Taming Cross.

The Love Inc. Series.

by Ella James.

CHAPTER ONE.

Since the accident, I've had a sixth sense. I'm not even f.u.c.king kidding you. I think it started because of the pain. I don't remember much about the coma-most of it is sounds and smells and feelings stretched apart and pushed together like a dream under water-but I remember the pain. It was...different than the pain you feel when you're awake. The kind of s.h.i.t that flows through every part of you. Sweeps you up and swallows you. And lots of times, I could feel it coming like you hear a train from a few miles out.

The day I had the stroke was like that. I had started to come around a little and my body knew its routines, even if my mind was still in Neverland. So I could tell something was off when they wheeled me out of my room and into the ambulance, moving me from the sw.a.n.ky a.s.s private rehab where I started to a state facility for people whose families couldn't do better, or in my case, just said f.u.c.k it. As they loaded me up into the ambulance, I could feel that panic. I could feel myself slipping down, to somewhere dark you can't crawl out of.

Since I've come out of the coma, every time I get that panicked feeling, bad things happen.

Like when I got it two months ago, sitting in my friend Lizzy's Camry, waiting for her to come out of Hunter West's Napa Valley home. I woke up from a nap drenched in cold sweat, just as Priscilla Heat-my dad's former mistress, who sold her predecessor into the s.e.x trade-walked around the house and rapped her long red nails on my window. And I knew, half a second before I saw the spark of her Taser, that I was f.u.c.ked.

Tonight, I tell myself it's my parents throwing off my equilibrium. Making me feel bad. That weird kind of bad that I've come to know and fear. The fingers of my left hand tingle and my neck feels tight. I blink into the mirror and I squeeze my eyes shut. Grab a deep breath. Keep shaving.

I don't shave every day anymore, but my buddy Suri will be here in a few minutes, and if I don't get rid of my beard before she shows up, she'll know I've been holed up.

When was the last day I went out? Suri and Lizzy hauled me to The Napa Noodle...eight days ago? The night before they left for Paris. They got back yesterday-Friday-with Lizzy's wedding gown in tow. I left the house on Monday. Grocery run. So yeah, it's been four days.

I'm taking it slow on my neck-I'm a leftie, and since my motorcycle wreck, my left hand's pretty much f.u.c.ked-but when I hear the bell atop the shop door ding, I speed up. Occasionally when I was in rehab, Suri shaved me, and if she sees how long it takes me, even after three month's practice, she's likely to try again.

My fingers sweat as I finish up my jaw. I hear the gentle clomping of expensive heels on cement stairs leading up to my loft, and- f.u.c.k! I feel a sharp sting under the razor, followed by a crimson bloom that quickly starts snaking down my neck. I'm muttering curses, tossing the razor into the sink, when Suri calls my name.

"Just a second," I call through the door. d.a.m.nit, I sound surly.

"Okay." Suri, as always, sounds like she belongs in the angel choir.

I pull open the swing-out mirror, revealing a shallow medicine cabinet that doesn't hold a shave stick. s.h.i.t. Through the door, I can hear Suri humming "Sympathy for the Devil." Guilt p.r.i.c.kles through me, like I'm growing a cactus underneath my skin, and I feel it again-that dark tug that's just a breath away from panic.

I use my stupid but working right hand to press tissue against the cut while I ease my left arm into its shirt sleeve. A few of my half-curled fingers get caught on the inside of the cuff, and I'm trying to get my numb hand through when she calls, "C? You okay in there?"

"Fine." I'm trying for a more chill tone this time, but I don't really manage it. I still sound ornery. I'm probably the last person Suri should be spending her night with. Except, of course, my a.s.shole parents-and they're the reason for this whole ordeal.

I smash the tissue onto my jaw and inhale deeply. This was a mistake, letting her go with me. I pull the tissue off my face. It's still bleeding, but it's slowed now, enough that I can get my shirt the rest of the way on.

The dress shirt is blue, which I happen to know makes my blue eyes look bluer, not that I give a f.u.c.k tonight. It feels like a lifetime since I tried to get a piece of a.s.s-or thought about my appearance. I'm only looking myself over now to see what my parents will see: dark brown hair still a little shorter than I used to wear it; probably a good thing, because it makes me look more bulky. As I run my gaze down my shoulders, chest, and slacks, then back up to my face, I see myself clearly for the first time in a while, and I'm surprised to feel a sick pit in my stomach.

I look like s.h.i.t.

Not as bad as I did a few months back-not nearly-but still, not like me. For starters, I'm too d.a.m.n lean. I remember around the time Priscilla Heat and her lowlife partner in crime, Jim Gunn, hauled my friend Lizzy and me off to Mexico, hoping to dispose of us so we didn't spill their human trafficking secret, I was really lean. I could feel my hip bones and my ribs. The bones in my wrists and hands jutted out, and my face looked bony, like I needed to eat a motherf.u.c.king sandwich.

