Taming Cross (Love Inc 2)

She’s not actually topless. My eyes pass over her face and down her swan-like neck, drawn to her lacy bra, visible underneath a ripped white blouse. Small, pert boobs are on display—at least they are until her hands fly up to cover them. She has flawless nails, too. My gaze is roving her outfit, curious to see what this human Barbie wears, when her hands fly from her boobs to her face and she starts sobbing.

I take a step back and try to think of what to do, but it turns out it doesn’t matter. As soon as the first sob pops out, the girl sinks down to the wax-shiny floor, tucks her legs up around her, and buries her head between her thin, tone arms.

A moment passes, and I notice her scent. It’s all sweetness and vanilla. Not perfume. It must be lotion.

C’mon, Meredith, get with it.

The girl is sobbing like the world just ended and here I am, staring at her with my jaw on the floor.

I need to say something. I’m just not sure what. It’s been so long since I’ve seen someone like her… Compared to this flawless creature, I don’t even feel female. I’m like…desert scuz. With blood all over my yoga pants and long-sleeved t-shirt, I’ve considered putting Cross’s leather jacket back on a few times, but instead it’s sitting folded on a shelf above me; I want to put it on now, but that would just draw attention to what I’m trying to hide.

I’m in the middle of a mental tug-o-war, fighting my urge to see Cross with my fear of being found by dirty cops or the cartel, and trying to decide what to do about the girl, when she starts talking through her tears:

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with ME?!” Her eyes fly up to mine, and I blink.

The girl hops to her feet and spins in a circle like a cornered humming bird. Then she throws up her hands. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me!”

I don’t either. I look the crying girl over, holding her desperate gaze with my calming one. I ask, “What happened to your shirt?”

She covers her face and starts to cry again. Just when I’m wondering how horrible it would be to bolt, she peeks at me from between her skinny fingers and heaves a teary sigh. “I tore it.”

I frown—that much is already obvious—and she shakes her head. “No, I’m saying I tore it. I got pissed off, and I tore it! Like a wrestler!”

I laugh a little, then cover my mouth, feeling terrible, but the girl starts cackling, too.

“It’s okay. I’m insane. I know.”

I shake my head, because even though I have no idea what’s going on with her, I definitely understand the sentiment. “You’re not insane. Just upset.”

She nods, and as she does, she’s looking me over. Probably noticing that I’m blood-stained and my hair is crazy. Her brows narrow, but only for a moment, and then she’s crying again. “My life is so messed up. You don’t even know. First my fiancé broke things off and then I fell for my best guy friend. It was messed up—really messed up—but I’ve had a crush on him since like, the dawn of time, and he was in the middle of a really awful time and I just… I don’t know.” Her voice cracks.

“I think I just wanted to be invaluable to someone.” She swallows, nodding as she holds my gaze. “He really needed me at the time, and I wanted to feel special.” She sniffs and wipes her nose. “I let myself get carried away. And then I embarrassed myself. And now he’s here, and I want to be his friend and be here for him but I’m not sure how I can.” Tears drip off her chin and she wipes them out of her eyes. She glanced all about the room, then her eyes land on the shelf beside me. Her lips pucker, and she glances to me, then back to the shelf.

“Oh my God, is that Cross Carlson’s jacket?” The crying starts again as she points a finger at me. “Are you his wife? Are you the biker chick he met in Mexico!”

I’m sure I must look like a deer in headlights. The pretty girl’s eyes pop out, and she turns her back to me. “I can’t believe I told you all that!” She wails. “I can’t—Oh my God!”

“I’m not his wife.” When I say that, she turns slowly around, and I get the feeling that whatever I say next is helping her off some kind of ledge. “I don’t even know him,” I say. And then the lie just goes from there. “I’m a nurse. I came in off-shift for a meeting with my boss and I got caught in the commotion surrounding, I guess your friend? Mr. Carlson. I helped them get him from the roof to the OR, and someone handed me this.” I feel like I’m giving this girl a piece of my heart as I pass the jacket to her. “I’m hiding in this closet to avoid…my boss,” I quickly lie. “He and I have this complicated thing…”