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.
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.
Cross
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 fucking 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.