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)
I can still hear her low voice, a whisper in my memory where it should be 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 face turns white.
I lower the phone and I’m punching the ‘end call’ button when I hear Priscilla on the other end of the line. Her voice is low and sultry, but it’s wicked all the same, giving me flashbacks of another evil bitch.
“I know where you are,” she says. “And I don’t like it.”
Chapter 7
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 forward with him as I was. It’s true I’m not exactly shy, but this is Hunter, golden god, my oldest, only crush.
In one fleeting interaction he went from Hunter West The Fantasy to Hunter West Real Person, and the bad thing is, I like him even more now. He was sympathetic when he asked about my dad. He cared that I was upset; at least that’s the feeling I got. 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 between Priscilla and him wasn’t really…accurate. Hunter seemed disgusted with himself when he looked at me that night. And tonight... He seemed kind. Not at all the kind of guy who gets off strangling porn 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.
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 make the half-day drive to 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 toward the city, my mind is a tangle of feelings. For Cross, I feel anxious. I’m afraid I won’t be able to help him out of this. Also, I really miss him. I’m praying that maybe when I get there—if I can get them to let me in today—he’ll be awake again.
I’m curious about Hunter. Wildly curious. I’m practically craving him, although all fluttery feelings vanish as I drive through a dreary patch of East L.A. I pull onto a run-down service road then hang a right onto a dead-end street, and there it is: Sunshine Acres. The buildings is tall and Soviet-esque—completely devoid of frill. 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.
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 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, and damn their lousy visiting hours.
The charge nurse appears a minute later, leaning out one of the unmarked steel doors and wearing bright green scrubs and a name tag that says OLIVE. 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. “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 desperate. So I’m asking for a favor—just this once.”
She blinks at me. It’s an exaggerated blink, almost comical, and afterward 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.