Taming Cross

  I put my hands over my eyes and stare down at the dirt as my body trembles and my stomach roils.

  “Ma’am, you coming?”

  For the longest time, I can’t look up.

  “Mrs. Carlson!”

  Who am I?

  Missy King.

  I’m Missy King. Just leave me here!

  Drake Carlson didn’t give a damn. Sean didn’t give a damn. My father didn’t give a damn. Nobody ever has. Shame at who I was—at who I am—rolls through me like poison. Cross never cared. He only wanted to lure me to the States. To his father. “Oh God…”

  “MA’AM!”

  I’m sobbing again as I glance up and out across the field. The guard looks annoyed. The sight of Evan’s body slung over his shoulder pierces me, because I care about him. I care about him and he’s Cross Motherloving Carlson.

  I’m really not sure that I can follow them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Seconds later, Arnie drops to his knees and dumps Evan to the ground. Across the field, I can hear Cross—Evan—Cross— coughing violently. The sound makes my whole body go cold, but I still can’t move.

  Tears flow down my cheeks, dripping down my neck and soaking my shirt collar. As I watch the agent pushing back Cross’s head and bending over him, I want to yell at him to be gentler. But I don’t speak or move. I’m rooted to the ground by wrenching, soul-deep disappointment.

  What did you think, Meredith? That ‘Evan’ loved you?

  I start to sob again, fully aware, even as I do, that Cross is fighting to breathe and I’m a selfish bitch.

  I want to go to him.

  I can’t.

  I can’t go with him. If I do, I’ll just be Missy King again. It’s true that I’m Missy King here, too, but at least in Mexico, I took control of things. I ran away from Jesus. I helped kids at the clinic. I learned massage therapy. If my only choices are being repossessed by Drake or dying here, I think I should just die here as Merri,

  I turn and finally I have the momentum I need to move somewhere. I throw my legs out in front of me, sprinting toward the road and Cross’s motorcycle. The thumping whirr of the helicopter blades is a roar now, and I imagine that behind me they’re loading up. About to leave. I fist my hands and run harder, telling myself that this is my only choice. I can’t be Missy King again. I can’t go back to Drake Carlson. Not even for his son.

  That’s when I hear my name—my real name: “Meredith.” It’s like he knows I want to run.

  But that’s impossible.

  I start to count aloud. I’m not turning around and I don’t want to hear him—but there it is again.

  “Meredith!”

  His strangled, half-choked voice is barely audible, but I can hear it, and it sends a jolt through my whole body. I’m panting, half sobbing. I can’t be Missy King, I remind myself. I won’t be Missy King again!

  I reach the bike and wonder if I remember how to start one of these things. I wrap my hand around the handle, and that’s when I notice the blood all over the seat. I want to think of myself—of what I have to do—but all I can think about is how he clung to me in the shower, begging me not to leave him to face his pain alone.

  I can’t leave without making sure he’s okay.

  When I turn around, I see him, not on his way to the helicopter, but clinging to Arnie and limping toward me.

  “Meredith?” I can’t hear him now, but I can see my name on his pretty lips. And as I walk closer, I can see that there’s blood on his lips, too. The guard is waving, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  Cross’s face is pale as snow. His brilliant blue eyes look almost black against his bloodless skin.

  Holy crap, he’s bleeding out for me.

  I rush toward him. If I tell him to leave, maybe he will. Maybe Arnie will make him go.

  I get within a stone’s throw and he moans my name again.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasps. His glazed eyes struggle to focus on my face as his words slur. “Don’ leave me. Please Merri…don’t leave me.”

  That’s when he passes out.

  I try to convince the guards to take us out of El Paso, but they tell me Cross is losing blood too fast. Immediately afterward, I feel terrible for even asking, but I’m scared. We’re way too close to Mexico for comfort, and I don’t think it’ll be hard for the cartel to figure out where we were taken.

  During the brief flight to the hospital, I give them as much of Cross’s medical history as I can, focusing mostly on what I know about his neck. If they have to put that breathing tube down his throat, they might need to know to be careful.

