down the hall. Black and brown and white. I shake my head at them and knock on Priscilla’s door.
It clicks open with the same magic as the front door, and I step inside what can only be described as a shrine to Priscilla Heat…and rabbits. I don’t even spot Priscilla herself at first, because I’m lost on the custom, heart-shaped bed (topped by a framed portrait of Priscilla in nothing but thigh-highs); the sunken sun-shaped tub a few steps from the bed; the wall of Priscilla Heat posters (oddly, signed by Priscilla); the red, pink, and white décor; and all the rabbits. Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of rabbits in this room. I sniff the air and am stunned to find it smells like over-strong perfume and not rabbit shit.
Then Priscilla steps in front of me, wearing a plush pink robe with her hair piled on her head, and I realize I didn’t see her sooner because she blends in with the room.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. I look around the room again, trying to get a number on the rabbits.
Priscilla smiles, revealing her freakishly bleached teeth. “There are twenty here with me in my suite. Twenty-nine more are in the house.” She frowns, looking troubled. “We lost one yesterday. Prince Albert got electrocuted when he chewed through a lamp cord.”
I blink. Then I focus on her eyes, checking for pupil size. If she’s high, they’ll be big, the way mine always were back at rehab.
She looks lucid enough, though. Perfect tanned skin, flawless red lips, shiny blonde hair. Her breasts force the too-small robe to part, so I can see almost everything but her nipples. My traitor of a dick twitches once before it realizes who she is.
Priscilla spreads her arms wide. “Take a seat, Cross Carlson. Anywhere is fine.” She says it like a sigh, but there’s some theatrics there. She’s happy that I’m here. I’m sure she is.
I wave at a nearby fluffy white love seat, which ironically looks like it’s made of rabbit fur. “Why don’t you? I’m okay standing.”
She arches a brow, giving me an exaggerated expression that falls somewhere between a pout and feigned concern. “I see you’re looking better. Less like death.”
She sinks into a wing-backed chair and I curl my lip. “Disappointing I’m sure.”
She looks down at her blood red nails, rubbing one with the fingers of the opposite hand. I feel a streak of anger that she can use both hands.
When she looks up again, she’s all business. “What do you want, Cross Carlson? I’m not interested in buying wrapping paper.”
She extends her legs out in front of her, and I catch the glint of her state-issue ankle monitor.
“I’m looking for Missy King. I know you know where she is. If you tell me, I’ll help you.”
Priscilla snorts. It’s the girliest snort I’ve ever heard. Her nostrils flare a little, and she makes a high-pitched noise somewhere in the back of her throat. “And send myself up shit creek even further? No can do, señor .”
I fumble for the plan I should have polished back on my Mach. Nothing comes to mind, so I have to settle for, “I can help you if you help me.”
Another snort. “You can’t even help yourself.”
I roll my eyes again. It’s not something I do a lot, but Priscilla brings it out of me. “Who’s walking around and who’s stuck at home with a police tracker? You need as much help as you can get. Being tied to Jim Gunn is poison.”
She puckers her lips, saying nothing because she knows I’m right. I don’t speak, wanting to make her ask me what I can offer her. I need to hear her ask.
She spreads her arms theatrically. “What can you do for me, Cross Carlson?”
I press my lips together as the obvious answer comes to me. “It’s more what I won’t do. I won’t turn in the evidence I have against you, Jim Gunn, and my father. E-mails that you sent to each other about a year ago. I have them in my inbox, and I also have them printed, hidden in a few spots.” One of which is Lizzy’s mother’s
It clicks open with the same magic as the front door, and I step inside what can only be described as a shrine to Priscilla Heat…and rabbits. I don’t even spot Priscilla herself at first, because I’m lost on the custom, heart-shaped bed (topped by a framed portrait of Priscilla in nothing but thigh-highs); the sunken sun-shaped tub a few steps from the bed; the wall of Priscilla Heat posters (oddly, signed by Priscilla); the red, pink, and white décor; and all the rabbits. Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of rabbits in this room. I sniff the air and am stunned to find it smells like over-strong perfume and not rabbit shit.
Then Priscilla steps in front of me, wearing a plush pink robe with her hair piled on her head, and I realize I didn’t see her sooner because she blends in with the room.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. I look around the room again, trying to get a number on the rabbits.
Priscilla smiles, revealing her freakishly bleached teeth. “There are twenty here with me in my suite. Twenty-nine more are in the house.” She frowns, looking troubled. “We lost one yesterday. Prince Albert got electrocuted when he chewed through a lamp cord.”
I blink. Then I focus on her eyes, checking for pupil size. If she’s high, they’ll be big, the way mine always were back at rehab.
She looks lucid enough, though. Perfect tanned skin, flawless red lips, shiny blonde hair. Her breasts force the too-small robe to part, so I can see almost everything but her nipples. My traitor of a dick twitches once before it realizes who she is.
Priscilla spreads her arms wide. “Take a seat, Cross Carlson. Anywhere is fine.” She says it like a sigh, but there’s some theatrics there. She’s happy that I’m here. I’m sure she is.
I wave at a nearby fluffy white love seat, which ironically looks like it’s made of rabbit fur. “Why don’t you? I’m okay standing.”
She arches a brow, giving me an exaggerated expression that falls somewhere between a pout and feigned concern. “I see you’re looking better. Less like death.”
She sinks into a wing-backed chair and I curl my lip. “Disappointing I’m sure.”
She looks down at her blood red nails, rubbing one with the fingers of the opposite hand. I feel a streak of anger that she can use both hands.
When she looks up again, she’s all business. “What do you want, Cross Carlson? I’m not interested in buying wrapping paper.”
She extends her legs out in front of her, and I catch the glint of her state-issue ankle monitor.
“I’m looking for Missy King. I know you know where she is. If you tell me, I’ll help you.”
Priscilla snorts. It’s the girliest snort I’ve ever heard. Her nostrils flare a little, and she makes a high-pitched noise somewhere in the back of her throat. “And send myself up shit creek even further? No can do, señor .”
I fumble for the plan I should have polished back on my Mach. Nothing comes to mind, so I have to settle for, “I can help you if you help me.”
Another snort. “You can’t even help yourself.”
I roll my eyes again. It’s not something I do a lot, but Priscilla brings it out of me. “Who’s walking around and who’s stuck at home with a police tracker? You need as much help as you can get. Being tied to Jim Gunn is poison.”
She puckers her lips, saying nothing because she knows I’m right. I don’t speak, wanting to make her ask me what I can offer her. I need to hear her ask.
She spreads her arms theatrically. “What can you do for me, Cross Carlson?”
I press my lips together as the obvious answer comes to me. “It’s more what I won’t do. I won’t turn in the evidence I have against you, Jim Gunn, and my father. E-mails that you sent to each other about a year ago. I have them in my inbox, and I also have them printed, hidden in a few spots.” One of which is Lizzy’s mother’s
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