Maybe I could talk about Cross.
I curl my hand around a particularly glittery ball of bubbles and squish them. The crinkling sound they make doesn’t give me any satisfaction, so I climb out of the tub and dry my body roughly.
Cross.
The man I left in ICU.
Son of my very own personal evil villain.
Cross Carlson. Evan. My fantasy.
Since coming here, I’ve dreamed about him every night. Not dreams—nightmares. While I know that leaving was the right thing to do, the practical thing, the only thing to do…I still feel horrible about it. Cross might have deceived me, but I deserted him. Which is worse?
My eyes burn, and I take a deep breath, releasing tension the way Sister Carolina taught me. I slip into a robe—one of several in Marchant Radcliffe’s opulent bathroom closet—and sit in the window seat, which is big enough to be a twin bed. From my spot amidst an army of silk pillows, I can see acres of Love Inc.’s grounds. Pristine grass. Big, willowy trees. There’s a gazebo, a labyrinth, and even a duck pond.
Today, the sky is blue. The sun is bright. I’m miles and miles away from Mexico, away from danger…and I’m miserable.
I wander over to the king-sized bed and flop down on the comforter. Within minutes of my arrival here, a housekeeper claimed all of Marchant’s linens, leaving me with a fresh, deep green duvet, plus some beige silk sheets.
“Does he go on vacation and leave his room to strangers on a regular basis?” I asked her.
She smiled discreetly and said only, “Mr. Radcliffe is a thoughtful host.”
Whatever that means.
Don’t get me wrong: It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I am. I’m very grateful. Loveless and I have been working out with some of the other girls in the escorts’ gym, and everyone I’ve met so far has been absolutely wonderful—patient, discreet, and understanding, giving me the space I need to process things.
And I have, sort of. I’ve done a lot of thinking about my last year and a half. What it means to me. The parts I hate. The parts I miss. I’ve even thought a little about what happened right before I left Jesus. And thinking about it here, it doesn’t feel as threatening as it once did. Maybe I can even work up enough nerve to tell the shrink about it.
It’s been good being here, and I feel safe-ish. That much, I relish. But I miss Cross. I miss Evan. I miss the guy. It doesn’t matter what I call him, who he is—I miss his freakin’ face. All four days I’ve been here. I’m tired of missing him, I decide to find out when Marchant will be back from his vacation.
I have a fantasy, a terrible one I hate to admit, that Marchant’s ‘vacation’ is really a trip back to El Paso. How insane would it be if Marchant was in on Cross’s plans, and he chartered the jet just to whisk me off to somewhere safe. And now he’s going to get Cross and Cross and I will meet up again here.
It’s a fantasy…
I know that.
But after missing Cross like crazy for four days, I feel more willing to indulge in those—instead of less.
I’ve met two of his friends, and neither Marchant nor bra girl seemed like a Priscilla type. The girl said Cross didn’t even tell his buddies where he was going when he went to Mexico. (Yes, I’m aware that makes the aforementioned fantasy scenario highly unlikely. So what?) I ask myself, in light of what I know, what are the odds that I’m actually in danger? Danger from Cross, I mean.
I tell myself they’re very low.
I tell myself he doesn’t like that perfect Barbie with the lacy bra.
I tell myself I’m not being an idiot. Not like before, with other guys.
This guy is different. At least that’s what I tell myself. Then I put on the most comfortable outfit Loveless loaned me, spritz on some of the perfume that I found in Marchant’s cabinet, and stride into the hall to take a more active role in my fate.
I’m sitting in an Adirondack chair on the violently green lawn behind the English manor where Marchant and his women do their business. It’s barely three o’clock, and I’m on my fourth screwdriver. There’s an open bar just inside the back doors on the main floor, and the bartenders there have practically hunted me down to get me loaded.
It’s pity, yeah—they’ve probably got orders to get the armless guy sloshed—but I don’t really give a shit. Too tired.
It’s f**king hot outside in Vegas, but my drink is cold, and I’m becoming too numb to notice or care much anyway. I’ve only been here a day and I’m already sick of it. I need to go back to Napa. I’m still here because something’s going on with Lizzy. In my less self-absorbed moments, I can tell. Once I figure it out, I’ll do whatever I can for her, but then I’m splitting. I can hear my nice, cold, lonely shop loft calling my name. When I get there, I won’t have to talk to anyone or think about anything. Especially Merri.
Last night, Lizzy came to my room to try to get the story. It’s not my room—I got stuck in Hunter’s old suite—but that didn’t stop me from shutting the door on her. I guess the message wasn’t clear enough, because Suri dropped by next, a little after nine o’clock. I pretended to be sleeping, but she had her own key. She came bearing a can of Sunkist. I wouldn’t let her give me a sip of it, but I was secretly glad she brought a long straw and left the drink on one of the higher shelves of Hunter’s entertainment center—one only a little lower than my head. Lifting my right arm is agony, and of course, the left one won’t take orders.
I tell them I’m wearing the pain patches, but I’m not. In a way, the pain is good. It allows me to feel something that’s not stuffed inside my f**king chest. It takes my mind off Merri. Already, I’m wondering how soon I can get back to my weight-lifting routine. If I can drive myself hard, this will get better. I just need to go home.
I have no idea where Merri is or what she’s doing, and I have no idea what my father knows about what’s happened in the last few days. He could do anything. I don’t think he’d hurt me, but I don’t really know. I know I want to hurt him. I might, too. But I’m also opening my shop and getting back to work. Not being able to use my right arm much is making me itchy to do things again, and one of them is work.
I stare out at the yard, shrugging my shoulder just enough to hurt. The wound is sore, but I think it’s healing okay. I raise my arm, enjoying the pain as I take another gulp of my screwdriver. It makes my head feel cottony and warm, makes my chest feel full and heavy. Not so empty like it has been.