Taming Cross (Love Inc.) (29 page)

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.

“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 already 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…”

My heart is pounding and I feel like a lying sinner, but the girl isn’t focused on me at all. “You saw Cross? Oh my God, how was he?”

I don’t want to tell her. I’m being possessive of my knowledge, because at this point it may be the only thing I have.

“He was…” I fumble, then realize I can bypass my emotions by playing the role of a nurse. “Your friend had a gunshot wound, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t hit anything vital. When they took him to the OR, the general consensus was that he would probably be fine.”

“Oh my God.” She covers her face, then seems to remember her chest and covers it with her other arm. “I’m so embarrassed that I freaked out like I did. It’s just…I heard my friend got married to this random woman he met on this biker trip to Mexico. My other best friend is getting married, too, and…” She shrugs, and her face collapses like she’s going to cry again.

All my possessive pseudo-animosity is gone, and suddenly it’s like I remember how to be a woman. A normal, American woman…not a sex slave or a nun. I wrap my arms around her, and the woman’s pretty face is pressed against my shoulder.

It’s pitiful, because all I can think is that I’m happy I get to comfort someone Cross knows. Someone he cares about. I know he would like that.

I really shouldn’t care.