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."

"A spy?" I shake my head. "A spy for who?" I look into his eyes, and they seem...ungrounded. Like Sean's used to get when he'd get really paranoid. But Sean was on drugs. Is Marchant Radcliffe doing drugs?

"You know who," he murmurs.

And then, without another word, he turns and stalks away. I stand there for a minute, trying to decide if I should follow him toward the pond or turn around. In the end, I decide to follow. If he's on drugs or drunk or something, I can probably get more information about Cross-and that's the reason I'm following him, after all. I don't know him, but I'm sure Loveless would have warned me if he was dangerous. Surely she would have, right? I pump my arms and feel grateful that I've got on leggings, sandals, and a flowing shirt.

I might be five-foot-three, but I'm a good sprinter. There's only a few feet of gra.s.s between us when I hear footfall behind me.

Now that has my heart pounding. Unlike one isolated incident of weirdness with Marchant, who is in all likelihood drunk or high or c.o.ked up, everything's going to get a lot weirder if that's someone running after me. It's the middle of a sunny day, in a semi-public place.

But still, my heart is hammering. That's definitely someone's footsteps. I work up the nerve to turn around, feeling a ridiculously powerful rush of deja vu, a flash back to when I ran away from Jesus's place almost nine months ago.

I turn around, and there is Cross.

He looks confused, like someone has just flashed light into his eyes. His eyebrows come together, and I realize that he's panting; his broad shoulders are heaving. My gaze flies over him, and I can't help devouring him with my eyes. I eat up every inch, from the loose jeans hanging on his hips to the bulk of bandages I can see under his plain white undershirt. There's a sc.r.a.pe on his throat. One of his dark eyelashes has fallen on his cheek. There's new gauze wrapped around his left hand, where David shot him. His hair looks ruffled. There's stubble on his cheeks. His lips... They're even more perfect than I remembered.

"Merri-what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

I look down at my borrowed sandals, because I'm not sure how to answer.

He sounds p.i.s.sed. "Did Marchant bring you here?"

"Uh...yeah." I meet his eyes and find them guarded.

"You and him know each other?"

"No. I saw him at the hospital."

"He took you from the hospital."

I nod. My eyes tear, because I feel so guilty for leaving him. My throat feels tight, so I can barely talk, but he's looking at me expectantly. "I didn't know that you were here," I whisper.

He tilts his head to the side, reminding me for a second of a curious dog. Then he sucks back a tired-sounding breath. "I'm surprised to see you, too."

I widen my watery eyes at him-a random thing I do sometimes when I'm not sure what to say-and he pushes his palm back through his hair. "f.u.c.k."

I flinch at the word. "If you want me to go..."

"No, please." He nods at a bench under a willow tree out in front of us, and I start walking that way. He's moving more slowly than I am, and I slow. I steal glances at him as we cross the short distance, noting little things, like the motion of his throat as he swallows. The way he holds his right arm close to his chest. His face seems unguarded; has he been drinking? Another stealthy glance at his face shows me that he looks upset. I can't believe I haven't seen him in days. I want to know every single thing that's happened. All about the hospital. How he feels. I want to know who Evan really is. I want to know why Cross Carlson came and rescued me.

We reach the bench, and he lets me sit down first. He sits on the gra.s.s in front of me, sinking down clumsily.

"Are you okay?"

His eyes flick up to mine. "That's what you're gonna ask?" His voice is low. "You know my name, and that's your first question?"

I nod. I want to touch him so much my hands are shaking.

"Are you okay?" His eyes caress my face.

All of a sudden, it feels wrong to be seated on the bench, so far away from him, so I get down on the gra.s.s.

His gaze is all over me. Hungry. I imagine that instead of looking at me everywhere, he's licking me, and the thought makes me shiver.

"Are you?" he asks.again.

I nod. "I didn't really get hurt," I mumble.

His mouth twists, and I know he's waiting for me to ask.

"Why did you do it?" My voice is barely audible. I'm not sure I really want to know.

"Merri." He groans my name, and I smell vodka. His eyes are heavy-sad. "I came for you because I knew."

"What do you mean?"

"I found out about you-about what happened to you-almost a year ago." I watch his Adam's apple bob as I try to process what he's saying. "I could have told someone...but I didn't."

"That's it? Are you serious?" I'm pretty sure my jaw is hanging open. Of all the things I expected him to say, this just isn't one of them. I'm not sure how I feel. Relieved that it's not something worse? Upset that he knew but didn't tell anyonwe?

He looks down at the gra.s.s, like he can't stand to look at me. I watch him roll his shoulder, but I'm not really seeing him. I'm holding my breath.

"I tried to forget about it. I...didn't think that I could help." He shuts his eyes. "My father told Priscilla Heat and Jim Gunn that I knew, and I started being followed. I was... It was easier to forget." He swallows again, and when he speaks, his voice sounds hoa.r.s.e. "I didn't want to know the details of his philandering. He's always done it. I just...hate it. I guess I didn't want to think that he could do that-what he did to you. That he was such a bad person."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to process all this. When I open them, I'm looking into Cross Carlson's face, and I can see Drake there-in the cheekbones; in the chin. "Was he a good father?" It's a weird question, but suddenly it's one I feel like I need answered.

Cross hangs his head. I watch a dry breeze ruffle his hair as he slowly shakes it. After a long moment, he looks back up at me, and I can tell he's not going to go into any more detail.

"I paid for my silence, in a way. Last November, Hunter West, the pro poker player, had a party at his vineyard out in Napa. That night, I got upset about something." His eyes come up to mine, then fall away. "I had a thing for my friend, West's fiance. She wasn't then, but I did see her with West and I got really wasted."

Again, there's a silence, in which I lean forward.

"I was a d.i.c.khead to her, and then I left. I got on my bike, and some guy stopped me to ask about it. After he left I sped away, but I couldn't steer it. It didn't drive right."

I nod, because now what his friend told me in the hospital, about him having enemies, makes sense.

"I had the wreck, and I was in a coma for a while. And when I woke up, I remembered the guy who asked about my bike...and where I knew him from. It was Jim Gunn, my father's old body guard."

I can't breathe, much less respond, but it doesn't matter; Cross keeps talking. "My neck was all f.u.c.ked up and I couldn't use my hand." He swallows and when he speaks again, his voice is thick. "I found out my parents moved me, while I was out. From this rehab place in Napa, where I'm from...to this other one, in L.A. Bad place," he exhales. "Bad track record for getting people out of comas. There was this therapy at the first place...the good place. And they didn't have it at this other."

He's quiet for a minute, and I watch him flex his jaw. The whole thing... It makes my throat feel tight. I want to hug him. I want to say something comforting, or rea.s.suring, but the easiness between us down in Mexico is nowhere to be found.

Minutes pa.s.s. He's staring at the gra.s.s. I want to run, to scream, but instead I touch his hand and keep this painful conversation rolling. "Was it-the therapy the new place didn't have- was it therapy that could have brought you out of the coma?"