Taming Cross

  I’m so damn tired, I just wish they would all leave—and they do, for a second, going around to the front and taking seats. But Lizzy and Suri sit on the row right in front of the bed, and the whole time we’re driving to the airport, they keep turning around, to inspect me..

  I’m shivering a little because the driver’s not a careful guy—that or the road is shit. My shoulder is in agony.

  I bite my lip—discreetly, I think, but I obviously fail, because Suri and Lizzy start to fuss like a couple of hens. I can’t even turn over and face the wall and get some fucking privacy. With both arms fucked up, I can hardly move.

  I shut my eyes as the whole damn car discusses my pain management. Whether I’ve pulled off my patch. Where I will sleep at the brothel. They come up with solutions for every problem they dream up, except the one that hurts the most.

  Merri. Where is she?

  I’ll have to get used to not knowing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I pull the plug at the bottom of the claw-footed tub, but I don’t get out yet. I’ve got my hair piled on my head, and I’m up to my neck in the world’s most fragrant lavender bubble bath. I lean against the tub’s soft headrest and shut my eyes, figuring if I can mime a peaceful person, maybe I can be one, too.

  Since I got here four days ago, I’ve had nothing to complain about. In fact, I’ve thanked God more than once for taking care of me. When I was getting off the elevator on the first floor of the hospital, trying not to have a messy breakdown before I made it outside, I saw the familiar-looking guy from upstairs, and I realized it was Marchant Radcliffe. Duh. I think when I looked straight at him, he looked at me, too—and in a matter of milliseconds, he had me ensconced in a little alcove full of leather chairs and magazines.

  He said he recognized me from the governor’s arm. He also said that after I disappeared, some of the girls who worked with their money to send a P.I. to San Luis to hunt for me. I almost cried when he told me that. That’s how unexpected it was.

  At first I didn’t want to go with him, but he said he’d already chartered a jet for some urgent business anyway, so why didn’t I go with him? I didn’t trust him, so he offered to call Loveless for me. Once she offered to meet us at the airport and take me to the brothel in her car, I realized I wouldn’t find better offers, so I got on Marchant’s chartered plane.

  The flight to Vegas was rough. I did Sudoku puzzles out of this little book I found in the back of one of the chairs, and as I worked, I let my hair hang down, so Marchant Radcliffe wouldn’t see me cry. He stayed in the jet’s small bedroom the whole time, though, so by the time we’d been off the ground for half an hour, I just put my head in my hands and let myself go.

  A lot of my tears were for Cross—for Evan—but I was surprised to find how many other things are getting underneath my skin.

  It’s just so weird being back in the States. I push the bubbles around on the surface of the water, thinking about how many times I wished for this. How I really didn’t think I’d ever be here. Not at Love Inc., of course—but in the States. Today, I used a whole big wad of toilet tissue for a Number One. I nearly clogged up the toilet. The wastefulness of it didn’t bother me nearly as much as I’d thought it would. It was kind of nice.

  The first day, when I stepped off the plane and into Loveless’s adorable red Mini Cooper, I pointed the vents right at me and nearly purred. I rode in an air conditioned car with Jesus, but the clinic didn’t have A.C. Just window fans.

  One of the first things I did here was use the laptop Rachelle loaned me to look at a few Mexican news sites and blogs. Rachelle is Marchant’s second-in-command, and she’s been looking after me since Marchant took off on vacation. She’s the one who told me Marchant wanted me to use his own suite. I thought that was insanely nice. Anyway, the news sites confirmed for me that the clinic is okay. That’s about all I found, other than a very vague news story about some trouble at the border checkpoint we passed through. Sometimes the media is in the cartels’ pockets, too.

  Is it weird that I know all this? That I know, if they come for me, exactly how they will trace my footsteps? What they’ll do to me?

  Loveless says she thinks I should talk to the brothel’s resident psychologist. So far, I’ve managed to put her off, but the truth is, I could maybe see the benefit in that. I’m not sure I’d want to be honest about everything, but it might be worth my time to go once or twice.

  Maybe I could talk about Cross.

