Taming Cross (Love Inc 2)

He said he recognized me from the governor’s arm. He also said that after I disappeared, some of the girls who worked with their money to send a P.I. to San Luis to hunt for me. I almost cried when he told me that. That’s how unexpected it was.

At first I didn’t want to go with him, but he said he’d already chartered a jet for some urgent business anyway, so why didn’t I go with him? I didn’t trust him, so he offered to call Loveless for me. Once she offered to meet us at the airport and take me to the brothel in her car, I realized I wouldn’t find better offers, so I got on Marchant’s chartered plane.

The flight to Vegas was rough. I did Sudoku puzzles out of this little book I found in the back of one of the chairs, and as I worked, I let my hair hang down, so Marchant Radcliffe wouldn’t see me cry. He stayed in the jet’s small bedroom the whole time, though, so by the time we’d been off the ground for half an hour, I just put my head in my hands and let myself go.

A lot of my tears were for Cross—for Evan—but I was surprised to find how many other things are getting underneath my skin.

It’s just so weird being back in the States. I push the bubbles around on the surface of the water, thinking about how many times I wished for this. How I really didn’t think I’d ever be here. Not at Love Inc., of course—but in the States. Today, I used a whole big wad of toilet tissue for a Number One. I nearly clogged up the toilet. The wastefulness of it didn’t bother me nearly as much as I’d thought it would. It was kind of nice.

The first day, when I stepped off the plane and into Loveless’s adorable red Mini Cooper, I pointed the vents right at me and nearly purred. I rode in an air conditioned car with Jesus, but the clinic didn’t have A.C. Just window fans.

One of the first things I did here was use the laptop Rachelle loaned me to look at a few Mexican news sites and blogs. Rachelle is Marchant’s second-in-command, and she’s been looking after me since Marchant took off on vacation. She’s the one who told me Marchant wanted me to use his own suite. I thought that was insanely nice. Anyway, the news sites confirmed for me that the clinic is okay. That’s about all I found, other than a very vague news story about some trouble at the border checkpoint we passed through. Sometimes the media is in the cartels’ pockets, too.

Is it weird that I know all this? That I know, if they come for me, exactly how they will trace my footsteps? What they’ll do to me?

Loveless says she thinks I should talk to the brothel’s resident psychologist. So far, I’ve managed to put her off, but the truth is, I could maybe see the benefit in that. I’m not sure I’d want to be honest about everything, but it might be worth my time to go once or twice.

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.