Taming Cross (Love Inc.) (20 page)

I swallow hard and force myself to meet her eyes. “You were good to me. I remember that much. Thank you.”

Her expression is understanding, as usual. Casual and warm. “I'm sure you would have done the same for me. You were in trouble, and I was here. You don't owe me anything.”

But that's where she's wrong. I owe her a hell of a lot. More than I can ever, ever give her. So much more than I wish she had to know. I take a deep breath, noticing as I do that my neck and shoulders feel more relaxed than they have in probably years. Woman's good with her hands. I remember that much, too.

I look down at my chest. It's bare because the towels fell into my lap when I scooted back. It's bare and I can see the scars. For just that moment, I wish I could turn back time and be the old Cross Carlson. The one I was last year, before I found out about the woman my father sold as a sex slave. When I was wrapped up in my carefree world of bikes, women, and parties. I wonder what Merri would think about that guy.

I look up at her, and I really want to tell her who I am. It's not right to lie to her—not after everything she's done for me. But if I tell her now, she might not travel to the border with me. I
think
she would. No one in their right mind would stay here to face the cartel, but I don't actually
know
. What if she ran off or something?

Maybe I'll give it a little while longer—just another day—for her to get to know me more. To trust me more.

I'll tell her tomorrow, when we finally reach the border and I hand over her passport. Maybe even before.

Evan is looking at me funny, and suddenly I feel self-conscious. I've been in this shower for the better part of a day, and I know I must look like dog poo on a stick. I bite my lip, remembering that I'm not even wearing a bra or panties. When I changed into this nightgown, it was only to get out of the disgusting clothes I'd been wearing since I left the clinic. Evan was in the shower, quiet between spells of pain, and I ran into my room and just stripped everything off. I don't even think I remembered to hang my underwear and bra so they'd be dry when I needed them next. Which would be now.

I put a hand up to my face and try to pretend I'm wearing something snazzy. Maybe a business suit, the kind I used to wear when I pitched stories in person.

Evan's eyes are stuck to me like glue, and it's weird to feel so embarrassed. We've been here in this shower together for a long time. I feel like I know him. For sure I care about him. And maybe it's just sad, because all the sweet, intimate things he said to me when he was half out of it...they made me feel good. Not just good as in useful, because I've been useful at the clinic. But good in another way. A way I really shouldn’t want.

My eyes wander over the scars on his chest, and I want to ask about them. I want to ask how old he is and where he’s from. Obviously we haven’t had time to get to know each other...

I push away
that
urge and stand carefully, so he can't see under my gown. I hold up a finger—
be right back
—and go into the bathroom, where I grab two fluffy black robes and slide one of them on. I walk back into the shower, where I find Evan standing. One of the towels from the shower is wrapped around his waist. It's wet, so it hangs off his hips. I can see the little indention hot guys have in that area, the spot on their hips where I've always thought a woman's hands should grip. I can see how flat his belly is. Flat but rippled with muscle. Dusted with a soft trail of dark hair. I've seen his body before—all of it, in fact—but it was different when he was delirious with pain.

Now he's standing right in front of me, with his hair tousled and that five o'clock shadow thing going, I want to walk over and wrap my arms around his shoulders. My sleeping beau is awake, and I just want to hug him again, like I did when he was sleeping.

Geez, I don’t even know this guy. I must be a lot lonelier than I thought.

I put on a smile and try not to let my eyes cling to his body. “You're up. How do you feel?”

I feel like I just got off a bender. I rub my palm over my hair—which is sticking up in every direction—and I avoid her eyes as I say, “Alright.”

I can't seem to look at her at the moment, so I look at the robe she's holding. It matches the black one that drags the shiny floor. She blinks and holds it out. “For you.”

Even leaning close to her to take the robe feels...like too much. I grab it and try to get my left arm into it quickly, without too much struggle. All I can think about as she watches me out of the corner of her eye, messing with her own robe and trying to look inconspicuous, is Suri, always offering to help me with everything. I don't want help. I don't want to
need
help.

I pull the robe roughly up my left shoulder, which still feels a little tender, and jab my right arm into its sleeve. Merri starts gathering damp towels off the floor, but before she can bring them to her chest to carry them, I take them from her.

“I got these.”

As she looks up at me, her hair falls around her face and I feel like someone just lit a light bulb inside my chest.

I hold the towels closer and grab a few more off the floor. Then I walk into the bathroom, because I can't keep being in the shower with her. The space is too damn small.

She's on my heels; I can see her—all long, wavy red hair and enormous tits—in the opulent gold mirror that stretches across the wall. “Do you want to go find some food?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I mutter, glancing at myself in the mirror. I look about as rough as I feel.

