I’m obsessed with her now. Priscilla. Obsessed with bringing her down. I go over every detail of her conversation with Lockwood at the gala again and again, and the worst thing is, without a recording, we’ve got no proof. Zip.
Doesn't help that Lisa from the FBI stopped by this morning to ask if I have ever been to Sarabelle's house. I don’t say a word. I’ve got nothing to hide, but I’m not dumb enough to cooperate when I’m clearly emerging as suspect número uno. There are a million ways your words can be used against you once they leave your mouth.
Then there's Libby. Libby, Libby, Libby. I know she's been in Vegas, but Dave hasn't been able to find her. I finally broke down and texted Loveless an hour before play began.
'Elizabeth DeVille still with you?'
She texts me back near the end of the second hand, and I read her messages between the second and third hands.
'Who?'
'Elizabeth.'
'I don't know who that is. R u ok, Hunter?'
'Elizabeth,' I punch furiously. 'You were with her the other night at the Jo.'
When Loveless doesn't text me back, I take a few minutes during a commercial break and call Marchant.
I was right about my luck tonight. I lose the game.
I'm so furious I don't even give a damn.
*
~ELIZABETH~
The big day is a busy one. So busy, in fact, that I have almost no time to think of what's coming. I'm grateful for that as I am waxed, worked out, fitted, and eventually sent to my room with a red lingerie set I will wear when I lie on the bed for bidding.
I review the contract, which is a lot longer than I anticipated but appeared to contain everything that Richard and I worked out. The winning bidder is paying for six hours of my time, either at Love. Inc. or at another location. I can bring guards. I will provide vaginal intercourse. OH MY GOD, it sounds so technical this way! But luckily, I am only required to do this once to fulfill the contract.
If I provide only oral stimulation the bidder will be refunded 95 percent of their bid. If my hymen is broken but I stop intercourse before the bidder reaches climax, the bidder receives a 40 percent refund. Love Inc. takes a cut of my final total.
There’s also a list of nos. No photography or video or audio recording. No hair pulling. No name-calling. No spanking. And no contracting me in any way after—although, oddly, there is a provision for me to contact the bidder. As if. This isn't Pretty Woman.
After eating a light lunch, I return to my room and have a last-minute freakout. I look in the mirror, at the stubborn bit of cellulite on the back of my thighs—it just won't go away, no matter how many lunges I do. I look at my not-quite-six-pack stomach and wonder if the winning bidder will want more. What about my br**sts? They are nice, but they're just full Cs, not DDs. My fingernails are bare, but my toe-nails are painted red. I have weird toe-nails. The one on the big toe looks like a space helmet. And my voice... In third grade, Holcomb McVey said I had a stupid voice. I don't think I do, but—
My cell rings, and I whirl around naked to face my bed. Suri.
"Thank God," I answer.
"What is it?"
"I'm freaking out here."
"Do you need a savior?"
"No!" I laugh. "I need to remind myself that this was my choice and that I don't need a savior. Or anyone's approval.”
So Suri talks me down, and she tells me about Cross—he opened his eyes again!—and when I get off the phone with her, there's a knock at my door and it's Marie V. She's wearing a pink robe and holding a small bag of lotions and perfumes.
"Are you nervous?" she asks.
"Um, hell yeah."
"Let me tell you something: They won't be expecting much. Every man knows virgins are kind of clueless. As long as your hymen is still intact, the guy will have a great time."
I scrunch my face up. "Um, thanks?"
She laughs, and surprises me by leaning in for a hug. "I enjoyed hanging out with you, Scarlett. I hope you have a great night."
"Thank you. I'm glad I met you, too."
"Any chance we might see you again?"
"I don't think so. I think if I do end up leaving the ranch to do the deed—"
"You probably will."
"You think?" I ask, wide-eyed.
"Just a guess."
My belly bats do a simultaneous dive. "Well if I do, I'll be picked up by a driver in my car, and I'll go home I guess."
"We're going to miss you."
"I'm going to miss this place, too."
I put the things that Marie V. gave me in my toiletries bag and answer the door again when a man named Max comes to do my hair. While he's using some super-powered hair dryer on me, Brenda comes in. She tells me how good I look and offers me a small, black box of condoms.
“The man should know to have his own, but just in case.”
“Thank you.” I say goodbye to her, thanking her for my better-than-ever calves and biceps, and when the room is empty, I start zipping my bags. If I stay here to do the deed, I'll have to get my things out of them, but if I go, someone else will collect them for me, so I'll be glad they're packed. As I'm zipping my largest suitcase, there's another knock on my door.
I open it hesitantly, trying not to mess up my pretty hair, but it's all for naught: Juniper and Loveless throw their arms around me, and the last thing I care about is my hair.
"We came to help you dress!" Juniper says.
I don't think I've ever laughed so much in such a short period of time. My nerves nearly disappear, and I know I'll be forever grateful to them.
At nine-thirty, the girls walk with me to the showroom, where a huge king-sized bed is set up, all the bedding red to match my bra and panties. I lie out and they help pose me, spraying yummy scents in the air and lighting candles.
"You're beautiful," they tell me.
I thank them for their help, and they leave one at a time, each with a final word of encouragement. Juniper is last. “I remember my first time. Believe it or not,” she laughs. “It’s scary, and then it’s over. You’ll be fine.”
I have about two seconds to myself, just enough time for my heartbeat to take off, when the door opens, and Marchant strides in. "Hi there, Scarlett DeVille."
My heart stops. I stare at his smiling face, and the only thing I can say is, “Uh…you know my name?”
He nods. “Don’t worry, though. Our secret.”
I say nothing, mortified beyond belief. I want to ask him if he’ll be watching—I want to ask him to not watch. But of course he’s going to watch. I almost drop dead when another thought occurs to me. If Marchant knows, does that mean—