Selling Scarlett

chapter Eleven

~ELIZABETH~

To get me out of the courthouse doors, Donald has to wrap his arm around my shoulders and pull me close to his round belly. When we get to the stairs on the front of the building, two security guards in blue suits flank us, asking us to consider making our way straight to our cars. “No lingering.” As if.

They turn around when the Carlsons come out the door behind us, and the swarm of press shoots after them.

I part ways with Donald at a V in the sidewalk where he veers left, toward the street, and I turn right, toward the shady, overflowing courthouse parking lot.

I can hear the clink of heels on cement and low chatter of the press just steps behind me, but I'm moving at my normal pace, trying to keep good posture and avoid looking like a scandal-maker—which I definitely am.

The tap-tap of heels taps a little faster, and all of a sudden there's a blonde woman beside me. She sticks her microphone in my face, and I tuck my head, turning away. "Were you and Cross Carlson romantically involved?"

I cut into the parking lot, semi-freaked out. The footsteps grow louder, and I wonder just how many people are following me. I’m too afraid to check, and then a man's voice booms right beside my left ear. “Is this a decision you made after visiting Cross Carlson at his new facility?”

I duck my head and shoot off between a row of cars. If I move fast enough, surely they'll give up. I scan the lot for my Camry and keep on walking—fast.

"Did you have anything to do with his accident?" The grating male voice comes at me from the side, and I hold up my hand, almost bumping into the hood of a red Corvette.

“Please go away.”

"Miss DeVille?" I feel a shadow beside me and my eyes flicker to the right; it's another male reporter with thick wheat-colored hair and a face full of freckles. "Where will you get the money? After what happened with your family’s business—"

Something bright winks in my eyes, and I wobble backwards, bumping into a row of reporters and their cameras. Crap. These people are crazy.

“Could you please leave me alone?” I cry, holding my arms out. I side-step, trying to get out of the thick of them, and my hand smacks into Freckles.

"Where will you get the money?" Now he's in my face, and his tone is more insistent.

“That's not your business,” I snap. “Now go away!”

But he doesn't. He comes closer, and all of a sudden I notice that the thing he's holding in his left hand is a tiny camcorder with a flashing green light on the front.

“Oh my God.” I cover my face, feeling sick. It's bad enough being hounded, but to have it all captured on camera?

With my hands still covering my face, I dart between two SUVs and start to run. I'm clearing a row of cars, finally in sight of my own, when I hear the squeal of brakes and something hits me hard.

A compact car drives by, and I'm aware that I would have gotten hit were it not for the strong pair of arms around my waist. I glance up—into Hunter's face. As his hands close over my upper arms, I notice his expression. He looks like an avenging angel, with his strong jaw, soft lips, and ruffled gold hair. He's dressed in a suit that's clearly tailored for his shoulders and his chest, and even in the circumstances, I can feel the heat begin to gather between my legs.

I'm pulled against his chest and hurried the last few steps to my car. I can hear the reporters pounding the ground behind us, their shouts rising sharply over the noise of traffic, but all I see is Hunter's green eyes, widened with what looks a lot like concern.

"Where are your keys?" His voice is calm and rich. Mine, I think irrationally. The gentle strength of his arms is all for me.

"They're in my purse," I say, as the cameras flash all around us. I can actually hear them click, just like in the movies. My heart is beating so hard I think I might throw up.

My door swings open and I feel the solid heat of him behind me. With one hand on my shoulder, he says, "Get on in there, Libby."

The nickname makes me hesitate; for not the first time, I wonder if he thinks I'm someone else—but that doesn’t make any sense. Libby is a nickname for Elizabeth.

That next second, they are all around us. Faces and equipment and voices, closing in on us. Hunter rocks his body into mine, urging me into the driver's seat. As he does, I feel his hardness against my hip.

His face is right by mine, his low voice like a warm breeze in the crook of my neck. "Remember there's a back exit if you loop around," he tells me, pointing in the direction I should go. "Just make a U-turn and floor it. It'll take you right onto the main road."

I nod, unable, to move my eyes from all the faces leering through the windshield.

"Libby, look right here." I feel a hand close over mine and I lift my head to meet his eyes. They are softer than I've ever seen them. "Don't get in a rush," he tells me. "Take your time. I'll take care of these pricks."

And that's it. My door is closing before I can even thank him. As I look over my shoulder to back out, I catch a glimpse of him clearing the traffic around my car, his burnt gold hair ruffling in the wind as he raises his arms. They create just the barrier I need to escape the camera lenses.



*



Driving from San Francisco to L.A., the flowered hills seem to roll past me too quickly. The sky above is flat, pale blue. Watching the horizon line makes me feel dizzy—like I'm stuck on a carnival ride and can't get off. I try to swallow back the sensation, but it builds within my chest, making my hands tremble on the wheel.

What am I doing?

I can't do this.

I just said I would do this.

Suddenly tears are pouring down my cheeks, and I want to pull my car over by the tall grass with its tiny flowers and sob.

I feel a thousand years old as I speed toward Mom's rehab. I have an appointment with her care worker. To lay the groundwork for my grand deception. I have an appointment at twelve-thirty, and my mom's expecting me, but I don't go there.

Instead I find myself at Cross's cement high-rise. I'm signing myself in and I'm sprinting down the drab hall, toward his room. I think that when I get there, things will be different. The gauze will be gone. Maybe he'll even be sitting up and extubated. All I want in the world is to see my friend again before I go to Vegas. Or maybe, if he’s already awake, I won’t even have to go…

When I get through the door, he’s still in bed, and he looks much the same. The gauze is partially unwrapped, so I can see the tube is draining blood from his head. His eyes are tapped shut. His lips are super chapped, but I have lip balm in my purse. I'm reaching for it when I realize he is extubated! There's no more ventilator, just oxygen tubing in his nose. I want to scream with joy, and at that moment, the door cracks open.

