Taming Cross

Oh my f**king God. “It’s a sex bed.” I’ve seen a limo like this before, back in high school. They have little beds in the very back, and the only people who use them are teenagers on prom night.

West, still holding the door, gives me a scowl. “Don’t let Lizzy hear you say that. It took her hours to find this, and she even went to a limousine store and bought you sheets.”

I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths. “I’ll tell her thanks,” I grit.

Suri makes a sighing sound, like she’s sad that I don’t like the limo. “You want some help in?”

I shake my head, but of course, that’s bullshit. She and West know it is, so each one slides a hand under my arms, and I ease my ass out of the wheelchair like a f**king cripple. Up until today, the pain has been manageable, but I ripped off that pain patch they gave me in the bathroom just before we left, and it must have been strong, because I can already feel its absence in my screaming shoulder.

I’m dumped onto my left arm, and about that time Lizzy shows up, climbing into the limo and taking my head in her lap as they ease me onto a bunch of fluffy pillows. She gets me in a position she probably thinks will be comfortable, then comes around in front of me, where I can see her. Crouching on the bed with me, she lifts an eyebrow. “You hate this thing, don’t you?”

I grit my teeth and shake my head, widening my eyes so maybe I look sincere.

“Don’t lie to me. I knew you would hate it, but I did it anyway because I want you to be comfortable. When we get on the plane, you’ll lie on the bed, and when we get to Love Inc., I’m going to make sure you get Marchant’s suite.”

Her take-charge tone makes my mouth twitch just a little. “Thank you…Mom.” I shut my eyes, because I’m starting to see spots, and whisper the rest of what I have to say: “I’m not taking Marchant’s room.”

“Then you’ll have Hunter’s old room.”

“Whatever you say…Mom.”

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 f**king privacy. With both arms f**ked 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.