Taming Cross (Love Inc.) (37 page)

I still can’t bring myself to move or speak.

Morning comes—I know this only because the lights come on—and everyone in my room is excited. I’m doing better. Requiring less oxygen through these plastic tubes in my nose. They’re moving me to a regular room.

I leave my eyes shut, pretending that I’m resting, but really I just want to know if Cross will stay or go. I’m out of danger now. Maybe he won’t feel obligated to stay.

It’s not lost on me at all, as they wheel my bed through halls and into elevators, that I’m in Cross’s position. The exact same position that I left him in, in El Paso. It’s also not lost on me that I don’t hear his voice or see his body through my half-shut lids.

A full day passes. I’m alone in my room. The nurses come and go, and it’s all that I can do to force myself to speak to them. I know my body is healing, but I feel dead inside.

I’m napping when my door creaks. I slit my eyes open, because it feels too early in the afternoon for another vitals check. I turn my head a little, and my breath lodges inside my battered lungs. Before I can start to breathe properly again, Cross is at my bedside. He’s leaning down and pressing his face into my hair.

“I missed you.” He kisses my forehead and pulls a chair beside my bed, and while I lie there with my eyes shut, with my heart pounding, he just talks…like this is normal. He tells me about his parents, first.

“I had to leave because my mom came into town. Sometime while I was down in Mexico, she decided to leave him. My dad.”

My eyes are still shut. Cross takes my hand and starts tracing my fingers, the way I did one time to his.

“She’s kind of pissed off. At everyone. She doesn’t want the house in Napa anymore, she said, so she gave me all the keys. Apparently my dad’s been gone a week already.” I hear him shift, and I can sense that he’s leaned forward, closer to my bed. The railing on my hospital bed is folded down now, and I imagine I can feel the heat of his body through my blankets.

“Last night, at the hotel, I called my dad. I told him you’ve been evaluated by a psychiatrist here and that you’ve told ‘her’ what happened to you. I told him that you’re not sure what you want to do yet, but at least he knows if he were to want to…” Cross pauses. Sighs. “If he were to come after you or some shit, at least he knows he’d be the first suspect. And Merri—” he squeezes my unhurt right hand— “I don’t think he’d ever do that. I just wanted you to feel safe.”

Silence fills the room, and that’s when the tears start flowing. I didn’t plan to cry, but my body doesn’t ask permission. Cross does what I sense he will and leans down to wrap his arm around me. When he does, I lean into his neck and cry, “I’m married to Jesus!”

It’s the only way I can tell him, I guess. Like jumping into cold water, I just have to do it.

I feel his body stiffen, and I cry a little harder as I wait for him to pull away. Instead he gets in bed with me, curling over sideways so he doesn’t crowd me. After a minute or two of my crying and his arm holding tightly to me, he whispers, “Meredith, Jesus is dead.”

And then I’m crying so much harder, because it doesn’t matter. That’s not the only reason I can’t be with Cross.

“Meredith… Meredith. Please don’t cry. Talk to me.” He’s whispering into my throat and playing with my hair, and I’m sobbing so hard a nurse peeks in.

“Is there a problem here? Sir,” she says, “you need to give the patient space.”

“I’m fine,” I sob out. “He’s fine.”

Cross murmurs something to her; I can’t hear, because I’m too lost in my sobbing, but I think she leaves, and then he’s saying, “Merri, please don’t cry. It’s over. I swear baby, everything’s going to be okay.” He turns my shoulders slightly, so I’m facing him a little more, and he puts both arms around my back, rubbing soothing circles with his right hand until I’m able to stop gasping. I keep my head against his chest, because I don’t want to see the look on his face.

I wonder how he really feels about me, knowing I was married to Jesus. He’s a nice guy, so he’s going to be nice, but I’m sure inside he’s appalled. Anyone would be, especially if they knew the whole story.

I look back up at Cross and am almost surprised to find him speaking. He’s saying something about the fire and: “Marchant killed him, baby. He and the fuckers with him tried to exit out the front, and that’s where everybody had evacuated. Marchant had a gun, and he recognized Jesus.”

A shudder ripples through me, and he actually says, “I hope you’re not upset.”

I whisper, “No. Of course not. I’m…glad.”

Cross nods. “That’s what I thought.” He smooths my hair back, and for a long time we just sit there, clinging to each other. I can feel his gaze on me, but I still can’t bring myself to look into his eyes.

His fingers stroke my forehead. “How’s the hand?”

I’m not sure what he means until I look down and abruptly remember my left hand is in a cast. Tears fill my eyes again, and I shrug. “I don’t know. It hurts.”

“I’m sorry.” His forehead touches mine. “I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

“You…?” And then I remember being chained to that statue thing; the smoke; and Cross. “Oh my God, that was you who got me out! It wasn’t a firefighter.”

He smiles, but it’s a sad one. “Nope.”

“Cross…wow. Just…wow, and thank you.” I lean up and kiss him on the cheek, and if it’s possible, his smile gets even sadder.

“You don’t owe me anything, Merri.”

There’s a long silence, during which I still cling to him. Even with Jesus dead…I shouldn’t be clinging to Cross. Not considering the bomb that I’m about to drop on him.

I shut my eyes and hold it in. I really want a few more minutes with him.

“I know I don’t owe you anything.” I lay my head against my pillow, close my eyes, and enjoy the feeling of his arm around me. The familiar scent of him. Everything about this man I’ve come to love will have to be remembered, because in a second, I know he’ll leave. Even someone like Cross couldn’t ignore what I’ve been holding back.