  It’s like being in the Twilight Zone, holding his hand as the chopper’s de facto medical officer starts an IV, and reassuring her that all the scars on his hands and in the crook of his elbows don’t mean he’s a drug addict. He just had a bad motorcycle wreck a while back.

  This helicopter isn’t really equipped for landing at a hospital, but because of Cross’s last name, they make some special arrangements and I’m told we are landing on the roof in ten minutes.

  I want to ask the agent who’s acting as a nurse questions about what happened after we left—what happened with the cartel—but I don’t dare.

  The agent/nurse, named Lisa, reassures me that ‘my husband’ should be okay.

  He wakes up only once, to insist no one give him any narcotics. I stroke his hair and tell him I’ve got it covered. With all the energy I have left, I’m trying to play the role of his wife. Now that I’m on the helicopter, I can’t afford to have any of these people doubting our story. When his eyes flutter, I can tell he wants to talk to me. I’m glad he’s too weak. For right now, I’m not allowing myself to think too much about the fact that he’s a Carlson. I just need to get him to the hospital.

  As soon as we start to descend over the roof, Cross’s eyes flutter again. The nurse tells me it’s because his blood pressure is pretty low, but Cross is looking at me, trying to tell me something. Finally he grits, “Marchant,” followed by “Love…brothel.”

  During the months I lived in Vegas, I met a few great women who worked at Love Inc. I happen to know Marchant Radcliffe is the brothel’s owner.

  “You want me to call Marchant Radcliffe?” I ask, confused.

  Cross coughs, and the nurse tells him to stop talking, but he’s stubborn. His eyes hold mine for just long enough to croak, “My…friend.”

  It’s weird to think of ‘Evan’ as a real person to begin with, but it’s even weirder to think of him as Cross Carlson, friend of high-rolling Marchant Radcliffe. Luckily, we’re bumping down on the roof, so my thoughts are directed elsewhere.

  As soon as Cross’s cot is hauled out of the helicopter, we are whisked down in an elevator to what I can only assume is an operating room. When the army of doctors and nurses leaves me in a pale blue plastic chair just outside the stainless steel doors, I take a deep breath and go in search of a free phone.

  I find one, as well as a computer accessible only if you pay it quarters. A kind-looking nurse slips me four of them as I sit down. I mutter, “thank you” and look up the brothel’s phone number.

  As I dial, I consider asking for an old friend, an escort named Geneese Loveless, but when the polite receptionist answers, I ask for Marchant and I tell her it’s an emergency. That his friend Cross Carlson is in one of the ORs at the University Medical Center in El Paso with a gunshot wound.

  I hang up before she has time to go find the pimp himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I open my eyes to a blaze of white light, and within seconds I’m choked by panic. I can see arms, torsos, and faces moving over me and I know where I am. In a hospital. I thought I was out of the hospital…but maybe I’m not. Oh God. Oh fuck. What happened?

  The voices around me get harsher, more urgent. I can feel someone holding my legs down. Someone else tries to hold my head still, and I can hear a soothing voice telling me I’m okay, but I know I’m not.

  I’m not okay. br />
  “Sir, you need to try to calm down. We’re re-sewing your wound. You pulled the stitches out in recovery so we had to bring you back to the OR.”

  My heart trips over itself. I open my mouth, and it’s hard to get words out. When I do, they sound thick and clumsy. “Did you give me…any sedatives?”

  “We did,” says the disembodied voice. “You had general anesthesia.”

  I attempt to shake my head, causing the hands on my temples to tighten. I shut my eyes and try to fight the tears building behind them. After several deep breaths, I remember something—someone. I remember red hair, and the memory makes me feel good.

  Meredith.

  I can feel myself trembling again. That’s how much I want her. With effort, I focus my eyes on the head above me and manage to rasp a question: “Where is Merri?”

  “Mr. Carlson, please calm down. We’ll be finished with this soon and you’ll be settled in the ICU.”

  The ICU. I shake my head. I can’t go to the ICU.

  “I need Merri.” Some part of me, some lucid part, knows how pathetic it is that my voice is cracking, but most of me just doesn’t care. Using all my strength, I raise my right arm and grip the first white sleeve I find.

