Selling Scarlett by Ella James, Mae I Design Read Free Book Online

want to keep your mommy happy, we'll do chains tonight. It's your night to wear them. I hit you."
I shut my eyes again. Truth be told, I like that best.
“I brought your surprise.” It’s E, and I roll my eyes at the little pill. “I’ve never been a fan.”
“I think you’ll like it.”
I pretend to take it, we fuck, and when Priscilla leaves, I follow her. I catch up with her a few blocks later, and follow her another thirteen miles to a small brick home with a familiar address. It's the home of Michael Lockwood, the film assistant who recently quit working for Priscilla. The one who used to work security for Governor Carlson. Drake Carlson—the political heavyweight Priscilla used to fuck.
I park down the street and dial our new guy, Dave. "I've got a change of plans. You remember Lockwood? Lives on Anderson? I want him followed, night and day. Priscilla Heat, too.”

Chapter Four ~ELIZABETH~

"I already told you, I'm his sister." I look the evil nurse right in the eye and lock my jaw, like I mean business, because I do.
"Mr. Carlson doesn't have a sister," she says after glancing at her clipboard.
I reach into my worn Coach bag and grab a fifty, shamelessly sliding it across the high-gloss counter. If I had more, I'd offer it all to her. But the only rehab I could get Mom into this time is seriously pricey, eating up our meager allowance from the DeVille Trust, and my fellowship money only goes so far. If Suri didn't let me live at Crestwood Place with her for free, I'd never make ends meet.
The nurse raises her right eyebrow and looks from my money to me, and I cross my arms in front of my chest. "How many visitors?"
"Excuse me?"
I meet her pale brown eyes and hold her gaze. "How many visitors has he had since I came Monday?"
Her lipsticked mouth twists, and her eyes flicker down the hardwood hall, toward Cross's spacious, private room. "Thirty minutes," she says, shoving the fifty back at me. "That's all you're getting. And I know you're not his sister."
I slide the fifty into the pocket of my pea coat, where my iPod Mini is, and hold my contraband-filled purse close to my side. I walk quickly to Cross's room, the way I always do, because I truly am eager to see him, coma or not.
For the first four weeks, it was medically induced, but when he began healing from his skull and leg surgeries, they decreased the sedatives so he could wake up. But he hasn't. I think I might know why, and I can't stand how much that knowledge hurts. But Cross's complicated secrets are safe with me.
As I push through the door and lemon-scented Lysol fills my nose, I'm angry, knowing I'm the only one who comes here more than once a week. Suri came the first two weeks, but she had to stop. All she can do when she sits in Cross's room is sob, and the nurses think he can hear us. Cross's parents—I could skin them both alive. They got him his swanky room at Napa Valley Involved Rehab, but neither Cross's mom nor his dad has visited since the first twenty-four hours.
It makes me queasy remembering that first day. How I couldn't sleep at all and how I itched to be here by him. I even bought a fake ID with the surname 'Carlson' so I could slip into the ICU with him, holding his hand and stroking his dark hair.
For those first few weeks, he looked a lot different. One of the saddest things about right now is that he looks like Cross again.
Today the top half of his railed bed is raised. His head is propped between two pillows. As always, he looks peaceful. Beautiful. His almost-black hair is short—they shaved it for his surgery—and his long, dark lashes make his face seem pale as porcelain. The awful tube that once went down his throat has been removed, because he's breathing on his own. A tube that feeds extra oxygen into his nose is taped to his cheeks, and I know that under his gown, snaking into his abdomen, is a feeding tube. Sometimes I peek because I want to understand what's going on with him. I wish I was his next of kin, so I