I listen to Suri for the next hour, and then we talk weddings. I'm not surprised to find she wants to get married here at Crestwood, with white bows on everything—even the horse's necks.
I'm caught up in her happiness and slightly drunk when we take the elevator to bed.
"Screw toned thighs," Suri giggles.
"Screw 'em." I grin. "Why worry about being in shape when you've got a freakin' rock?"
Suri flashes it one more time, then leans down to kiss it. "I love my ring."
"I love it, too." Feeling spontaneous, I pull her into a bear hug. "You're the awesome-est, Sur."
"No, you are."
She wobbles off on the second floor, and I manage to get off on the third without face-planting. When my buzz wears off, I get a glass of cold water from my kitchenette and go into my study, where I keep my new friend the elliptical.
I work out for an hour and ten minutes, reviewing the events of the night before I get a shower. I think through the Suri-Adam thing, which from all angles seems to be awesome. Then I make myself revisit the subject of Cross. Within five minutes, I'm feeling so sad I can hardly move, so I deliberately turn my thoughts to Hunter.
I climb into bed, and I want him so badly I can practically feel him here beside me.
*
Monday morning, I'm up early. I'm doing a paper on Victor Hugo and whether I agree with his thoughts on prostitutes, and in the drama of the past few days, I've gotten behind. Still, I'm having trouble focusing as I sip my French vanilla coffee in one of the massive window seats that line the left side of my room.
I cross my legs and balance my laptop on my thighs, skimming that passage in Les Misérables where he talks about how prostitution is slavery. I type a few thoughts on that, and then I pause to look out over the dew-drenched pastures, glowing faintly orange with the sunrise.
Suri's paint horse, People Whisperer, prances near the white fence closest to the house, and I'm thinking about Cross again. We rode horses here just two weeks before the accident, and I remember how he grinned after he'd run on Trojan.
He'd tugged the horse's reins, slowing to a trot, and Suri and Adam had raced past us.
"How'd you know I was going to slow down?" he'd asked me.
I shrugged. I remember thinking on it for a second: Had my horse, Delilah, slowed because she knew Trojan and had picked up on his intentions, or had it been me that pulled on the reins? It had been me.
"I guess I just saw your face or read your body language," I'd offered.
Cross just nodded. He sucked his lip into his mouth. I remember the dusky, indigo sky reflecting off his high cheekbones. How blue his eyes had looked. "I used to want to do this, remember?"
"Breed horses?"
He nodded.
I looked down the length of him—strong arms, lean, muscled legs—and back into his eyes. "I bet you would've been 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 really glad we’re friends, Lizzy."
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 near? Cross is such a good guy. Loyal, funny, complicated. A talented bike 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 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 remember his body wrapped in my blankets, and my cheeks get hot as I remember being pressed against that very same body on the night of Hunter's party. 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 $7,820. 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.
That's it.
My eyes fly to the soft, damp spot between my legs, and the room around me tilts.
Holy crap. Holy insanity. Holy vagina.
I know what I can do to help Cross.
Chapter Ten
~HUNTER~
I've been watching Libby's house, and I don't like what I've seen. Priscilla's got someone following her 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. There's no way Priscilla could know about the misplaced fantasies that plague me, so why the sudden interest in Libby? I'm losing my patience with this game we're playing—more so because our new guy, Dave, has a contact at the LVPD and she tells him they don't have any leads on Sarabelle's whereabouts. Knowing Priscilla is f**king Josh Smith, lead detective, really makes my hair stand on end. But I can't seem to find anything to fill in the wide gaps.