  “I need Merri!”

  The only answer I get is a tsking sound, followed by the sound of plastic crinkling.

  “Get some rest,” a male voice says. Black fuzz swallows everything.

  I’m in a closet near the OR recovery room. I know it’s crazy, but as soon as I hung up the phone, a couple of cops walked past me, in the direction of the OR. Last time I checked, Jesus owned a lot of cops in El Paso.

  Coming here—turning back and getting in the helicopter with Cross Carlson—was a mistake. I don’t know what story he cooked up, so I’m not sure how to convincingly play the role of his wife, especially if the cops get suspicious and start really grilling me.

  For the last year and a half, I’ve tried not to lie except when necessary to protect myself. And at the clinic, it was almost never necessary. So it bothers me that I’m sitting on a box in a closet full of paint and mops, contemplating how best to deceive the police.

  Actually…everything about this situation bothers me.

  I don’t want to pretend to be Cross Carlson’s wife, but in the last few hours, I’ve also decided that I don’t want to leave without talking to him. I feel like I owe him that. I’ve remembered the shoot-out at the clinic, the one at Jesus’s hideaway, and the one at the border checkpoint. I’ve remembered his kindness and humor.

  I also remember what his mouth felt like on mine, and when my mind dredges that up, I have to direct my attention to the labels on the paint cans. I’m not strong enough to dwell on my feelings for ‘Evan’ right now. Not when I’m already feeling so directionless and alone.

  I shut my eyes and listen to the intercom. If I strain my ears, I can hear what’s going on, and I want to be around if I’m called to Cross’s room.

  Cross—my husband.

  I wonder what the Carlsons really want with me. I think not knowing is what bothers me most. The governor and I didn’t have a particularly deep or rewarding relationship. The guy was all about blow jobs and I was all about money. That was it. He was deceived by Priscilla and Jim Gunn about my motives, and I’d be surprised if he didn’t still believe their tale. My tale. The one they made me tell him.

  I prop my feet on an upside down mop bucket, entertaining the idea that Priscilla and Jim Gunn finally got caught. Down in Mexico, they have an expression that translates: ‘you do it once, you do it always’—so in other words, once you get used to making big bucks selling people, you tend to do it again and again. Maybe they did it one too many times.

  Maybe Drake Carlson realized that Priscilla and Jim Gunn used him as much as they used me. Maybe he started feeling guilty almost two years after the fact. But that doesn’t explain why he would send his son—his injured son—to Mexico on a super risky mission to find me. The governor has enough money to hire someone else, so why didn’t he?

  Maybe he didn’t want to risk anyone finding out.

  I bite my lip. That could be it.

  So the best case scenario is: guilt.

  Only what if it isn’t guilt? I remember trying to make a sexy joke once about Drake becoming ‘Mr. President’, and he raised his eyebrow like it was possible. What if Drake Carlson is running for president, and he’s trying to tie up his loose ends? The problem with that theory is, I’m not a credible dis-creditor. Who would believe me, a former escort and former sex slave to the leader of a cartel?

  But even a headline could be damaging.

  And I did come from a “respectable” background. I went to college, unlike a lot of the people who get kidnapped. Cross knows I wrote for the student paper, so maybe they’re worried I’m more resourceful than the average bear.

  But if that’s the case, why didn’t Cross just kill me down in Mexico? Why risk bringing me across the border? In fact, that applies to all theories in which the Carlsons could want me dead.

  I consider the idea that I’m some sort of revenge. Maybe Cross is using me to get back at his father for something. He doesn’t seem like the sort, but he mentioned not letting people get away with what they did to me. And all the while, he knew it was his own father.

  I don’t understand, but the one thing I know for sure is I don’t have all the details. I’d like to, and from the horse’s mouth.

  “Damnit!” I hear a pretty female voice on the other side of the door, and then it opens, and a topless girl walks in.

  I’m momentarily stunned silent.

  This girl looks like a model for Macy’s. She’s got chin-length, butcher-cut brown hair with sun-kissed highlights, and her hazel eyes shimmer with the kind of eye shadow job that only wealthy, fashion-conscious people can produce.