I'm not emaciated anymore, but I still look different. Muscle over bone, and not a whole lot else. Then there's the scars: on my temple, in my hair, under my collar, on my neck, on my hands, the creases of my elbows...and way too many underneath my clothes. I realize in this moment that I hate them. They make me feel... f.u.c.k it, I don't know. Like a turtle without a sh.e.l.l.

I grit my teeth and rub my right hand through my hair. Tuck my b.u.m left hand into my slacks pocket and shove through the bathroom door.

I don't bother faking it for Suri. No need for a phony smile as I step into the little loft s.p.a.ce above my bike shop, where I keep my weights, my mini-fridge, two plastic bins of clothes, and my narrow bed.

Suri is perched on the edge of my mattress, wearing some kind of silky, pale green dress that's short enough to show off her legs and strappy over her sun-kissed shoulders. Goes well with her hazel eyes and brown curls and is completely Suri. She's as polished as Lizzy is natural.

"Cross! What the heck?"

I frown before remembering my jaw. "Oh." I cover it with my right hand, but it's too late. Suri's on her feet, gliding toward me in a haze of sweet perfume. With her chest only inches from mine, she catches my hand in hers and spreads her fingers over mine, so for a long second we're both touching my face. Our fingers tangle further as she pushes my hand away from the cut and makes a clucking sound.

Her subtly made-up eyes flick over mine. An eyebrow arches. "Shaving, weren't you?"

"Smart, aren't you?" I smirk at her, and Suri swats at me. "I am smart. Smarter than some of us, who hack themselves to pieces!" She sticks her pink tongue out, wiggling it in a way that tightens my pants. "I bet you hadn't shaved in days. Am I right?" She folds her arms in front of her slim waist, giving me a pointed, wifely look.

I shrug and shift my feet, putting a bit of s.p.a.ce between us as I look her over. "What about you, Madeline? Paris treat you ladies right?"

Suri grins. "I'm surprised you know your kid lit."

I shrug. "Lizzy's house." I mean Lizzy's childhood home, where I hid out for a few months when the s.h.i.t with my dad and the whole s.e.x-slave mistress situation got real sketchy. "She said she got the Madeline books to give to Martine or Marino or whatever her name is. Her little sister." As in, from Big Brothers Big Sisters. I shrug. "But they ended up in Lizzy's bathroom."

"Where you read them." Suri giggles, lightly touching my elbow with the back of her hand. Her eyes linger on mine half a second too long, and I can't ignore the emotion that I see in them: not just friendship, but something more akin to...adoration. Maybe I'm seeing things.

A second later, the look melts off her face, and she reaches into her purse for a little pack of tissue. I shuffle my feet as she dabs my jaw. Her thin brows pinch together as she draws it away, opening her purse again, this time to pull out a small bottle of water. She pours a few drops on the tissue. Instead of letting her wipe at my face again, I grab the thing from her and do it myself.

I can tell she doesn't like that. She tries to keep her face neutral, but I know her well enough to see the way her mouth pulls down just a little at the corners. Disappointed.

I don't get it. Am I supposed to let her mother me? Why would she want to? It's not like my own mother ever did. I ball the tissue up and toss it onto my bed, not caring if the blood stains my dingy gray blanket.

It wasn't always like this-things so complicated between Lizzy, Suri, and I. For years Suri's parents called us the Three Musketeers, and we were friends. Just friends. I f.u.c.ked it up first by getting a hard-on for Lizzy. Then Lizzy met Hunter West, they got engaged, and I put a cap on my feelings. Around the same time, Suri and her fiance, Adam, had a messy split, and I was laid up in rehab, still half dead. I think Suri needed the distraction of me. I'm not gonna lie: I love her for it. I will always love her for it. But I don't love this. The expectation.

What the h.e.l.l does she want?

I'm looking into her eyes, trying to think of something funny to make her smile, when Suri leans in and puts her palm on my chest.

"Cross," she murmurs, looking earnestly up at me as her fingers move slowly over my shirt. "Did I do something wrong?"

I blink down at her. "No." Yes-and this is it! I look at her hand on my chest and think about how wrong it is: the way I'm thinking about her t.i.ts, freed from her bra, squeezed by my fingers. The way some wicked part of me knows, I could f.u.c.k her if I really tried.

And d.a.m.nit, wouldn't I like to?

I can't jerk off anymore-not since the crash. At first I thought it was the stroke or something messing with my junk, but then I went to Marchant's perv ranch and some chick named Loveless got me off in less than twenty seconds, so I know it's not the hardware. When I'm alone it's just...not happening. But when I'm with someone like Suri...

