“Damnit!” I sink down into the dirt, holding my chest and gasping as I struggle not to totally break down. I want Evan…but he’s no one! “Cross Carlson…” I sob the name. I don’t want him! I don’t want a Carlson anywhere near me!
I put my hands over my eyes and stare down at the dirt as my body trembles and my stomach roils.
“Ma’am, you coming?”
For the longest time, I can’t look up.
“Mrs. Carlson!”
Who am I?
Missy King.
I’m Missy King. Just leave me here!
Drake Carlson didn’t give a damn. Sean didn’t give a damn. My father didn’t give a damn. Nobody ever has. Shame at who I was—at who I am—rolls through me like poison. Cross never cared. He only wanted to lure me to the States. To his father. “Oh God…”
“MA’AM!”
I’m sobbing again as I glance up and out across the field. The guard looks annoyed. The sight of Evan’s body slung over his shoulder pierces me, because I care about him. I care about him and he’s Cross Motherloving Carlson.
I’m really not sure that I can follow them.
28
Merri
SECONDS LATER, ARNIE drops to his knees and dumps Evan to the ground. Across the field, I can hear Cross—Evan—Cross— coughing violently. The sound makes my whole body go cold, but I still can’t move.
Tears flow down my cheeks, dripping down my neck and soaking my shirt collar. As I watch the agent pushing back Cross’s head and bending over him, I want to yell at him to be gentler. But I don’t speak or move. I’m rooted to the ground by wrenching, soul-deep disappointment.
What did you think, Meredith? That ‘Evan’ loved you?
I start to sob again, fully aware, even as I do, that Cross is fighting to breathe and I’m a selfish bitch.
I want to go to him.
I can’t.
I can’t go with him. If I do, I’ll just be Missy King again. It’s true that I’m Missy King here, too, but at least in Mexico, I took control of things. I ran away from Jesus. I helped kids at the clinic. I learned massage therapy. If my only choices are being repossessed by Drake or dying here, I think I should just die here as Merri,
I turn and finally I have the momentum I need to move somewhere. I throw my legs out in front of me, sprinting toward the road and Cross’s motorcycle. The thumping whirr of the helicopter blades is a roar now, and I imagine that behind me they’re loading up. About to leave. I fist my hands and run harder, telling myself that this is my only choice. I can’t be Missy King again. I can’t go back to Drake Carlson. Not even for his son.
That’s when I hear my name—my real name: “Meredith.” It’s like he knows I want to run.
But that’s impossible.
I start to count aloud. I’m not turning around and I don’t want to hear him—but there it is again.
“Meredith!”
His strangled, half-choked voice is barely audible, but I can hear it, and it sends a jolt through my whole body. I’m panting, half sobbing. I can’t be Missy King, I remind myself. I won’t be Missy King again!
I reach the bike and wonder if I remember how to start one of these things. I wrap my hand around the handle, and that’s when I notice the blood all over the seat. I want to think of myself—of what I have to do—but all I can think about is how he clung to me in the shower, begging me not to leave him to face his pain alone.
I can’t leave without making sure he’s okay.
When I turn around, I see him, not on his way to the helicopter, but clinging to Arnie and limping toward me.
“Meredith?” I can’t hear him now, but I can see my name on his pretty lips. And as I walk closer, I can see that there’s blood on his lips, too. The guard is waving, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Cross’s face is pale as snow. His brilliant blue eyes look almost black against his bloodless skin.
Holy crap, he’s bleeding out for me.
I rush toward him. If I tell him to leave, maybe he will. Maybe Arnie will make him go.
I get within a stone’s throw and he moans my name again.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps. His glazed eyes struggle to focus on my face as his words slur. “Don’ leave me. Please Merri…don’t leave me.”
That’s when he passes out.
I TRY TO convince the guards to take us out of El Paso, but they tell me Cross is losing blood too fast. Immediately afterward, I feel terrible for even asking, but I’m scared. We’re way too close to Mexico for comfort, and I don’t think it’ll be hard for the cartel to figure out where we were taken.
During the brief flight to the hospital, I give them as much of Cross’s medical history as I can, focusing mostly on what I know about his neck. If they have to put that breathing tube down his throat, they might need to know to be careful.