"You know, for years after you moved to Vegas I had patience with you. I, too, had some oats to sew, but unlike you, I moved forward."
Hunter's voice warbles on the line, then comes through loud and strong; condemning. "You fell in love with a hooker. And she died. That's how you ‘moved forward.’ Because my mother died. Rita weaseled her way back into your life and you took her, and you pretended she was my mom, too. This scandal's not below our family. This scandal is our family."
"No it’s not the only scandal comes from you!” Conrad snaps in a rush of anger.
"I'm not the one who hit a little f**king kid!"
There’s a pause, and then Mr. West’s voice lowers, soft and deadly. "Neither am I, but sometimes I wish I had. Clean this mess up, Hunter. Pay off the cops. Do whatever you need to do to bury this. But let me warn you, you may have to go farther than I did for you. Priscilla Heat is close enough to Carlson to suck his fat, red cock, and she is covering for him. From what I’ve been able to gather, this somehow goes back to one of Carlson’s mistresses. This is hearsay now and I'm working to find evidence, but I am not going public with it. It will hurt my career. You need to find someone who can. Check your e-mail. Check it daily. Check it hourly. Right this course or so help me. Goodbye."
Chapter Thirty-Four
~HUNTER~
I've been pounding the bag so long that things have started getting blurry. When I hear my name, it's like a salve, but I can't stop what I'm doing. My knuckles are bleeding, the scabs from the charity fight split open, and I need the blood.
My father is right. I do have her blood on my hands.
I was playing cards online in the basement that afternoon when Rita came in. For months, it had been the only place I knew she couldn't reach me. The cancer had advanced. She couldn't make it down the stairs. I remember how I thought it served her right. She had come to find me in the basement playroom so many times before. The walls had always muffled the sound of her palm against my cheek. When she screamed and raged, the sound bounced off the tile, magnifying in my ears. But my father could pretend he didn't hear.
These were different days, though. Rita was quiet more than she was speaking. When I got hungry or wanted to go outside, I typically only had to avoid the sitting room, where I could hear her the Darth Vadar puffs of her little blue oxygen machine.
So when I heard her creeping down the stairs, hanging onto the bannister, gasping freakishly without her oxygen, I'd half wondered if she'd died and come to haunt me on her way to hell.
She was skeletal, with dry bald patches between short tufts of black hair, but I remember feeling anxious when I saw her reflection in the monitor. She might have been weak as hell, but she still hated my guts.
She raised her bone-thin arm and I whipped around, my arms already up in front of my face. But she wasn't trying to hit me. She had a hot pink shirt. As she shook it out, I noticed spots of bleach.
“Did—” gasp— “you—” gasp— “do this?”
“No.”
She held the shirt out, her frail hand shaking. “You...lie.”
“No I'm not.” Her eyes were bugging out. Her gasps getting louder. My heart was racing, so I tried to curb my fear and keep things light. “You should go back upstairs.”
It was clear she couldn't hit me. What was the point of bringing me the shirt? I sat there staring at her, and that's when she did it. She wrapped her bony fingers around my wrist and dug her brittle nails into my skin. I remember looking into her flat, brown eyes. Her mouth—her trembling lips—were pulled into a sneer. She sank her nails in deep enough that I could feel the blood well and she hissed, “You're a—” BIG gasp— “selfish little bastard.”
I don't know if she was already falling when I pushed her. I know when my palm connected with her chest, her eyes rolled back into her head, but were they rolling back already? In my nightmares, I can never tell.
I knew as soon as I pushed her that I'd made a horrible mistake. I even tried to grab her, but her knees just crumpled. She hit the floor, and blood was everywhere in heartbeats. I tried to find the source, but it was everywhere: her mouth and nose, her head. Even—I remember—her ears.
I still can’t get away from all that blood. I wake up covered in it. It’s there when I have a good hand. When someone orders red meat medium rare. When I'm tagging cattle.
Rita is always bleeding out on me.
Right now, I want the blood. I punch the bag again.
"Hunter..."
Shit. I whirl around, panting. I had almost forgotten she was here. “Scarlett” DeVille. She reaches for me, but I step away, holding my bleeding hands near my sides. “Libby—go away.”
“I can't.” She sounds like she's crying. When I blink the sweat out of my eyes, I find that hers are wet. Without thinking, I pull her into my arms, pressing my lips against her hair as I speak quietly near her ear. “Do you see why you need to leave now? I'm a f**king mess.”
“I know you are.” Her voice breaks as she wraps her arm around my waist. “That's why I can't leave.” I inhale vanilla and cinnamon, allow my eyes to close. “Hunter, I know what happened with Sarabelle.”
I step back, feeling like I've just had my guts stomped out. “What are you talking about?”
Her eyes are huge, but she doesn't back away. “I wasn't being nosy, but I heard it at the ranch. You slept with Sarabelle, and then she disappeared. And now...they found her. That's why you were upset last night, wasn't it?”
I rub my hair, noting the stinging of my knuckles. “You don't need to worry about any of this.”
Her jaw tightens. “Did you hurt her?”
“What?” I suck in a breath. I can feel the blood rush out of my head, the way it used to when I heard Rita coming down the stairs. “Fucking hell, Libby, do you think I would hurt a woman?”
“Did you?”
“Jesus—no. Don't take my word for it. That's just stupid. But no, I didn't hurt her. I would never hurt her.” My throat goes tight and I have to work my jaw. I look away, and Libby takes a step closer.
“The cops think you did it?”
I swallow hard. “She was found with one of my cufflinks.
She looks into my eyes, and I see only sadness. “Oh, Hunter. How did you get into this?”
“I don't know. And I wouldn't tell you even if I did. You’ve got no business anywhere near this.”
“I already am. I’m a Junior Ranger Prostitute now, and more importantly I care about you, Hunter. And I'm sorry this happened, but…” She pauses, obviously working herself up to something. I definitely don’t expect her to say, “I didn’t mean too, but I overheard some of your conversation with your dad.”