Gritting my teeth, I move her hand off my chest. I lay my right hand over her shoulder, looking into her eyes again, like maybe mine will tell this story for me. Her frown deepens and I clench my jaw. C'mon, a.s.shole, grow some b.a.l.l.s.

"Suri," I say, my voice dipping low and deep, "be careful how you touch me." When her frown deepens, I heave a big breath. "Doing something stupid with you is the last thing I would want." I swallow, feeling like that sh.e.l.l-less turtle again. "You're one of my best friends. I just want to be careful..."

Her hazel eyes are large and earnest. "You're worried I might get hurt?"

I nod. "I'm...uh...I'm used to a lot of no strings s.e.x. The problem is, right now, I'm not ready for anything...serious. Anything at all," I add. "And Suri, you're hot." It's just, it's all friendship and friendship b.o.n.e.rs. I don't want Suri in that way.

Suri's nodding like she's getting it, and I'm so relieved I feel like laughing. Then she wraps her arm around my neck, leans in close enough to kiss me, and lifts her delicate hand to stroke my cheek. My d.i.c.k betrays me as she mashes her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against me.

"There's nothing to worry about, Cross. I know you can't make promises...and that's okay with me. What I feel for you-" She looks into my eyes. "What I feel for you is unexpected, but I love it."

My lungs stop, mid-breath. What?

Suri takes my hand and tugs me over to the bed. I follow mostly because I don't know what else to do. When she pushes me down onto my back, I let her climb on top of me. Because I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d and my c.o.c.k is cheering like a Red Sox fan in 2004. Because it feels so good to have a woman's body hugging mine after so long without.

Then she leans down, cloaking me in the curtain of her hair, and she kisses me like I never thought Suri would kiss. Holy blueb.a.l.l.s, I can't help but kiss her back! I squeeze her hip and grab her a.s.s. I try to grab her a.s.s. Both arms raise, both hands move to cup her taut a.s.s-cheeks. But as my right hand grabs her through her silky dress, my left just hangs from my arm-dead weight.

That's all it takes to break the s.e.x spell Suri has on me. I blink up at her, and the wrongness of it hits me even harder.

"Suri." I'm panting as I crawl back toward the headboard. She crawls after me, but when she gets close enough that I can smell that d.a.m.ned perfume, I hold my right hand up. "Suri..."

Her lips part, and it's weird as h.e.l.l to see her like this-like a vixen. She scoots a little closer, and my c.o.c.k throbs painfully against my slacks.

"I told you Cross, I don't care about the details. I just..." She makes a funny little face-her shy face-but it's quickly transformed into something surer, something fierce. "I just want you, Cross. Is that really a bad thing?"

Jesus Christ.

I push myself up on my elbows, trying to think past the throbbing in my pants. "Suri, I'm not saying that it's bad." I flick my right hand at her. "Look at you. You're gorgeous. Any man would want, you know. I'm a man, Suri, so yeah, I want to f.u.c.k you upside down and sideways. But you're my friend."

I clench my jaw, because I'm imagining the upside down and sideways, but the fantasy disintegrates as I watch her eyes fill with tears. Somewhere in the last few months, Suri got a thing for me.

Lizzy tried to tell me once, but I didn't take it seriously. Now I really wish I had.

Surri tucks her chin, looking down at the blankets, and I can see her lip tremble. I feel awful, so I reach for her. She crawls off the bed and steps back, toward the bathroom, and I feel slightly dizzy as I think, I knew this night would suck.

How the f.u.c.k did this happen? It doesn't matter, Cross. Just deal with it.

I get up off the bed and grab her hand. "Suri, you're my best friend. You and Lizzy." She won't look at me, but that doesn't mean I'm going to quit talking. "But that's all that it should be. Do you think I want you to be just another f.u.c.k?" Her eyes widen, and she tries to jerk away, but I tighten my grip on her wrist and hold her gaze. "That's just it-you wouldn't be. But I'm not ready for this, Suri. It would be bad. It would end up being bad for you."

Her gaze flicks up to mine. Her eyes are red and wet. "I don't know how I read this all so wrong."

I grit my teeth. I don't know how, either. "I love you, Sur, you know I do, but we're friends first."

More tears drip down her cheeks as her chin trembles, and I feel like a steaming pile of dog s.h.i.t. "You want to be more with Lizzy," she whispers.

"I don't," I grit my teeth as my heart pounds. It's true, I got distracted by Lizzy a few months back, but that's long over. "I don't want anything with Lizzy."

She shakes her head, then turns on her heel and marches into the bathroom.

For the next few minutes, I stand by the door, feeling helpless and heartless and frustrated. I consider knocking, but I can hear her sniffing and I wonder if she'd rather have her privacy. I rub my neck, which is still too tight.

I'm mulling that one over when I hear the door creak, and Suri steps out, looking calm and gathered. I reach for her hand, touching it for a moment before she draws away.

