Taming Cross (Love Inc.) (6 page)

I stand up and start pacing like a caged lion. “You tell me he's a fine guy.”

“But you don't believe me.”

“So what, Lizzy? I'm gonna forever hold my peace. Isn't that what matters?”

She stands up, coming over to me, but instead of hands on hips this time, she wraps her arms around her waist. “You know that's not what matters. Cross, we’re family. I don't want you to be unhappy whenever you think of me. I want our friendship to stay strong.” She exhales, looking miserable. “If there's something I can do, something that will make you feel more open to—”

I toss my arms out. “There's nothing you can do, Lizzy. You've done nothing wrong. Neither has West, at least not to me. And before you ask, I'm fine about the money thing.”

Lizzy sold her virginity at a brothel in Vegas so she could help pay my medical bills after my motorcycle wreck. Don’t worry, the story had a happy ending—for her, at least. Hunter West, her soon-to-be hubby, was the highest bidder.

She did this while I was in my coma. When I first woke up, I was pissed, but I’ve gotten used to it now. I can’t change it, so I tell her, “I will always love you for it, end of story.”

Lizzy comes a little closer, and I can smell her lotion: gardenias and maybe roses. I stare into her face, so different than it was before my wreck. She looks thinner... Less like the grown up Lizzy I knew and more like the girl I knew in high school.

“It's okay, Liz. I'll learn to like West. I can even show him how to fix that banged up Roadster he's got in the garage.” I paste a smile on, hold my arms out, so she comes in for a hug. “BFFs?”

“BFFs,” she says warmly, pressing her cheek against my chest.

I open my eyes and pull away first, then walk back to my Sunkist and ease down on the floor. I motion to the chair. “Sit down and stay a bit.”

And Lizzy does. We talk for two hours—longer, I think, than we have since before the accident. We talk about everything but the pain attacks; she doesn't ask, for once, and I don't tell her that they're getting worse.

I wait until she's almost out the door to drop the bomb: “Wanted to mention I'm going down to Mexico.”

Her eyes pop.

I shrug one shoulder. “Biker thing.”

I can see the approval on her face—the relief that I'm finally living life again.

I shut the door behind her, grab my soda and head up to my room to read the folded papers in my pocket.

I surprised myself, too, with that little revelation. I'm going to motherfucking Mexico.

CHAPTER SIX

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been more than three weeks since my last confession.”

I press my butt more tightly down against the backs of my shins—my legs are folded under me—and glance through the curtain of my strawberry hair at the sheet of thatch that stands between me and the priest. I can't see his face, but I assume because it's the second Tuesday of the second week of the month, that it's Father Mendez, the traveling priest from Fresnillo.

“Yes, child.” The gravelly voice confirms my suspicions. Definitely Father Mendez. His advanced age—eighty-one, the nuns say—means he's one of the few I trust not to have ties to the Cientos Cartel. So I shut my eyes, inhale deeply, and try to really pour my heart out.

“I must confess many sins,” I whisper in soft Spanish. “The first is envy.” Another breath to rid myself of my embarrassment—the embarrassment of being totally open and honest with a virtual stranger—and I plunge forward. “I envy the nuns who are able to leave the clinic when I can't. I feel like a prisoner, and rather than being thankful for the second chance I've been given, I'm...frustrated. I know I have no one to blame but myself, so I just keep praying for forgiveness and hoping I’ll find a way to feel more grateful.” I’m silent only long enough to clear my throat. “I definitely need to feel more grateful for what I have right now. But sometimes… I miss certain parts of my old life.”

I close my eyes, and I can see Katrina, with her sparkly nail polish and kind smile, rubbing my calves and painting my toe-nails in the beauty parlor in Jesus's mansion. Sometimes when I'm eating rice here at the clinic, I can taste bell peppers and that yummy cheese dip that Arman, Jesus's chef, used to whip up. “I miss seeing the sun, but I miss other things, too, like taking a long bath with soap that smells good.”

I also miss the more forbidden things—like the feel of a man's mouth on mine. That particular desire tosses me all the way back to eleventh grade, the year I lost my virginity to my high school band's assistant director, Sam Kline. Sam was only twenty-two, and he ended up transferring schools at the end of my senior year because he felt so guilty about what we did every afternoon in the instrument closet. But I can still see his brown eyes. Read the feeling in them. When he clung to me after we both got off, he held me tightly, like he was desperate to feel my body against his.

I press my lips together until they sting, because I'm not going to tell Father Mendez any of this; but sometimes when I remember Sam, my chest feels like there's a fire inside of it. That's how much I crave that closeness. After Sam...

There were half a dozen others after Sam, but God is only holding the last one against me—because it’s the only one I’ll never confess. It’s the only one that really feels ‘sinful’. So I skirt it, going as close as I ever do to a confession: “I'm an impure woman,” I murmur, lifting my head and looking at the thatch.

“I know I'm not cut out to be a nun, but I love being here and helping. And that leads me to my worst sin since I've been in this place.”

I hear the rustling of robes on the other side of the thatch, and I push myself to continue, even though I feel like I can't breathe. Father Mendez knows a little bit about me—he knows all my confessions over the last nine months—but he might have heard more. He might know exactly who I am and where I came from. The thought fills me with shame, but not as much shame as I feel for the sin I breathlessly confess.