  I curl my hand around a particularly glittery ball of bubbles and squish them. The crinkling sound they make doesn’t give me any satisfaction, so I climb out of the tub and dry my body roughly.

  Cross.

  The man I left in ICU.

  Son of my very own personal evil villain.

  Cross Carlson. Evan. My fantasy.

  Since coming here, I’ve dreamed about him every night. Not dreams—nightmares. While I know that leaving was the right thing to do, the practical thing, the only thing to do…I still feel horrible about it. Cross might have deceived me, but I deserted him. Which is worse?

  My eyes burn, and I take a deep breath, releasing tension the way Sister Carolina taught me. I slip into a robe—one of several in Marchant Radcliffe’s opulent bathroom closet—and sit in the window seat, which is big enough to be a twin bed. From my spot amidst an army of silk pillows, I can see acres of Love Inc.’s grounds. Pristine grass. Big, willowy trees. There’s a gazebo, a labyrinth, and even a duck pond.

  Today, the sky is blue. The sun is bright. I’m miles and miles away from Mexico, away from danger…and I’m miserable.

  I wander over to the king-sized bed and flop down on the comforter. Within minutes of my arrival here, a housekeeper claimed all of Marchant’s linens, leaving me with a fresh, deep green duvet, plus some beige silk sheets.

  “Does he go on vacation and leave his room to strangers on a regular basis?” I asked her.

  She smiled discreetly and said only, “Mr. Radcliffe is a thoughtful host.”

  Whatever that means.

  Don’t get me wrong: It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I am. I’m very grateful. Loveless and I have been working out with some of the other girls in the escorts’ gym, and everyone I’ve met so far has been absolutely wonderful—patient, discreet, and understanding, giving me the space I need to process things.

  And I have, sort of. I’ve done a lot of thinking about my last year and a half. What it means to me. The parts I hate. The parts I miss. I’ve even thought a little about what happened right before I left Jesus. And thinking about it here, it doesn’t feel as threatening as it once did. Maybe I can even work up enough nerve to tell the shrink about it.

  It’s been good being here, and I feel safe-ish. That much, I relish. But I miss Cross. I miss Evan. I miss the guy. It doesn’t matter what I call him, who he is—I miss his freakin’ face. All four days I’ve been here. I’m tired of missing him, I decide to find out when Marchant will be back from his vacation.

  I have a fantasy, a terrible one I hate to admit, that Marchant’s ‘vacation’ is really a trip back to El Paso. How insane would it be if Marchant was in on Cross’s plans, and he chartered the jet just to whisk me off to somewhere safe. And now he’s going to get Cross and Cross and I will meet up again here.

  It’s a fantasy…

  I know that.

  But after missing Cross like crazy for four days, I feel more willing to indulge in those—instead of less.

  I’ve met two of his friends, and neither Marchant nor bra girl seemed like a Priscilla type. The girl said Cross didn’t even tell his buddies where he was going when he went to Mexico. (Yes, I’m aware that makes the aforementioned fantasy scenario highly unlikely. So what?) I ask myself, in light of what I know, what are the odds that I’m actually in danger? Danger from Cross, I mean.

  I tell myself they’re very low.

  I tell myself he doesn’t like that perfect Barbie with the lacy bra.

  I tell myself I??
?m not being an idiot. Not like before, with other guys.

  This guy is different. At least that’s what I tell myself. Then I put on the most comfortable outfit Loveless loaned me, spritz on some of the perfume that I found in Marchant’s cabinet, and stride into the hall to take a more active role in my fate.

  I’m sitting in an Adirondack chair on the violently green lawn behind the English manor where Marchant and his women do their business. It’s barely three o’clock, and I’m on my fourth screwdriver. There’s an open bar just inside the back doors on the main floor, and the bartenders there have practically hunted me down to get me loaded.

  It’s pity, yeah—they’ve probably got orders to get the armless guy sloshed—but I don’t really give a shit. Too tired.