"Suri, I'm really f.u.c.king sorry."

She holds up both hands. "I know, Cross. And it will be okay. I still want to go with you tonight, just as a friend. You really shouldn't have to face the firing squad alone."

I shouldn't face the firing squad at all, but I've got things to settle with my dad. "I appreciate it. You'll never know how much. But I think it would be better if you just go home tonight. We'll talk tomorrow."

I can see the moment that her eyes go cold. The moment that I lose a friend-just as surely as I lost Lizzy to Hunter. "Okay." Her lips press flat. "Whatever you want."

She walks briskly from the room, and I can't think of anything to stop her.

CHAPTER TWO.

If you've never eaten ant eggs, you haven't lived. You only think I'm kidding. They taste...b.u.t.tery. b.u.t.tery and crunchy and almost the texture of a boiled peanut. For not the first time, as I sit at one of the ragged picnic tables inside our little cafeteria, I think about Alec, the self-styled food critic who wrote columns for my college's newspaper. His favorite word to use in conversation was 'copious'. He broke his leg junior year, and for weeks afterward, Alec was laid up in his king-sized love nest, reviewing take-out food. Copious amounts of pepperoni pizza and greasy burgers. I smile a little at the memory. Like so many things from my past, it seems light years away from day-to-day life at St. Catherine's Clinic for Sick and Needy Children.

It's a weird place. Most of the time I'm here, taking care of children in this poverty-stricken Mexican neighborhood, nothing else exists. That includes memories.

I finish my rice and chicken, topped with the ant eggs that were a gift from Senora Maria, the mother of a little boy with cystic fibrosis. Victor's family has more money than most we see, which is probably the only reason he's alive today, at three. He had a rough winter, with a long hospitalization during which I couldn't give him any of his favorite 'pequeno Victor' back rubs.

Those are the worst times, I think as I walk my empty bowl over to a row of garbage cans with tubs for dirty dishes on the top. The times when the kids I love the most stop coming here for one reason or another, and I can't go visit them. Some of the nuns do house calls, but I can't. I can't ever leave St. Catherine's Clinic.

A lot of times, it's not so bad. The building is short but wide, with several different areas so when I pa.s.s from, say, the clinic quadrant into the living quarters, I feel like I'm going somewhere. But I'm not. When I think of how long it's been since I felt the sun on my skin, since I cranked up the music as I sped down an empty highway... Since I browsed the internet or read a book I chose for myself or got my hair done at a salon... I kind of want to scream. Okay, I do scream. Sometimes at night, I scream into my pillow. Then I remind myself I'm lucky. My story could have had a harsher ending. Actually, it probably should have. This life I have here, with the sisters, with the kids...it's a fairy tale, compared to what could have been.

I place my metal spork atop the nearest trash can, in a little plastic bin of silverware to-be-done, and put my bowl in a bin for plates and bowls. I glance up at the clock on the wall over the self-serve bar, where cheap grub rests in bra.s.sy bowls that are either kept cold on ice or hot on electric plates. It's almost four o'clock, which means I have one more client before the day winds down and I prepare for evening prayers. I glance at one of the big, vertical windows that span one side of the room, wondering how hot it is outside right now. Wishing I could smell the sun-steamed gra.s.s.

I don't peer out the windows or even step close to them. Instead I head into the dingy, one-stall bathroom with its meager supply of toilet paper and take the three squares allotted for each use. When I first took refuge at the clinic-which is located in the same building as St. Catherine's Convent, just inside the city limits of Guadalupe Victoria-I was appalled by the scarcity of supplies, but after more than half a year, I've learned how to make it work. As I do my business, I wonder how many squares I'd allow myself to use for a 'number one' if I were to make it back into the States. Maybe four, I decide. Anything more than that would probably feel wasteful. I wash my hands, and as I dry them on a rough rag, I tell myself to be thankful for what I have. Even if I never make it back to the U.S., I have a good life here.

You can't be grateful and bitter at the same time. So says Sister Mary Carolina. So what am I grateful for? I stare at myself in the mirror, ticking things off inside my head. I've been blessed to learn ma.s.sage therapy from Sister Mary. I've been able to make a difference in the lives of children. And, almost more importantly, I'm accepted here. Cherished, even. Which is so much more than I expected when I arrived.

I'm smiling as I step back into the empty cafeteria, already looking forward to my session with little Alexandria Perez, a one-year-old with a severe case of congenital torticollis. I'm pa.s.sing by the garbage cans, glancing toward he windows, when I see a mirage from my past: Juan and Emanuel, eleven and twelve year olds the last time I saw them. What the heck are they doing here in Guadalupe Victoria.

I don't get to ask.

Light engulfs the room, and a sonic boom throws me back toward the wall.

CHAPTER THREE.