I nod at her, feeling like I'm in a dream. As I'm walking out the door, I turn again, fighting a vision I have of kissing her mouth.
I take her porch stairs two at a time, and my knees ache from my misadventures with Priscilla. I swing into my F-250 and before I can get a handle on myself, my phone buzzes. Priscilla. Seeing her name on the screen is like jumping into icy water.
I hit the button to answer, but I can't bring myself to say 'hello'.
I can hear the static on the other end, static and the clinking sound of hooker heels. "Hunter?" she says; it sounds like the lash of a whip. "Where are you? I'm waiting."
"Keep waiting," I spit out.
"Believe me, I will. But you'll pay for this."
I grip the steering wheel and wonder if Sarabelle is dead already. I tell myself I’m playing this f**ked up game for her. My past doesn't matter. If my father doesn't want word to get out—if he's worried about people finding out what happened to Rita—that's his problem. Christ knows it always has been.
I can hear Rita's low voice, a whisper in my memory where it should have been a scream, and for the briefest moment I can feel the sticky sweat I used to get when she was mad. I can hear her say, “You're trash, just like your mother.”
And I can see her crumpled in my arms, as her too-thin face turns white.
I lower the phone and I am punching the 'end call' button when I hear Priscilla on the line. Her voice is low and sultry, but it's wicked all the same, giving me flashbacks of being beholden to another evil bitch.
"I know where you are," she says. "And I don't like it."
Chapter Seven
~ELIZABETH~
I leave my mom's house feeling like a changed woman. It's dangerous for me, because it involves Hunter. I can't imagine what gave me the courage to be as candid with him as I was. It's true I'm not exactly shy, but this is Hunter, golden god, my oldest, only crush.
Maybe it was because he was intruding, technically; maybe it was that he heard me with dad and obviously got it. Regardless, in one fleeting interaction he went from Hunter West Fantasy to Hunter West Real Person, and the bad thing is, I like him more now.
I remember the sympathy in his tone when he asked about my dad. He cared that I was upset; at least that's the feeling I had in my gut. I could be wrong.
But not about the end, when we were in the parlor and he told me he'd been angry that night at the vineyard. I know I'm not wrong about that, and while I admit maybe I'm being self-indulgent, I feel like I can say almost for sure that what I saw wasn't really what was going on. Hunter seemed disgusted with himself when he looked at me. And tonight... He seemed protective. Kind. Not at all the kind of guy who gets off strangling p**n stars.
I can hear Cross's voice in my head, telling me I don't know anything about Hunter, and I admit maybe I'm star struck. But I just don't think so.
I remember how he stilled under my fingers when I touched his face tonight. I remember the kiss he gave me that night, after…
If he's only a playboy, would he have been as nice as he was to me tonight?
Yes, idiot. That's what puts the 'play' in playboy.
I sigh, because I can't heed my own warning, and all I can think about as I park in front of Crestwood Place is when I'll see Hunter again.
*
Saturday morning, I wake up early and drive into Los Angeles. I could have asked Arnold to take me, but seeing Cross for the first time at this new place is something I want to do alone. I've still got Hunter on the brain, so as I fly through the city, my mind is a tangle of feelings. Worry for Cross. Fear for how I'm going to get him out of this. Longing for his friendship. Hope that maybe when I get there, he'll be magically awake again.
I’m also curious about Hunter. Wildly curious. I’m practically craving him, although all fond feelings vanish as I drive through a dreary patch of East L.A. I pass a familiar-looking exit, then the one that's mine, and I know—I know for sure—that this is going to be that same hell-hole where Mom served a court-mandated week two years ago.
I pull off onto a run-down road, then hang a right onto a dead-end street, and there it is: Sunshine Acres—the building right next door to Sunshine Rehab, where mom was sent by court order. Both buildings are tall and Soviet-esque—completely void of frill; all function. The parking deck is dark and dank, even by parking deck standards. I tell myself my imagination is exaggerating, but I swear there’s a thick layer of grime on everything.
The lobby, accessible from the third floor of the deck, is a vast space under a low-lying ceiling, filled with plastic chairs and smelling of stale carpet. There's a cut-out in the wall where two women and a man sit behind a counter top.
I stop in front of a stick-thin woman with short black hair, and ask for the charge nurse. I'm not nervous, because I know that if she says “No,” I'll come back in a few hours, and I'll find a way to sneak inside. I'll wait for Cross's nurse to take a bathroom break. I'll decide for myself how well he's doing.
The person I think is in charge has a name tag that says OLIVE. She's wearing bright green, sweat-stained scrubs that hug her spare tire and compliment her creamy chocolate skin. She looks me over, from my Ugg Moccasins to my jeans and discount designer sweater and she folds her arms across her chest. "It's Saturday," she says, sounding tired. "What do you want with me?"
I can tell she's a straight-shooter, so I match my tone to hers and cut right to the chase. "My friend Cross Carlson just got here, and I'd really like to see him. I know it's a Saturday, but I'm going out of town tomorrow for a week. I'm asking for a favor. Just this once."
She blinks at me. It's an exaggerated blink, almost comical, and after that she bugs her eyes out, like she's just heard something sensational. "Do you know who's running this place today?" she asks me in a dead-pan tone.
I shake my head, and she says, "Frankie, and Frankie's not here right now. I can let you in this once, but you've got fifteen minutes before Frankie gets back from lunch. If Frankie catches you, you're shrimp."
I frown as she turns, and hustle to follow her down the wide, gray-carpeted hall. "Um, just out of curiosity, what's shrimp mean?"
She shoots me a menacing look. "It means you'll get your head bit off."
I follow her around two corners, and at this point, my heart is pounding. The hall has started smelling more like a nursing home—that smell of soiled linens, cleaning chemicals, and sweat. We pass a row of tiny metal doors, Chiclets punched into the drab, white wall, and I want to turn and run away. Cross can't be here. It was bad enough when Mom was in the psych ward next door, but Mom had earned that.