Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
“Breed horses?”
He nodded.
I looked down the length of him—strong arms, lean, muscled legs—and back into his eyes. “I bet you’d be good.”
“It’s the speed I like,” he’d told me, and after a quiet second. “It sounds trite, but it really does push everything else out of your mind.”
And I had known just what he meant, because I’d always felt that way, too. Whether I was swimming, riding, or even reading—maybe especially reading—I liked being in motion, because it let me go away.
“I know just what you mean,” I’d told him, and he’d leaned over, just close enough to skim my blue jeans with his fingertips.
“I’m glad we’re friends.”
As I think about that now, tears well in my eyes. Why couldn’t I just like Cross back? Why is he my old comfy sweatshirt instead of the hot designer outfit I covet from the window? Why have I always felt so at ease with him, my hair never standing on end in that perplexing and wonderful way it does when Hunter is in the room? Cross is such a good guy. Loyal, funny, complicated. A talented designer and a good friend. He’s always been there for me when I need him.
I think about my conversation with Dad the other night, and I want nothing more than to talk to Cross. I blink at my computer screen and two tears slide down my hot cheeks.
I look down at my abs—flatter than they’ve been in years—and think about my kidneys. How much are they worth on the black market?
I sigh. Private care is so expensive, one Grade A kidney probably wouldn’t last Cross a week.
I shut my eyes and lean my head against the wall, trying to think of a way to get a loan. I wonder if I could sell the house while Mom’s in rehab. No. It’s not in my name. It’s in Dad’s, and I’m sure as hell not calling him again.
I think about my car and want to scream. Three days. Three days is all my car would buy Cross at Napa Valley Involved Rehab. And that’s if I got a good price.
I think about Suri again. I think about robbing a bank. I feel so trapped right now, prison doesn’t seem much worse, and as soon as I have the thought, I start to cry, because the truth is I’m not trapped, and Cross is.
I think about the story of Sleeping Beauty, about how I used to kiss Cross after every visit. I know he cares for me—why can’t I get him to wake up?
My thoughts wander to Hunter. For some reason, I think I could get him to wake up. I also bet he could pay for Cross’s care. I wonder if I have enough money in my savings account to ask Hunter to gamble for me. He’s a good gambler. He plays poker professionally.
But I’ve only got $7,000. So, no.
Still, I imagine Hunter sitting at a poker table in a Vegas casino. He’s resplendent in black jeans, a black shirt, and a Stetson. His poker face is beautiful; intriguing. I feel my body heat again as I think about kissing his lips. I wonder if the women there fall all over him. I bet the escorts would pay him to take a tumble.
My throat goes dry.
Holy shit. Holy insanity. Holy vagina.
I know what I can do to help Cross.
Chapter 10
Hunter
I’VE WATCHED LIBBY’S house almost the entire last twenty-four hours, and I don’t like what I’ve seen. Priscilla’s got someone tailing Libby at times that, to me, seem random, and at least once, I’ve seen Priscilla herself do a drive-by.
I don’t get it. For one, Priscilla’s California home is in San Francisco—so why the hell is she spending so much time here in Napa? Yeah, she’s fucking me, but we haven’t seen each other lately; she hasn’t even mentioned anything to me about being in California.
Even if she had a home in Napa, what’s with the Libby fixation? All Priscilla’s spy would have told her is that I stopped at Libby’s parents’ home for fifteen or twenty minutes one day. Unless she’s got my brain tapped, she’s clueless about the burgeoning fantasies that plague me, so why this level of interest in Libby?
Why would she prefer her spy, an older man in a battered Ford Ranger, follow Libby rather than me? If Sarabelle’s disappearance is at the heart of this weird shit with Priscilla and me—and it seems to be, seeing as how Priscilla is fucking Detective Josh Smith—then maybe it makes sense that Priscilla was keeping her eyes on me, but what does Libby have to do with it?
I’m losing my patience with this game we’re playing—more so because Dave, our PI in Vegas, told Marchant that the LVPD doesn’t have any leads on Sarabelle’s whereabouts. Knowing Priscilla is probably fucking Josh Smith in exchange for some twisted favor really makes my hair stand on end. But I can’t seem to find anything to fill in the wide gaps.