I smile a little, figuring Suri must be thinking the same thing, but instead of complimenting me she frowns a little and shakes her head. "This is your choice, Lizzy. Remember you don't have to go. I have money."
After a second reminding myself she's only looking out for me, so I shouldn't roll my eyes or get irritated, I snicker. "I do realize I'm not a sex slave."
"Speaking of sex slaves!" She hops up and opens the drawer of the desk where she keeps her fabric swatches. She holds out something small and black, and I'm shocked to find that it's a gun case.
She holds it out to me, and I wobble backwards. "Suri, have you lost your mind? I'm not touching that death machine.”
"It's a .38. You need it! Some escorts have been kidnapped and sold into sex slavery or murdered or eaten!"
"Really?" I pause, mid-chew. I've heard a lot of things about Las Vegas, but not that.
"Well, the cannibalism is just a pessimistic guess." She rolls her eyes, like the specifics don't matter. "They've gone missing. Two or three, I think. One of them was even from Love Inc. Surely you've heard about—"
"I have," I lie, because really—I don't need any added stress. I probably would have heard about it, had I done excessive Googling on Love Inc., but I didn't. Because I really don't care to know more about it than I do. I'll be there for a little over a week and a half, and then I'll be back home. Surely I can avoid getting cannibalized or kidnapped in eleven days.
Suri pushes the gun into my hand, and I take it. Not because I'd ever shoot someone, but because I want to ease her mind.
"Remember, if you have a problem, call me," she says, with her lip between her teeth.
"I'll just shoot 'em dead." I smile, waving my gun, and she says, "Don't do that! It may be loaded."
"You just gave me a loaded gun?"
"No, but you’re always supposed to act like it’s loaded!”
With a wide-eyed look at the little black case, I tuck the gun into my bag and turn to Suri, who's holding out the plastic box of cinnamon rolls.
"Don't forget these."
"How could I?" I'm an absolute sucker for orange frosted cinnamon rolls.
Together we walk to my jam-packed car, where I put that awful handgun in the trunk and Suri checks the tire pressure. She once had a flat outside Tyler, Texas, on one of those lonely country roads. She was rescued by a border patrol agent who was dressed like a smuggler; the experience was scarring, so since then she's always checked my tire pressure.
"Looks like you're good," she says, holding out the gauge. Then she throws her arms around me. "Lizzy, you look wonderful. I hope it's perfect and whoever wins the bid is a total prince charming. I'll come visit soon."
I squeeze her close. "The bidding's not for a week and a half, remember?"
"I can't be away from you for that long, crazy woman."
Suri and I hug once more, and when she closes me into my car, I'm reminded of Hunter, which makes my chest ache. I really need to try to forget about Hunter.
I roll down the window, preparing to wave until I reach the end of the driveway. Suri will do the same; it's our thing.
"Lizzy," she calls, as I shift into drive. She trots over to my window, her long sweater trailing behind her. "I'll visit Cross. Every day, if you want."
If I want...
It's hard to hide my smirk, but I manage. "Suri, that would rock."
She smiles a smile that's bigger than it ought to be, and then says, "Tell him 'hi.'"
"Huh?"
"Cross. Aren't you seeing him on your way out?"
"Yeah."
"Tell him I said 'hi.'"
*
I visit Cross at Napa Valley Involved Rehab and am thrilled to find him doing better. The gauze is off his head, and Nanette says his brain scans look much the same as they did the last time he was scanned at NVIR—meaning the stroke was minor and hasn’t affected his long-term prognosis. Amazing. His eyes drift open once or twice, which leaves me feeling buoyant. I'm similarly thrilled when I speak to Mom on the phone and find out it's a 'busy' day at Ultra Mod/Hip Rehab, and she doesn't have time to see me before I leave town.
It takes me ten hours to drive to Vegas, but the driving is important. I have a lot to think about, and I need time to process it.
I'm really doing this. I'm really on my way to the Love Inc. ranch to sell my virginity.
I’ve dressed up. I'm wearing my new brown Armani slacks, the ones that make my ass look tight and perky, and a low-cut, sea blue wrap-around blouse that matches my eyes. I've pulled my dark hair into a playful up-do, and for once, I'm actually wearing lipstick. I feel sexy.
For a few hours, my mind cycles through practical concerns, like whether I have enough lingerie, and what kind of man likes garters. Superficial thoughts, like what kind of lotion I should use on the big night, and whether I need to shower before the bidding or if I’ll have time after.
Richard and I have agreed that I'll get more money if I offer myself to the winner the night of the bidding. What will I feel like, lying on a stage under those glowing lights, with my face shadowed and steam rolling around my mostly naked body?
What if I’m still to pudgy? What if the winner doesn't like having sex with me and wants a refund?
Will the escorts treat me nicely?
The California hills flatten and the grass turns into sand. The air through my vents feels hot and dry. I loosen up a little and my thoughts dip deeper—to Cross. It's still so strange, the way things are now. He should be talking to me. He should be on a bike.
I have a strange and fleeting memory of the shape of Cross's fingertips, holding a pencil as he sketches. How, as a girl, I used to picture those hands when I thought about being fingered.
My eyes water as I think about his hair. How soft it was when it was long and dark and messy. How brilliant blue his eyes are. How they widened that night in the hall when I ran into him at Hunter's party.
He was just trying to watch out for me, even if he was being dick-tastic about it.
I go another round of wishing I'd acted differently. What the outcome would be. I think of Suri, secretly visiting Cross every day while he was at the county hospital. For how long? What were the logistics? I try to imagine her sitting in that awful, stinky place, legs crossed, her wavy hair pulled back, and everything about her radiating Suri; privileged Suri. I wonder if Cross felt safe when she sat there by him. I wonder if he felt loved when she pecked him on the forehead or smoothed his covers—two so very Suri things to do, I know she must have done them.