I keep telling myself I’ll say it in a minute, but I let many of them go by.

Cross doesn’t speak, and neither do I, and when a nurse comes in the room to check my temperature, she doesn’t ask him to move, so we don’t have to separate.

He’s lying on his left side with his right arm draped gently over me, his face buried in my hair, and it feels perfect, which is how I know I have to tell him now.

My voice trembles. “Cross—” I glance over at him and find his blue eyes rapt. “I need to tell you something else. Remember what I said back at that cottage?”

He nods. His face blurs from my tears, my voice cracks as I whisper, “I had sex with Jesus.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and before he can jump up or say something that hurts too much, I add: “He made me!”

Maybe that’s the worst part—the fact that I’ve been used like that—but I don’t think so. Jesus was a vile person, a violent killer, and regardless of how good he was to me for most of the time I was with him… “He forced me to marry him, and he forced me to have sex.”

I draw my knees up, pushing Cross away a little, and cover my face with my hand as I cry.

“Tell me about it.” Cross is holding onto me, and even though I swore I’d never tell anyone, I open up my mouth and let the words pour out.

“It was after we were…oh God, I can’t even say it. Married. A rumor got started. That he was gay,” I say tearily. “He was upset and so…he forced me to have sex with him…in front of other people.” There were lots of them: a whole room. “And it wasn’t just once, it was…” I gasp, struggling to get air, and Cross pulls me to his chest, holding onto the back of my head like he’s afraid someone will come take me away. He leans me back against the pillows and presses his finger on the oxygen tubing as he looks into my eyes.

“Damnit, Merri—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I nod, just focus on breathing, and when I get myself together, Cross pulls me tight against him again. “Merri,” he whispers into my hair, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I don’t know,” I sob. “I guess I was…ashamed!”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He pulls away from me and looks into my eyes; his blue ones look like steel. “Nothing, Merri. You were a fucking— fracking victim. Nothing else.”

“But I’m ashamed of
that
!”

“What could you have done?” he asks me. “Were you bigger than Jesus? Could you have fought him?”

I shake my head; the tears are still pouring. “Things like this don’t happen to good people who live the life they should.”

He strokes my forehead, gently pushing my hair back. “If they happened to you, baby, then they definitely do.”

I avert my eyes to the blanket and voice one of my deepest, most difficult feelings about what happened. “I feel like it only happened for one night, and other men and women—other sex slaves—have it so much worse. How can I complain?”

He grips my shoulder. “Because what happened to you was horrible. That’s why.” He sighs, and I notice that his eyes are wet. “I hope when we get out of here you’ll go talk to a shrink.”

For some reason, the statement makes me laugh. “I’m not going by myself.”

He threads his fingers through mine. “Then I’ll go with you.”

I rake my gaze down his body, looking for a sign that he’s upset; disgusted. Searching myself for a feeling of regret. I’ve carried this secret for almost ten months, and every day, it’s strangled me. I’m shocked to find that now, I just feel warm.

“Are you sure you’re not…upset,” I whisper.

His dark brows arch. “About what you told me?”

Tears wet my eyes again; I nod, struggling to keep my gaze on him.

“Hell yes, I’m upset.” He takes my hand in his and looks into my eyes. “Merri, I’m upset for
you
.”

Tears drip down my face again, but I don’t bother trying to stop them this time. They feel good almost. And even though I’m still scared about what Cross might really think, I’m glad I told him. As if to demonstrate that I’m wrong—that he really doesn’t think I’m damaged or disgusting—he pulls me to his chest and lets me cry.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell me not to.

I’m not sure how long I go, but I know when I’m finished, I feel lighter.
Tons
lighter. With a shaky hand, I shift my body on the mattress, angling myself so I’m looking right at him. I look him over, from his handsome face down to the splint on his right ankle. I didn’t even notice that before.

“Are you okay?” I squeeze his fingers. “You hurt your foot?”

He nods. “It’s just a minor fracture.”

“What about your lungs and stuff?”

“Got a little fracked, but I’ve been discharged. I was better off than you…” He sounds hoarse. “I didn’t get there as fast as I wanted to.”

And I’m surprised—no, shocked—to see his eyes glitter with tears.

Reaching up with our joined hands, I stroke his neck. “You got there soon enough—on both counts.” And I can see in his sad eyes that he knows what I’m saying: I’m talking about Mexico, too. I pull him close to me. “You got there just in time. I promise.”

I’m surprised to find it doesn’t feel like I’m telling a lie. Tonight, at least, with Cross right here beside me, I feel like I’ll be okay.

I nuzzle his cheek and bring him down beside me on the bed. So I can kiss his hair and catch up on loving him.

EPILOGUE

We spend the night wrapped in each other. When the nurses come to check my temperature and blood pressure, they work around Cross. I like to think that they can tell how much we need this. When the sun comes up, shining brilliant pink on the windows of some of the buildings around ours, I’m lying between Cross’s legs, my back against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around my waist. His left hand rests under my casted one. He can’t hold it, of course, and I can barely move my fingers without pain, but I like our hands beside each other.

Yeah. It’s that kind of thing. Like a high school crush. But so much better.

We spend the morning just talking. We turn around so we’re facing each other, and in a low voice, so no monitors or cameras can hear me, I tell him more than I ever thought I would tell anyone about my time in Mexico. I cry sometimes, but Cross is always there with me, so it’s not half as hard as I’d imagined it would be.