  It’s fucking hot outside in Vegas, but my drink is cold, and I’m becoming too numb to notice or care much anyway. I’ve only been here a day and I’m already sick of it. I need to go back to Napa. I’m still here because something’s going on with Lizzy. In my less self-absorbed moments, I can tell. Once I figure it out, I’ll do whatever I can for her, but then I’m splitting. I can hear my nice, cold, lonely shop loft calling my name. When I get there, I won’t have to talk to anyone or think about anything. Especially Merri.

  Last night, Lizzy came to my room to try to get the story. It’s not my room—I got stuck in Hunter’s old suite—but that didn’t stop me from shutting the door on her. I guess the message wasn’t clear enough, because Suri dropped by next, a little after nine o’clock. I pretended to be sleeping, but she had her own key. She came bearing a can of Sunkist. I wouldn’t let her give me a sip of it, but I was secretly glad she brought a long straw and left the drink on one of the higher shelves of Hunter’s entertainment center—one only a little lower than my head. Lifting my right arm is agony, and of course, the left one won’t take orders.

  I tell them I’m wearing the pain patches, but I’m not. In a way, the pain is good. It allows me to feel something that’s not stuffed inside my fucking chest. It takes my mind off Merri. Already, I’m wondering how soon I can get back to my weight-lifting routine. If I can drive myself hard, this will get better. I just need to go home.

  I have no idea where Merri is or what she’s doing, and I have no idea what my father knows about what’s happened in the last few days. He could do anything. I don’t think he’d hurt me, but I don’t really know. I know I want to hurt him. I might, too. But I’m also opening my shop and getting back to work. Not being able to use my right arm much is making me itchy to do things again, and one of them is work.

  I stare out at the yard, shrugging my shoulder just enough to hurt. The wound is sore, but I think it’s healing okay. I raise my arm, enjoying the pain as I take another gulp of my screwdriver. It makes my head feel cottony and warm, makes my chest feel full and heavy. Not so empty like it has been.

  Yesterday Suri gave me back my jacket. Told me she got it from an off-duty nurse who was around when I came in.

  “What’d she look like?” I asked.

  Red hair. Had my blood all over her.

  Yeah. Bet I know who that was.

  Merri left. Got scared and fucking left.

  I don’t blame her, but it hurts.

  I finish off the screwdriver. Make my way inside to get another one. Only when I’m at the bar, I hear myself ask for a vodka on the rocks. I drink it on my way back to my chair. Shit, this shit is strong. I kinda forgot. This must be why I used to drink so much. Have sex, too. Isn’t that what I used to do? Fuck around?

  I liked that, right?

  I did.

  Maybe I should go find someone to fuck.

  I picture her green eyes and her long, wavy hair. I can’t stop thinking of those huge tits. Her hands were always really soft. I liked her hands.

  I look down at my hands. I should use them to beat the shit out of my father. One of them. But then he’d know. He would know I went to Mexico.

  I think I need a refill. I stand up, and I see a fucking mirage, following Marchant toward the pond.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I was looking for Rachelle when I ran into Marchant. Well, when I saw him. He didn’t see me. He was walking away from the bar downstairs with a brown box underneath his arm. I kind of wondered if he might have taken to taking jobs himself, or maybe having sex with one of the girls, because he was wearing a black robe and black sleep pants. No shoes.

  Weird, right?

  Well then it gets weirder. I catch up to him maybe fifty feet behind the largest of the three mansions—the one where all the work happens and also the one where I’m staying in his suite. Because I’m feeling bold and a little desperate, and also because I’m super curious about why he’s crossing the lawn dressed like Hugh Heffner, I call his name.

  He spins around and strides to me, looking so intense that for a second I think he might hit me. Instead he grabs my forearm and snatches me closer. I try to twist my arm away, but his grip is tight.

  “W-what are you doing?” My voice wobbles, and I try to make myself relax. If I relax, there’s a good chance he will, too, and then I’ll snatch my arm away and run.

  I look him over, noting the stubble on his cheeks, around his thicker goatee; also the way his red-blond-brown hair sticks up, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day.

  “What am I doing?” he asks. “I think the question is, what are you doing?”

