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)
“Have a good night, Hunter. You be careful, too.”
I point myself toward the booth where I last saw Loveless and tell my heart to keep beating.
Chapter 17
Hunter
I’VE SCARED OFF Libby, but I can’t go after her because I’m going to be sick.
I look down at my drink and groan at what a stupid S.O.B. I am, but then I remember Marchant ordered this drink before he left to meet Dave. The drink’s not drugged. It’s me.
Lockwood got a knuckle shot right on my shoulder blade, and it’s been bleeding ever since. Fever is pulling on me like undertow. Marchant got me a prescription painkiller, and he tried to make me ‘talk’ like he used to do in college sometimes, but in the end he just talked at me. Not smart to beat the shit out of Lockwood. Not smart to break mirrors. Not smart to let Priscilla whip your back to shreds.
Thanks, bro.
We came up to the bar together, and for a long time I was watching Lockwood, over in the corner surrounded by a bunch of strippers. He looked bad, but not as bad as I’d hoped. Both his eyes were black, and his nose was swollen—probably broken. But he seemed to be enjoying himself.
Marchant ordered me two drinks, and I downed one before he left and the second right after that. Combined with this fucking fever and not a lot of sleep...
Fuck me.
My eyes are almost closing on their own as I stumble down the dim hall to the men’s room. I lost track of Lockwood when I saw Libby, but it’s okay. One of our people is here somewhere and they’ve got eyes on him, too. Christ, I can’t even remember who it is. Was Julie gonna stop by here? I rub my burning eyes. Whatever.
My mind pulls me back to Libby and the look on her face when she asked me why I cared if she was safe. It bothers me that I was too out of it to say something at least.
I should be glad I didn’t tell her the truth. She takes up way too much space in my thoughts anyway. I don’t know what she’s doing here, but I need to steer clear, especially given this Priscilla situation.
Everything at the end of the hall got moved around in the club’s redesign last year, so I have a hard time finding the men’s. I’m starting to feel like I might tip the fuck over when I get a text from Marchant.
Might have lead in SanL on SarB. Stay there, Balboa. You need an alibi in case it goes down.
After losing my shit tonight and kicking Lockwood’s ass, that’s especially true. I realize that’s how Priscilla planned it—putting me with Lockwood. So I would look like a reckless, violent asshole in public. Fuck.
By the time I get to the bathroom, aqua blue and gold and tidy, I don’t feel sick anymore—just dizzy—so I lean over the sink, painfully aware that the pose is just an invitation for someone to jump me.
The floor is tilting, making things feel not quite real. I think about the way Sarabelle smiled when she came into my room that night. I see Rita’s hand flying toward my face, and I can feel that fucking whip bite my back.
“You’re a whore’s son, Hunter. Being an asshole is in your blood.”
I splash my face, but I forget about my bandaged fists and one of them gets wet. I sit down on a glittery gold bench in front of a mirror. In a minute, I’ll get up.
I decide to test my shoulder blade before I get to my feet again. It feels broken or some shit, but it’s probably just infected. I shudder thinking of the pain I’ll feel when the liquor wears off.
Priscilla has turned me into a masochist. Except I know it isn’t her. I raise my left hand toward the ceiling, drifting under sparks of pain that point to…something worse than an infection. I stand up and take a few deep breaths that only emphasize the pain’s point. Then I step into a bathroom stall and tug my shirt off. Maybe if I re-work the bandages Marchant applied. He’s not very handy with gauze and some of them are pulling...
Elizabeth
I CAN’T FIND Loveless. It seems strange that she would leave our booth and not return, but then again, I wasn’t there; maybe she did, and I just missed her.
Since I don’t have anyone’s number in my cell, I’ve started looking for Loveless or Juniper—or anyone. I’ve checked three dance floors, and now I’ve moved on to bathrooms and saunas. If I don’t find someone in the next few minutes, I guess I’ll leave a message at the valet asking our group to call me when they leave. Maybe I’ll just wait there. It seems stupid, but I’m not sure what else to do. I could call Richard, but I’m too embarrassed.