Part 22 (1/2)

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 gra.s.s. 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 s.p.a.ce 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.

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 s.h.i.+t. Too tired.

It's f.u.c.king 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.

Last night, Lizzy came to my room to try to get the story. It's not my room-I got stuck in Hunter's old suite-but that didn't stop me from shutting the door on her. I guess the message wasn't clear enough, because Suri dropped by next, a little after nine o'clock. I pretended to be sleeping, but she had her own key. She came bearing a can of Sunkist. I wouldn't let her give me a sip of it, but I was secretly glad she brought a long straw and left the drink on one of the higher shelves of Hunter's entertainment center-one only a little lower than my head. Lifting my right arm is agony, and of course, the left one won't take orders.

I tell them I'm wearing the pain patches, but I'm not. In a way, the pain is good. It allows me to feel something that's not stuffed inside my f.u.c.king chest. It takes my mind off Merri. Already, I'm wondering how soon I can get back to my weight-lifting routine. If I can drive myself hard, this will get better. I just need to go home.

I have no idea where Merri is or what she's doing, and I have no idea what my father knows about what's happened in the last few days. He could do anything. I don't think he'd hurt me, but I don't really know. I know I want to hurt him. I might, too. But I'm also opening my shop and getting back to work. Not being able to use my right arm much is making me itchy to do things again, and one of them is work.

I stare out at the yard, shrugging my shoulder just enough to hurt. The wound is sore, but I think it's healing okay. I raise my arm, enjoying the pain as I take another gulp of my screwdriver. It makes my head feel cottony and warm, makes my chest feel full and heavy. Not so empty like it has been.

Yesterday Suri gave me back my jacket. Told me she got it from an off-duty nurse who was around when I came in.

”What'd she look like?” I asked.

Red hair. Had my blood all over her.

Yeah. Bet I know who that was.

Merri left. Got scared and f.u.c.king left.

I don't blame her, but it hurts.

I finish off the screwdriver. Make my way inside to get another one. Only when I'm at the bar, I hear myself ask for a vodka on the rocks. I drink it on my way back to my chair. s.h.i.+t, this s.h.i.+t is strong. I kinda forgot. This must be why I used to drink so much. Have s.e.x, too. Isn't that what I used to do? f.u.c.k around?

I liked that, right?

I did.

Maybe I should go find someone to f.u.c.k.

I picture her green eyes and her long, wavy hair. I can't stop thinking of those huge t.i.ts. Her hands were always really soft. I liked her hands.

I look down at my hands. I should use them to beat the s.h.i.+t out of my father. One of them. But then he'd know. He would know I went to Mexico.

I think I need a refill. I stand up, and I see a f.u.c.king mirage, following Marchant toward the pond.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

I was looking for Rach.e.l.le when I ran into Marchant. Well, when I saw him. He didn't see me. He was walking away from the bar downstairs with a brown box underneath his arm. I kind of wondered if he might have taken to taking jobs himself, or maybe having s.e.x with one of the girls, because he was wearing a black robe and black sleep pants. No shoes.

Weird, right?

Well then it gets weirder. I catch up to him maybe fifty feet behind the largest of the three mansions-the one where all the work happens and also the one where I'm staying in his suite. Because I'm feeling bold and a little desperate, and also because I'm super curious about why he's crossing the lawn dressed like Hugh Heffner, I call his name.

He spins around and strides to me, looking so intense that for a second I think he might hit me. Instead he grabs my forearm and s.n.a.t.c.hes me closer. I try to twist my arm away, but his grip is tight.

”W-what are you doing?” My voice wobbles, and I try to make myself relax. If I relax, there's a good chance he will, too, and then I'll s.n.a.t.c.h my arm away and run.

I look him over, noting the stubble on his cheeks, around his thicker goatee; also the way his red-blond-brown hair sticks up, like he's been running his fingers through it all day.

”What am I doing?” he asks. ”I think the question is, what are you doing?”

I frown, and he lets go of my arm. It's a gentle release, as if he just forgot to keep holding it. ”What do you mean, what am I-”

”You were following me,” he interrupts. His grey eyes widen. ”Don't tell me you're a f.u.c.king spy.”