  I frown, and he lets go of my arm. It’s a gentle release, as if he just forgot to keep holding it. “What do you mean, what am I—”

  “You were following me,” he interrupts. His grey eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you’re a fucking spy.”

  “A spy?” I shake my head. “A spy for who?” I look into his eyes, and they seem…ungrounded. Like Sean’s used to get when he’d get really paranoid. But Sean was on drugs. Is Marchant Radcliffe doing drugs?

  “You know who,” he murmurs.

  And then, without another word, he turns and stalks away. I stand there for a minute, trying to decide if I should follow him toward the pond or turn around. In the end, I decide to follow. If he’s on drugs or drunk or something, I can probably get more information about Cross—and that’s the reason I’m following him, after all. I don’t know him, but I’m sure Loveless would have warned me if he was dangerous. Surely she would have, right? I pump my arms and feel grateful that I’ve got on leggings, sandals, and a flowing shirt.

  I might be five-foot-three, but I’m a good sprinter. There’s only a few feet of grass between us when I hear footfall behind me.

  Now that has my heart pounding. Unlike one isolated incident of weirdness with Marchant, who is in all likelihood drunk or high or coked up, everything’s going to get a lot weirder if that’s someone running after me. It’s the middle of a sunny day, in a semi-public place.

  But still, my heart is hammering. That’s definitely someone’s footsteps. I work up the nerve to turn around, feeling a ridiculously powerful rush of déjà vu, a flash back to when I ran away from Jesus’s place almost nine months ago.

  I turn around, and there is Cross.

  He looks confused, like someone has just flashed light into his eyes. His eyebrows come together, and I realize that he’s panting; his broad shoulders are heaving. My gaze flies over him, and I can’t help devouring him with my eyes. I eat up every inch, from the loose jeans hanging on his hips to the bulk of bandages I can see under his plain white undershirt. There’s a scrape on his throat. One of his dark eyelashes has fallen on his cheek. There’s new gauze wrapped around his left hand, where David shot him. His hair looks ruffled. There’s stubble on his cheeks. His lips… They’re even more perfect than I remembered.

  “Merri—what the hell are you doing here?”

  I look down at my borrowed sandals, because I’m not sure how to answer.

  He sounds pissed. “Did Marchant bring you here?”

  “Uh…yeah.” I meet his eyes and find them guarded.

  “You and him know each other
?”

  “No. I saw him at the hospital.”

  “He took you from the hospital.”

  I nod. My eyes tear, because I feel so guilty for leaving him. My throat feels tight, so I can barely talk, but he’s looking at me expectantly. “I didn’t know that you were here,” I whisper.

  He tilts his head to the side, reminding me for a second of a curious dog. Then he sucks back a tired-sounding breath. “I’m surprised to see you, too.”

  I widen my watery eyes at him—a random thing I do sometimes when I’m not sure what to say—and he pushes his palm back through his hair. “Fuck.”

  I flinch at the word. “If you want me to go…”

  “No, please.” He nods at a bench under a willow tree out in front of us, and I start walking that way. He’s moving more slowly than I am, and I slow. I steal glances at him as we cross the short distance, noting little things, like the motion of his throat as he swallows. The way he holds his right arm close to his chest. His face seems unguarded; has he been drinking? Another stealthy glance at his face shows me that he looks upset. I can’t believe I haven’t seen him in days. I want to know every single thing that’s happened. All about the hospital. How he feels. I want to know who Evan really is. I want to know why Cross Carlson came and rescued me.

  We reach the bench, and he lets me sit down first. He sits on the grass in front of me, sinking down clumsily.

  “Are you okay?”

  His eyes flick up to mine. “That’s what you’re gonna ask?” His voice is low. “You know my name, and that’s your first question?”

  I nod. I want to touch him so much my hands are shaking.

  “Are you okay?” His eyes caress my face.

  All of a sudden, it feels wrong to be seated on the bench, so far away from him, so I get down on the grass.

  His gaze is all over me. Hungry. I imagine that instead of looking at me everywhere, he’s licking me, and the thought makes me shiver.