This nurse is petite, with short, spiky pink hair and a diamond nose ring. She smiles at me and says, "I heard about you. Elizabeth DeVille?"

I nod, and she explains that she has seen me on TV. That makes my belly clench, but I try not to show her how rattled I am.

"Are you guys an item?" she asks quietly.

"No. We're friends." I step closer to Cross, taking his hand, which feels warm and surprisingly soft.

"She put some lotion on him right before you came."

I frown, my head snapping around so I can meet her eyes. "Who did?"

“She comes in sometimes at lunch. I think her name is Sari.”

Well, hot damn. That's news to me.

"She was here when we extubated him." The nurse smiles. "His eyes were open because they were changing out the medicine in them. To keep them from getting dry, you know? It might have been just reflexes, but she thinks he smiled at her."

I stroke my thumb across Cross's cheek and squeeze his hard hand in my small one. "Geez, Cross, you guys are keeping secrets."

The nurse eyes our fingers. “So you really aren’t a thing?”

“Really. He’s been my friend since first grade.”

“Well, I think he’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

Is he? I’m not so sure, but I smile anyway. “Do you know when they’re moving him?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

"That's amazing."

"Your friend thought so, too. She seemed really surprised when I told her what you'd done."

I rub my eyes. "I bet she did."



*



My good mood has evaporated by the time I take the exit for Mom's facility, a “spa” up in the hills. If she didn't spend most of her time in places like these, maybe I'd already have some money, and my crazy plan could wait.

I'm bitter. I know I am. Her doctors sometimes say so. Caretaker, therapist, counselor, psychiatrist—they're all the same. So much sympathy for Mom and her many illnesses.

Dr. Bryers, one of the better ones, might be proud of me for admitting that I'm pissed. Usually I pretend I'm not that affected. Over the years I learned to cope, but the truth is, she's screwed up my life, and I haven't forgiven her. To be fair (to me), she's never really asked.

The spa building is a rectangular, white one-story on several acres of green grass, large trees, and well-kept flower beds. I park my aging Camry in the egg-shaped parking lot and walk slowly through the tall, glass doors leading to the lobby. This place looks a lot like a European hotel, all mod and minimalist, fraught with glass and straight, clean lines.

I fold my arms on the counter and ask for Mahin.

I don't think while I'm waiting for her. I play Angry Birds on my phone and I send good vibes to Cross. Hunter creeps into my mind, but I push him away. Just because he's an enigma doesn’t mean he's my enigma. Maybe going to Vegas will be good in that way. I'll forget him.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember that he has two homes in Vegas, but whatever. When he’s not playing he’s at the vineyard—or so I've heard. Regardless, I'm sure he’d never recognize me. Richard says they're blurring out my face on the billboards, and one thing I’m almost sure about Hunter is he’s not the type to bid on a woman’s virginity.

Vegas will be good for me. It's my choice, and I'm doing it for Cross. I will make it good for me.

Mahin walks out without my mom, wearing her familiar black slacks and v-neck, her white hair dyed black at the tips, her lipstick pearl-colored, making her look kind of dead.

"Hi," I wave, and step into her office for my performance.



*



I leave feeling heavier, if that's possible. Mom will be told I'm taking a trip to Denver. One of my best friends from undergrad lives there, and it’s one of my favorite U.S. cities.

I'm one third of the way to the freedom that I need to pull this off. My next stop is the University of San Francisco's main campus.

I'm nervous, knowing just how crazy my proposal is, but I think my second-year project manager, Dr. Kaitlyn Beauford, who also happens to be my student adviser, might be open-minded enough to sign off on it. If not, I'll withdraw from this semester. I don't want to do it, but I will if I have to.

I'm still wearing my courthouse pant suit and as I walk the familiar, green-tiled halls, I wonder if Dr. B has seen the news yet.

As soon as I walk into her office, she puts her blueberry smoothie on her desk and shakes her head.

"Elizabeth DeVille, stirring up trouble."

Despite myself, I smile, because Dr. Beauford always puts me at ease. "Doing my best," I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my knees as I sink into a faded orange chair.

She picks her smoothie up again and takes a long gulp, regarding me over the rims of her square glasses. "I read about you," she motions to her computer. "Thinking of being a savior?"

"Something like that."

"What brings you here?" she says. She's giving me that stare she's famous for, and for the very first time ever I feel kind of nervous.

"I have an idea," I say slowly. The heat in my face is humiliating, and for the millionth time, I curse my fair skin.

“What kind?”

“The kind that’s going to help me out with what you read online, and the kind that could be made into an independent study or even a thesis maybe."

"And what's that?"

I tell her my plan. To her credit, she listens with a neutral expression, her chin propped on her folded hands, and when I'm finished, she smiles.

"From an Ethics perspective, that's very interesting, Elizabeth. But I'm afraid from a personal perspective I can't endorse it. Even from a professional perspective, it has some damaging potential—for me, that is—if I do."

My chest squeezes, but I take a deep breath and forge ahead. "So I couldn't use it for classwork, even if I came to you after the fact?"

"I didn't say that," she says pointedly.

"So I could write about it? Maybe use it as the basis for my thesis?" I wait for her answer with my breath held—as if it really matters. It won't change what I'm doing, but it might make me feel just a little better about it.

"You could do whatever you decide to do, Elizabeth. Just remember, you don't have to. You don’t owe your friend any debts.”

I nod, although I think that's a little cut and dry, especially for someone as smart as Dr. Beauford.

She reaches into a desk drawer and hands me a slip of paper. "If you decide to go through with your plan, you may want to fill this out." I look down at the approval form for PhD thesis topics. "For the record, let it be stated that I'm not recommending your course.”





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