“That's what I don't know. But I thought that you would want to know that something's going down.”
I nod, feeling...stunned. “That's so crazy.” And then I remember myself, and what this call is really about. "I'm so sorry about your friend, Loveless."
"It could have been me. It could have been any of us." Her voice breaks. "But Sarabelle was so sweet. It shouldn't have been her."
“It shouldn’t have been anyone,” I say.
Loveless sniffs, then says, “Just be careful. Not from Hunter—well, you should be if you get a bad feeling, but I don't think you will. Be careful because something's going on, and now that you've been here at Love Inc., you're one of us.”
For some reason, her words make my eyes water. “Thank you, Loveless. Thank you so much. I'll be thinking about you. About all you guys. Take care of yourself, okay?”
I hang up the phone with a heavy feeling in my stomach and read two texts from Sur.
'Did u know one of escorts frm brothel found dead??!!'
Thirty minutes later. 'U ok? Msg me back. Paranoid here!'
I take a deep breath and tell myself that I can handle this. I don't need to message Suri for backup, and I don't need to go running home like a chicken.
All of a sudden it hits me that this must be why Hunter was so weird last night. He must have found out about Sarabelle then. Wow. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be falsely accused of something like that.
Unless he did it.
He didn't kidnap her, did he?
Of course not. I shake my head and send a reply to Suri: 'I'm fine. Cross??'
'Doing good. I'm here now.'
‘Gr8. Can I call him l8r, even if u not there?’
While I wait for her reply, I change into my sexy clothes—a fresh red teddy and crotchless panties, followed by my black, silky robe—but I don't feel sexy. I feel sad. Sad for Sarabelle, sad for my friends at Love Inc., sad for Hunter. Last night he was clearly grieving.
I'm walking to my en suite bathroom, ready to lather myself with lotion in anticipation of the big event, when I hear a deep boom from somewhere in the house. I stop in mid-step, all the hair on my arms standing on end as I realize the sound is shouting. Hunter's shouting. It grows louder in time with loud steps down the hall.
For half a second, I want to shut myself inside the bathroom and barricade the door. I've seen way too many freak outs out in my life. But my feet seem glued to the oriental rug as I listen to Hunter coming down the hall. The rhythm of his footsteps is unsteady, but there's no more shouting. He stops, and I hear a loud bang that reminds me, eerily, of Cross's fist against the wall that night at Hunter's house party. I hear a muttered curse, followed by the sound of a door swishing open, then slamming shut.
I stand doe-still, barely even breathing as shuffling sounds start to come from the room next door. A creaking sound that reminds me of a drawer being opened. A slamming sound. A few heavy footsteps. The unmistakable sound of something shattering.
I'm shaking now. Sometimes Mom got drunk or wasted and broke things. Sometimes in proximity to me. It's not that she meant to hurt me; she simply never noticed I was there. Once, when I was nine, I had to have stitches in my left eyebrow because a piece of a glass bowl caught me as I came into the kitchen to make sure she didn’t hurt herself.
I don't want to go into Hunter's room this time, but just like last night, I can't seem to stop myself. I'm sweating, my fingers trembling as I wrap my hand around the doorknob. I know better than to knock. Angry people almost universally want to be left alone—only when they're breaking things, they probably shouldn't be.
As I turn the doorknob, I remind myself that he isn't doing drugs. He isn't drinking. At least not like my mom does. He's upset because someone he knows died.
Or maybe he killed them.
“Shut up,” I murmur to myself. He didn't kill Sarabelle. He was playing televised poker for the last two nights, and last night he was here with me.
I take a fortifying breath and throw the door open. At first, I'm not sure I'm in the right room. What, last night, stood out to me as a large space with elegant, imposing furniture is now a clothes tornado. I immediately notice his huge dresser is missing two of its drawers, and atop the dresser, I can see a picture frame lying face-down, surrounded by bits of broken glass.
A quick glance around the room reveals Hunter standing by his hulking, four-post bed, pawing through a sea of undershirts and boxer briefs. Mixed in with the crimson pillows and blankets of his bed are two hefty dresser drawers. He's bent over, arms moving in a frenzy as he throws clothes every which way.
He doesn't even glance up as I step closer. He doesn't seem to know I'm here. His face twists in fury, and he grabs one of the drawers with both hands and hurls it at his headboard, where it bounces off and lands on a pile of pillows.
“Hunter?”
He's breathing hard, his face white, his mouth and eyes standing out vibrantly against his skin.
He straightens, shoulders heaving as he sucks back air. He looks so furious, it's like he's in a daze. He's not looking at me, but rather at something in front of him. Something behind me.
Without moving a muscle or glancing my way, he whispers, "Go away."
I follow his vacant gaze to the wall behind me and find that he is staring at a mirror. Staring blankly at himself. No, not blankly. Desolately.
As I watch, he leans down against his bed, elbows on the mattress, face going into his palms as his shoulders hunch and one of his hands tunnels back through his messy hair.
Oh, Hunter. “I heard about Sarabelle.”
He straightens, whirling toward me. His mouth is twisted into a bitter pinch, and his eyes are harder than I think I've ever seen.
"I'm so sorry. I know you knew her.”
“You don't know the half of it,” he murmurs hoarsely.
“I'm sure that's true.” I hold his gaze. “I know you're upset, but throwing things won't help," I say softly.
"Nothing will." I watch the edge in his eyes fade back into dazed desolation, and I take two steps closer. When he doesn't react, I close the distance between us and gently touch his elbow.
He jumps a little. “Jesus, Libby.” He lifts up his hand, like he's going to touch me, but instead he takes an unsteady step back. “You need to get your shit and go. Just go.”
"I don't want to go yet." I want to wrap my arms around him, but he grabs my hand. His fingers grip me hard and his pretty eyes grow tortured. "I can't make any promises...unless you go. Sometimes when I'm upset, I..."
"Throw things?"