Selling Scarlett

chapter Forty-One

~ELIZABETH~

He's wearing all black, from his boots to the fedora-like hat on his head. He has light brown skin and Spanish features. Once I see the dead look in his eyes, all I know is that he's not here to help us. In fact, he's probably here to buy us. Shit.

His assessing gaze flicks over me, then over Cross, who I quickly realize has managed to slump over on his side. Did he do that in time to fool the buyer? I'm not sure, because I wasn't watching him. I watch the buyer's face; he's looking down his thin nose at Cross. I don't think he's spared a look for me yet.

He steps closer to Cross, poking his bicep with the tip of his black leather boot.

Then he turns toward the door, flicks his fingers in a come hither motion, and two other men walk in. Neither is as tall as the buyer, and it's clear they're working for him, rather than the other way around. They're wearing black like he is, but they don't look as clean or well-groomed, and where he points, they scurry.

I tense, terrified because I expect them to skip right over Cross and come to me, but instead they each grab one of Cross's shoulders, and they roll him over. He's so limp I wonder if he actually passed out. One of them starts to unbutton his blue jeans, and I shriek.

The buyer's gaze snaps to me. “You can't do that!”

“You be quiet,” he hisses. His accent makes his voice sound like a snake.

“He's not for sale.”

“What about you?” He steps closer to me, taking my face in his hand and running his finger over my cheek. “Are you for sale?” he asks me. “We get many requests for feisty girls.” His gaze flicks between my legs. “They told me you are barely used.”

I blink up at him, feeling like I might be sick.

He releases my face and chuckles. “She is just a baby.”

Abruptly he's leaving my bed and walking toward the door. I glance over at Cross, and I'm relieved to find his jeans still zipped.

The buyer struts toward the door. He pulls something out of his back pocket, and as he reaches the doorway, two men lean in to hear what he has to say. I gasp as I see they're both holding machine guns.

The shock of it is so horrible, I forget to translate what he's telling them. The two sidekicks move to stand behind the buyer, and all of a sudden they're all talking at once. Then the three of them step back, and Priscilla and Lockwood come in. It looks, from the little I saw, like the gunmen actually had to admit them.

Super.

You would know they're guppies in the big pond.

This time, I can hear their conversation clearly.

The buyer speaks in Spanish: “We'll take them both. The man, especially, will fetch a good price in a larger market. Possibly Europe. Dark hair and blue eyes is a good look. For the woman, I am thinking Asia. I can see she is lacking in experience.”

I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling as my heart races. I dare a quick glance over at Cross. He seems asleep, but is he really?

Lockwood says, “How much?”

The buyer makes a tsking noise and continues speaking in Spanish. “I want to see more of them. A fresh woman is a fresh woman, but what is the size of the man's part?”

“He is large,” Lockwood says in Spanish.

Oh my God. Does he actually know that? My cheeks and head feel too hot, like any moment now, steam might start flowing from my ears. Please, no.

“What is the quality of the girl's tits?”

“You can feel for yourself,” Lockwood says, also in Spanish.

He waves at me, and Priscilla holds her arm out like a game show display girl.

I'm swallowing convulsively. The man nears me, and I wonder if I throw my legs up, if I can kick him with my knees despite my tied up ankles. He scrutinizes my face and then he reaches for my chest.

As his hand comes down to grope me, I experience my first real moment of hopelessness. What if this is really my new life? His fingers are inches from my breast when I close my eyes, but his hand never makes it. He crashed to the floor, knocking me off the bed, and his two sidekicks start yelling. The buyer jumps up as I fumble onto my knees, leaning my shoulders on the bed. I'm shocked to see Cross standing, clutching a handgun.

It must belong to the buyer, because the buyer's face is a mask of shock as he reaches into his shirt.

For the longest moment in the history of moments, Cross and the buyer stare each other down. Then, out of nowhere, Lockwood fires a shot at Cross. Cross ducks, and the guards at the door come in and start screaming. One of them has Lockwood on the ground in seconds, aiming what looks like an AK-47 at his face. Priscilla is screaming, sticking her arms in the air, her huge boobs bouncing as she jumps in place. “I give blow jobs! Don't hurt me! I'll give you a blow job!”

At first I think she must have lost her mind, but one of the gunmen actually lowers his rifle and makes a grab at her crotch.

She thrusts toward him, leaving Lockwood, me, Cross and the buyer in our standoff. I shift my attention to translating Cross's Spanish, and I'm stunned to realize he's negotiating some kind of deal.

I catch something about, “Giant stockpile of guns” and “American airplane, not far from here” before my eyes and my attention drift to the buyer.

Part of me will always regret that I don't get to see that play out. When the guards start going berserk again, Priscilla is on her knees, Lockwood is on his back, and Cross, only days out of a coma, has elicited a respectful—if skeptical—expression from the buyer, who is obviously more interested in getting an airplane loaded with weapons than he is in whatever money he could make from us.

The buyer is wearing his skeptical-but-coming-around expression, and Cross is owning it, and I am just sitting there, not like a badass heroine at all, wondering if they're just going to kill us when they realize there’s no plane, when another man with a big machine gun runs into the room and cries, “Chota!”

“Chota?” the buyer says.

“Chota!”

“CHOTA!”

And, just like that, the buyer, his sidekicks, and his gunmen run like hell.

I'm freaking out now, too, so I struggle to stand up, and Cross grabs me and pushes me under the bed. Right before my face mashes into the dirty, tile floor, I notice Cross's ankles are still bound, and he's balancing on the outside of his soles.

Then there's a gunshot...but it's not Cross firing. He's in the process of crouching down behind me; I can feel something sharp between my skin and the rope, first on my hands and then my ankles. Then I turn to find Cross freeing his feet. Then he stands and whirls toward the door, where the sound of footsteps echoes.

He mutters a confused-sounding curse. “Hunter West?”

I jump up and get a glimpse of Hunter, leaning in the doorway. I know the exact moment he sees me, because relief makes his eyes widen and his mouth fall open. His gaze flies over me, and he rushes toward me. I'm already anticipating his arms around me. I can practically feel them. But before he reaches me, a loud boom wrenches the air, and Hunter flies into the wall.

“OH MY GOD!”

I watch in horror as he slumps down to the floor, his face twisting in agony as his right hand fumbles toward his bright red, left shoulder. He lifts his head, and his wild eyes comb the room until they settle on my face.

“Hunter!” I rush him, noting dimly as I fly across the room that Cross is on top of Lockwood, pummeling his face.

“Hunter! HUNTER! NO, no, no, no, please!” I grab his body, shocked and terrified by how limp he is already.

“Libby.” His hands grab at me as he starts panting, which quickly turns to horrible choking. “Libby...” he gasps, “you...okay?”

That's the last thing he says before his eyes roll back into his head.

I start to scream, and somewhere far away, I hear one of my would-be kidnappers cry: “Chota!”