders, but I don't know. I'm shivering, half sobbing and he's panting so hard. And then I'm aware of him pulling out, leaving me stinging and empty, but it's okay because he's pulling the covers over me, pressing his body against mine.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

“Oh my God.” I laugh. He grins, and I can see his hair is damp and sticking up. His eyes glow with deep warmth as they look into mine. “That was amazing,” I say.

He smooths the covers over me. “I hope it didn't hurt too much.”

“It was perfect.” He kisses my lips and then my hair, and then he's getting up.

“Hunter?”

“Just grabbing some food.” I watch him walk, in all his naked glory, to a small refrigerator that looks like a wooden chest. He returns with a big bottle of DeVille bottled water and a bowl of strawberries. He lies on his side and offers me the bottle.

I grin as I take a long swig. “This stuff's handy.”

“Never even have to leave my room.” He winks.

“Oh, I bet you keep this stuff in here for just you,” I tease.

“I do,” he says seriously, and I remember. He's had sex with mostly escorts—who wouldn't care if he provided good food afterward. He feeds me a strawberry, and I shut my eyes as I chew. I want to lie here forever.

“Will you shower with me?” he asks.

I lean my head against his chest. “I actually just remembered...Cross drove me, and he's probably waiting. He'll notice and I'd be embarrassed.” I flush. “I think I'm already going to be embarrassed.”

He toys with a strand of my hair. “Well you look beautiful. Can you stay here for a minute? Let me get a warm towel for you?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

I watch him disappear into the bathroom, and I think how different I feel from last time I was in this room. Abruptly, I wonder about Cross. There's a window to my right, and I can see out of it if I lean off the bed and peek between the wooden blinds. I sit up, feeling kind of woozy, but very sated.

As I turn to face the window, I see movement on the other side of the room. I freeze. The door leading from the hallway to the bedroom opens, and I find myself staring at one Michael Lockwood.

Holy shit.