“I'm afraid some people from my past have tracked me down. I'm afraid the explosion that blew up the cafeteria was a warning. A warning that I need to leave. I've told Sister Mary Carolina but she either doesn't believe me or she refuses to make me go.” I hesitate, trying to think of how to explain, in case he doesn't remember my story or never really knew it.

“Before I was here, I was in...a bad place, with people who were bad. I managed to run away,” I say, frowning at the horrible memory—which is so much more than merely running away.

“I selfishly sought refuge here, and the nuns were kind enough to take me in and train me to do massage therapy for the children. But I'm afraid that if I want them to be safe, I need to leave. But I can't make myself leave. I'm afraid of death.” My voice cracks, surprising even me. “I'm afraid to die without ever falling in love or having children. I wanted a good life, one that wasn't complicated or full of pain, but I ruined everything.” I press my hands over my eyes, trying to compose myself. I take a few long breaths and find my protective shell again, and along with it, my rationality. My sense of responsibility. “I know that this mess is my fault. I didn't use good judgment and I wasn't living my life in a way that would please God.”

Silence eats my words, and I wipe my eyes with the palm of my hands. My heart is beating hard, and for some reason I think of walking out of my second grade classroom to Aunt Britta’s van, of how my backpack felt so heavy, and I disliked being stuck in that school building all day so much. I want to cry some more, but I manage to hold it in, because I'm not a girl who cries.

Finally, I hear the slight rustle of Father Mendez's robes, and his low voice travels through the thatch.

“The Lord hears you,” he says. “I don't want you to say Hail Marys. Close your eyes and see your past and understand that you have paid these debts already. Sister Mary Carolina—she wishes to shelter you. St. Catherine's offers shelter for all people and if there is danger we will trust our Lord to deliver us.”

And now Father Mendez leans forward, so close to the thatch divider that I can smell a whiff of coffee. When he speaks again, his voice is nothing but a hiss. “But if you want to ensure that God keeps these children safe, I have a message. Walk out the door nearest the site of the explosion Thursday at ten o'clock in the evening.”

He leans back into his seat.

“I cannot promise that the Lord will preserve your life, but I have heard your confession and I believe your heart is pure. If you perish, you will join our savior in Heaven.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Once I decide to go looking for Meredith Kinsey, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. It's my fault she's still in Mexico. If she's dead and gone, that's my fault too. I could have told someone. Shown someone the files I saved on a USB. Copies of e-mails that showed my father conspired with Priscilla Heat and Jim Gunn to sell one of his former mistresses as a sex slave.

When I found out, last May, Cross Carlson had his own shit going on. He was busy making money, tweaking bikes, fucking around.

He’s done fucking around.

I have to drive to Vegas before I do anything else. I leave early Wednesday morning, armed with my trusty leather bike bag, plus my passport and a fake I bought last night from one of my high school buddies, a civil servant who specializes in fake documents for illegal immigrants. After making a pit stop at a bookstore, for a road map of Mexico, I adjusted the Mach’s arm band for extra mobility and steering accuracy. Right before bed, I called my mobile phone provider and got the internet turned back on; I’ve e-mailed both Wil and Napo, plus my old receptionist, Martha, informing them that I’ll let them know something about the shop in the next two weeks. It’s a small step, I know, but it feels good.

The air is cool and crisp at 6 a.m. as I head down I-680 toward Walnut Creek and Dublin, which will get me close to I-5 South. The sky is caught between shades of blue, the grass glows yellow-silver with the sun’s first rays, and on my bike, I feel okay. Capable. Good.

I got a voice mail in the wee hours of this morning from my father. He sounded drunk and said some vaguely threatening shit about the situation between us deteriorating further if I stirred up any trouble regarding ‘the situation we discussed’. If anything, it was the final affirmation that I’m doing the right thing.

I make good time through Walnut Creek, past Livermore; then my route veers eastward, then South on I-5 toward Bakersfield. I make a couple of stops to stretch my arm and shoulder, but I’ve got PB&J and water, plus some jerky and a couple of apples in my bag. It’s enough to tide me over until I get to Vegas.

The nine hour drive is surprisingly enjoyable. I haven’t felt the wind on my face the way it hits you on the highway in a long, long time. I know I must be hard-up for this when I feel my throat get thick outside L.A. It’s not the most beautiful place to ride—far from it—but it just feels so damn good to be back on the road.

By the time I roll to a stop at a gas station in Vegas, it’s mid-afternoon and I’m sweaty, stiff, and tired. Still, I grin when I pull my helmet off and rub a hand back through my sticky, matted hair. I unzip my leather jacket and fish a map of the city out of my bag.

I’m looking for an upscale suburb on the west side of town. It’s called The Woods, although I can’t imagine there are really any ‘woods’ in Vegas. I find Birch Street pretty quickly and, again, feel surprised at the ordinary name.

For Priscilla Heat, I’d imagined something more exotic—and maybe she
was
living somewhere more exotic, before what went down in Mexico two and a half months ago. She and Jim Gunn tried to make Lizzy and I the latest victims of their budding business. While Jim Gunn got arrested right out of Mexico and charged with multiple counts of abduction, human trafficking, and murder, Priscilla didn’t re-surface until March, when she got caught crossing the border with some drug runners near Nogales.

Somehow, both she and Jim Gunn got out on bail. I guess my father’s not the only powerful friend they have. I don’t think there’s any way Jim Gunn won’t get put away for life, but rumor has it Priscilla is planning to turn state’s witness, so she could still come out okay.