“I've got a little exhibitionist fetish I'd like to indulge with you,” she purrs.
"How the hell do you want to do that?" My gaze roams up and down her body, making her think I appreciate her so she doesn't feel the need to pull her claws out any earlier than necessary.
She grins, crossing the space between us to straddle me.
"I want to f**k you somewhere public, Hunter. Somewhere like this runway."
She says it like she's doing me a favor. Like I've never been f**ked before and she's the sexiest woman on the planet.
Priscilla lowers her red mouth to mine, and I close my eyes, meeting her for a rough kiss. Sarabelle, Sarabelle, Sarabelle, I chant silently.
Today, I was questioned by the woman from the FBI—Lisa—who came to my home in Napa while I packed my bags for Vegas. I'm not a formal suspect yet, and I intend to keep it that way.
I sweep Priscilla off to Beau's, the gym I own in downtown Napa.
While she steps into the ladies' room, I tell Harriet at the desk to cut the cameras in one of the private cardio hubs. I also send a text to Marchant, telling him to send people to both of my Vegas residences. I can't think of another reason Priscilla would've dropped by just in time to stop me from leaving town.
I know from Marchant's guy, Dave, that she spent yesterday at Michael Lockwood's place in Vegas. My California PI, Todd, told me she spent most of today with the governor she claims to hate. I still don't know how all this adds up, but I know Priscilla is lying to me. I also know Michael Lockwood is about my height and wore a black jacket that night at Love Inc. Security cameras captured him wearing it when Priscilla and her crew first arrived. I gave that footage to Lisa, the woman from the FBI.
When Priscilla strides out of the ladies' room and squeezes my ass, I want to run the other way. Instead I guide her hand around to my erection. I can tell Priscilla overestimates her appeal so much that she expects my lust. She tries to unbutton my jeans as we step into the 3,000-square foot weight room. I push her against a wall and kiss her up and down her neck, cupping her ass and grinding my c**k into her hips, and she laughs that sultry laugh. I’ve always imagined she practices until she sounds as close as she can to Marilyn Monroe. Which isn’t close.
"I don't know how you get by out here without me. Why don't you come with me back home to Vegas?"
Wrapping one arm around her waist, I guide her through the weight room, where a handful of men and women are working out. "You already know I'm going to Vegas for a tournament. I thought you were the one who wasn't going to be there."
I wait for her answer, curious to know if she'll go back on the lie she told me the other day, but she just makes a sour face and acts as if she's just remembered her plans.
"Such a pity."
Priscilla has led me to believe she'll be filming in Georgia. But Dave says her personal chef in Vegas has prepared a menu for the rest of the week.
As we walk through the back doorway of the weight room, Priscilla's fingertips graze my wrist, and I feel a strange ache behind my breastbone. I know why—and I wish I didn't. I want Priscilla to be someone else. Someone I have no business thinking about, especially considering what kind of black cloud I've got over my head at the moment.
I push that out of my mind, vowing to try harder to keep it out in the future.
Our little space, known to the Beau's security system as Cardio Hub 4, is a glass-walled room just behind 2,000 square feet of women's-only weights space. It's got six elliptical machines, three treadmills, and an adjoining sauna and massage suite. The room is almost always used by members with personal trainers, and since it’s almost nine p.m., no one is around.
I pull Priscilla inside, hoping she mistakes my pent-up aggression for ardor. When I reach around behind me to flip the lock on my glass prison, she shakes her head.
"I want it unlocked." She smiles, straight blonde hair falling around her face as she cups me through my jeans. "Part of the thrill, Hunter."
Her palm against my dick makes me lose some of my steam, but I imagine it’s Libby and I'm stiff as steel. I grab Priscilla by the wrists and lay her over the deck of one of the treadmills, buns up. I jerk her red skirt up and use the cord that goes to the machine's heart monitor to whip her ass, and she starts panting.
I still haven’t puzzled out why Priscilla wanted me that night at Love Inc.—or why she hasn’t gotten bored with me yet. We hadn’t met before that night.
I still don’t know what happened after she drugged me, either. She says she f**ked my brains out, but I didn’t feel like I’d had my brains f**ked out. I'm sure if Lisa from FBI knew Priscilla claimed to have roofied me and f**ked me, she'd be looking at Priscilla with a magnifying glass, but I didn't tell her that, and I'm not going to. Not yet.
Because the more I think about Priscilla coming out with the news that Rita wasn't my biological mother, the more I worry about what could come out next. What conclusions might people draw if they find out she and I weren’t blood.
So I'm letting fear dictate the vile things I do with Priscilla. Letting fear keep me in this trap until Marchant and I figure it out for ourselves—or Lisa does. I wonder how long that will take, being certain, as I am, that Josh Smith from the LVPD is surely covering Priscilla's ass.
I feel a pang of regret for not being completely straightforward with FBI Lisa about Priscilla and the roofie and the f**king of lead detective Josh Smith. But the FBI hasn't taken over the case yet, and Lisa told me they likely wouldn't unless another girl went missing. So, for right now, Josh Smith is the top dog responsible for finding Sarabelle—and if Priscilla is one of the guilty parties, Sarabelle's only hope is Dave, Marchant, and I. At least, that's what I tell my guilty conscience when it starts howling.
Speaking of howling…
Priscilla.
It doesn't take her long to grow tired of the hair-pulling and whipping. I can't appease her by slapping her pu**y, either, and I don't have the right kind of condom to do her in the ass.
"A condom's a condom, Hunter." She twists her red lips into a pout.
"You know damn well that's not true." I’m not a fan of anal, but we both know a thicker, tougher condom is required.
I can see it in her eyes when she decides she's pissed off. She shoves my chest, and when I just stand there, she slaps my face. I haven't been slapped since I was fourteen, and the fierce sting sends me reeling back into the past.
While I'm off balance, Priscilla shoves me again. I wobble into the wall between the workout area and the sauna, and she giggles, then whistles seductively. "I think I've figured out what you like, big guy."