  She’s not actually topless. My eyes pass over her face and down her swan-like neck, drawn to her lacy bra, visible underneath a ripped white blouse. Small, pert boobs are on display—at least they are until her hands fly up to cover them. She has flawless nails, too. My gaze is roving her outfit, curious to see what this human Barbie wears, when her hands fly from her boobs to her face and she starts sobbing.

  I take a step back and try to think of what to do, but it turns out it doesn’t matter. As soon as the first sob pops out, the girl sinks down to the wax-shiny floor, tucks her legs up around her, and buries her head between her thin, tone arms.

  A moment passes, and I notice her scent. It’s all sweetness and vanilla. Not perfume. It must be lotion.

  C’mon, Meredith, get with it.

  The girl is sobbing like the world just ended and here I am, staring at her with my jaw on the floor.

  I need to say something. I’m just not sure what. It’s been so long since I’ve seen someone like her… Compared to this flawless creature, I don’t even feel female. I’m like…desert scuz. With blood all over my yoga pants and long-sleeved t-shirt, I’ve considered putting Cross’s leather jacket back on a few times, but instead it’s sitting folded on a shelf above me; I want to put it on now, but that would just draw attention to what I’m trying to hide.

  I’m in the middle of a mental tug-o-war, fighting my urge to see Cross with my fear of being found by dirty cops or the cartel, and trying to decide what to do about the girl, when she starts talking through her tears:

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with ME?!” Her eyes fly up to mine, and I blink.

  The girl hops to her feet and spins in a circle like a cornered humming bird. Then she throws up her hands. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me!”

  I don’t either. I look the crying girl over, holding her desperate gaze with my calming one. I ask, “What happened to your shirt?”

  She covers her face and starts to cry again. Just when I’m wondering how horrible it would be to bolt, she peeks at me from between her skinny fingers and heaves a teary sigh. “I tore it.”

  I frown—that much is a
lready obvious—and she shakes her head. “No, I’m saying I tore it. I got pissed off, and I tore it! Like a wrestler!”

  I laugh a little, then cover my mouth, feeling terrible, but the girl starts cackling, too.

  “It’s okay. I’m insane. I know.”

  I shake my head, because even though I have no idea what’s going on with her, I definitely understand the sentiment. “You’re not insane. Just upset.”

  She nods, and as she does, she’s looking me over. Probably noticing that I’m blood-stained and my hair is crazy. Her brows narrow, but only for a moment, and then she’s crying again. “My life is so messed up. You don’t even know. First my fiancé broke things off and then I fell for my best guy friend. It was messed up—really messed up—but I’ve had a crush on him since like, the dawn of time, and he was in the middle of a really awful time and I just… I don’t know.” Her voice cracks.

  “I think I just wanted to be invaluable to someone.” She swallows, nodding as she holds my gaze. “He really needed me at the time, and I wanted to feel special.” She sniffs and wipes her nose. “I let myself get carried away. And then I embarrassed myself. And now he’s here, and I want to be his friend and be here for him but I’m not sure how I can.” Tears drip off her chin and she wipes them out of her eyes. She glanced all about the room, then her eyes land on the shelf beside me. Her lips pucker, and she glances to me, then back to the shelf.

  “Oh my God, is that Cross Carlson’s jacket?” The crying starts again as she points a finger at me. “Are you his wife? Are you the biker chick he met in Mexico!”

  I’m sure I must look like a deer in headlights. The pretty girl’s eyes pop out, and she turns her back to me. “I can’t believe I told you all that!” She wails. “I can’t—Oh my God!”

  “I’m not his wife.” When I say that, she turns slowly around, and I get the feeling that whatever I say next is helping her off some kind of ledge. “I don’t even know him,” I say. And then the lie just goes from there. “I’m a nurse. I came in off-shift for a meeting with my boss and I got caught in the commotion surrounding, I guess your friend? Mr. Carlson. I helped them get him from the roof to the OR, and someone handed me this.” I feel like I’m giving this girl a piece of my heart as I pass the jacket to her. “I’m hiding in this closet to avoid…my boss,” I quickly lie. “He and I have this complicated thing…”