I lead the way through a cavernous bedroom with a larger-than-king-sized bed that has thick, wood posts and a brown canopy.

“I guess this is the love nest.”

From behind me she says, “Yeah. Why don't you leave the towels by that fireplace? You know...so we don't have to go in the laundry room.”

“Right.” Where the dead dude is.

I dump them by the marble fireplace and give it a frown. “This thing work?”

“No, it's probably just for candles.” And yeah, now that she says that I notice it's filled up with half-melted candles.

“Sexay.”

I catch her eye for the first time in a while and her mouth is pulled into a pensive expression.

“Sorry,” I say. “I like to make inappropriate jokes about the dead.”

She smiles a little, leading us through the bedroom door, into the hall. “Once, when I was a little kid—like four, I think—I was in a beauty pageant. When it was time for me to go to the microphone and sing my solo, I got nervous and decided to lead with a joke. I said, 'How long did it take for the chicken to cross the road?' Everyone was either staring at me or laughing, and I loved it. I waited so long I couldn't remember what I was going to say, but I knew poop was funny, so I said, 'Three farts.'” She grins. “Needless to say, my aunt was not amused.”

“Aunt?” I ask as I follow her back toward the kitchen.

“Yeah. I grew up with my aunt and uncle.”

I shouldn't ask, but I can't seem to help myself. “Your parents...they, um, passed away?”

Her veil of reddish hair moves as she nods. “My mother died when I was born and so my Aunt Britta and my Uncle Walter raised me. They have a son, Landon, who's a year older than me.” Glancing over her shoulder, she frowns. “But I guess you know that. Do you?”

“I don't know your history,” I hedge. “I just came to find you and bring you back.”

We make it to the kitchen and Meredith holds out a chair for me. “My legs are kind of crampy from sitting, so I figured I'll rustle up our food,” she says. “Also, though, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“I was wondering,” she says, going over to the freezer and opening it, “what's the incentive? For coming to find me, I mean.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Shit. I don't want to lie to her. I stretch my left arm out in front of me and pretend to examine the bandage for a second. “Um, there's not really anything in it for us other than a paycheck. The company just takes contracts from government agencies or private individuals on people who are missing.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “Also it’s the kind of job you can feel good about doing.”

She presses her lips together, poking and prodding several frozen Ziplock bags on a small granite island. “Can I ask you something else?”

I nod, even though it's the last thing I want.

“Who contacted you about me?”

I shrug. “I think I heard from your co-workers that it was your aunt, but that's not really part of my job.”

“It's okay. It doesn't matter I guess.”

But she looks disappointed, so it does matter. “I'm sure lots of people missed you. Your aunt filed a missing persons report a while back. And I remember some women in Vegas reported you missing, too. My co-worker mentioned it to me, that there were several of them.”

She smiles a little. “I made a few friends there.” She holds up a bag. “Sausage okay with you?”

“Yeah. While you cook it I was thinking of going outside and checking out the bike. See if I can fix it.”

Her mouth pulls into a frown. “He shot the tire, so I bet you probably can't.”

“I don't know, I'm pretty handy with bikes.”

“I guess you would need to be.” She sits a pan on one of the stove's many eyes. “They must trust you a lot to send you out here with your hand the way it is.”

I bite the edges of my tongue, not sure how to take that. Is it a compliment? An insult? It isn't pity. That, I like. I don't want to talk about my non-existent company anymore
,
so I just shrug and say, “Guess so.”

We're quiet for a while. The kitchen fills with the smell of sausage.

She's pushing it around in a skillet when she turns back to look at me. “Don't go outside.”

“Why not?” I raise my brows. “Did something happen while I was out?”

“No, nothing happened. I just...I don't want to take any risks right now, when you just woke up. I mean...I feel like I just got you back.” Color stains her cheeks. “I’ll be up poop creek if something like that happens again.”

“Poop creek?” I raise my eyebrows in a skeptical way. She crosses her arms under her chest and I beat her to the punch. “Or maybe it’s that you…missed me?” I'm teasing, mostly because I don't know what else to say.

“I did.” She gives me that smile again. “You're not such bad company.”

I look down at my hand. “Even with my howling, moaning alter ego?”

She bites her lip. “That was pretty awful. Does it happen a lot?”

“It happens about once a month. Sometimes twice. It just depends.”

She pushes the sausage around, adding a dollop of butter to the pan. “What triggers it?”

“Stress. Fatigue. Maybe just the wind blows wrong. My neck's pretty fucked up— fracked up,” I say as her eyebrows arch. “So it's kind of unpredictable.”

“I could tell it was your neck. Sometimes I’d rub it just right, and you’d seem to feel better.

“Really?” That's surprising. “Who would have thought?”

“A masseuse, probably. Have you ever been to one?”