Then I call Ansley’s, a discreet escort service I used to use, years ago, before I decided it was bad for business. I order three women, all with short, dark hair, and spend the next few hours trying to escape myself.
When they leave, I stumble into the bathroom, dressed in nothing. I look at myself in the mirror and I see someone I’ve never seen before. I try to pull the wrong hair out and try to wash the wrong face off, but it doesn’t work. In fact, I’m bleeding now.
From somewhere very far away, I remember Dr. Libby telling me to take some Ativan if this happens. So I take some. I can’t remember how many, so I settle on five, and now it’s getting dark.
7
SURI
I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window that serves as one of my small bedroom’s four walls. The view is post-card pretty. Dusky, golden light twinkles off a large, heart-shaped pool. All around the pool are iron chairs and ferns. Behind that, shadowed by the setting sun, is a grove of oak trees so large I can hardly see their tops. Through the shadows, past a few weeping willows and a beautiful pond, are two rows of cottages. English-style, so stone, with wooden shingle roofs and lots of wildflowers all around the front porches.
I feel like I’m at a resort, but that’s just a façade. Because this isn’t a resort, and I can’t really enjoy these beautiful grounds. In fact, I haven’t enjoyed myself since we arrived yesterday afternoon.
That’s because the resort is Love Inc.
Marchant Radcliffe’s brothel.
Cross is recovering, aided by the open bar in the first floor lobby. We came here for him—so Lizzy and I could keep an eye on him while he recovers from the loss of “Merri”—but so far, the place doesn’t seem to be helping him at all, and neither are we.
Meredith is the real name of Missy King, one of Cross’s father’s former mistresses—one who got caught up in a terrible situation and ended up sold as a sex slave in Mexico.
I’m still not clear on all the details, but somehow Cross found out about her fate and went south to try to find her. He did, but after they made it to America, she disappeared again.
He isn’t actually married to her. That was just a lie they told at the hospital.
The weird thing is, I’m pretty sure Cross wishes it was true.
I don’t know for sure, because he won’t talk to me. He won’t talk to anybody. He’ll hardly even come out of his room on the second floor. If Lizzy and I want to see how he’s doing, we have to knock for ages before he might open the door—and if he does, he’s red-eyed and solemn. Like he’s mourning for this woman. Which I guess he is. Clearly, he is.
I watch some uniformed employees pull a sheet of cement over the pool—they seem to be turning it into a dance floor—and wish the Cross thing didn’t bother me. I shouldn’t care that Cross has fallen hard for this girl. It’s not my business, and besides, no one even knows where she is. I hope she’s okay, and I should hope she pops back up, but if I’m totally honest with myself, I hope she stays away. I don’t know much about her other than her unfortunate situation in Mexico, but…at one point she was seeing Cross’s father. That’s just sleazy—right?
Why doesn’t Cross think so?
I lean my head against the window and sigh. My breath makes a fog circle on the glass, obscuring the backyard, so all I can see is the fading gold of sunlight and a bunch of shadows. It suits my mood.
Somehow, I got stuck with Lizzy and Hunter in this huge suite Marchant built for Hunter back when this place first opened and the boys were living out their frat house fantasy.
The suite is large enough for three, I guess—it has four bedrooms—but it’s still awkward, sharing space with them. I feel like a third wheel.
This is made worse because I know Lizzy is keeping something from me. I’m not sure what, but she never hangs around to talk to me when Hunter goes into the Love Inc. library to work. She grabs her laptop and says she’s going off somewhere in the building to work herself, on her master’s thesis; she’s trying to complete it at a distance, and I get that…but it’s weird that she doesn’t want to spend any time with me. We’re best friends, remember?
My breath on the window dissipates, and I see a cluster of beautiful women spill around the pool. They’re talking animatedly about something—I can hear their voices through the glass—and my heart catches when I realize the woman at the center of the group is Lizzy.
I swallow hard and tell myself to grow a thicker skin. She’s doing her ethics thesis on the escorts here, so of course she needs to talk to them. Besides, they’re her friends now—right?
She introduced me to most of them almost as soon as we arrived here. And when we came back to the room, I was withdrawn and quiet because I feel kind of uncomfortable around these confident, extroverted women who see things so differently than I do.
Lizzy knows me. She could probably tell I was uncomfortable, so she’s hanging out with them solo. What’s the point of inviting me?
I sit back on my king-sized bed and think of Cross, occupying the single room nearest to the stairs, one floor up.
I could check on Cross.
I will check on Cross. He’s probably in his room brooding. But he’s the reason I’m here, after all. And if he doesn’t answer the door, I’ll go do some yoga by the pond.
I dress in black yoga pants and a pink sleeveless shirt, plus my sneakers, and I’m out the door in just a few minutes.
I knock twice on Cross’s door before he answers. My heart jumps into my throat. He hasn’t answered my knocks since we’ve been here. All I want is for our friendship to go back to normal. The door swings open, and I find myself staring at a young, blonde girl.
I frown. “Meredith?”
She shakes her head. “Lucy. I’m cleaning up.”
“Oh, so Cross is gone?”
“I guess so. The room is empty.”
It smells like a bar. I feel sorry for the girl. “Okay…well, thanks.”
She nods and closes the door, and I’m not sure what to do with myself now. I make a slow circle on a red runner covering the hardwood. There’s another one of those big, floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the hall. I can see Lizzy by the pool with her escort friends. I tell myself I could be out there with her, if I hadn’t acted so reserved—okay, antisocial—last night.
I can’t help remembering the conversation Lizzy and I had before she came to Vegas: me, telling her that sex should be with someone you really care about, and Lizzy insisting that it didn’t have to matter so much. Now Lizzy’s met her soul mate and I’m alone, letting drunk strangers get me off in bathrooms, no less.