“I need Merri!”
The only answer I get is a tsking sound, followed by the sound of plastic crinkling.
“Get some rest,” a male voice says. Black fuzz swallows everything.
Merri
I’M IN A closet near the OR recovery room. I know it’s crazy, but as soon as I hung up the phone, a couple of cops walked past me, in the direction of the OR. Last time I checked, Jesus owned a lot of cops in El Paso.
Coming here—turning back and getting in the helicopter with Cross Carlson—was a mistake. I don’t know what story he cooked up, so I’m not sure how to convincingly play the role of his wife, especially if the cops get suspicious and start really grilling me.
For the last year and a half, I’ve tried not to lie except when necessary to protect myself. And at the clinic, it was almost never necessary. So it bothers me that I’m sitting on a box in a closet full of paint and mops, contemplating how best to deceive the police.
Actually…everything about this situation bothers me.
I don’t want to pretend to be Cross Carlson’s wife, but in the last few hours, I’ve also decided that I don’t want to leave without talking to him. I feel like I owe him that. I’ve remembered the shoot-out at the clinic, the one at Jesus’s hideaway, and the one at the border checkpoint. I’ve remembered his kindness and humor.
I also remember what his mouth felt like on mine, and when my mind dredges that up, I have to direct my attention to the labels on the paint cans. I’m not strong enough to dwell on my feelings for ‘Evan’ right now. Not when I’m already feeling so directionless and alone.
I shut my eyes and listen to the intercom. If I strain my ears, I can hear what’s going on, and I want to be around if I’m called to Cross’s room.
Cross—my husband.
I wonder what the Carlsons really want with me. I think not knowing is what bothers me most. The governor and I didn’t have a particularly deep or rewarding relationship. The guy was all about blow jobs and I was all about money. That was it. He was deceived by Priscilla and Jim Gunn about my motives, and I’d be surprised if he didn’t still believe their tale. My tale. The one they made me tell him.
I prop my feet on an upside down mop bucket, entertaining the idea that Priscilla and Jim Gunn finally got caught. Down in Mexico, they have an expression that translates: ‘you do it once, you do it always’—so in other words, once you get used to making big bucks selling people, you tend to do it again and again. Maybe they did it one too many times.
Maybe Drake Carlson realized that Priscilla and Jim Gunn used him as much as they used me. Maybe he started feeling guilty almost two years after the fact. But that doesn’t explain why he would send his son—his injured son—to Mexico on a super risky mission to find me. The governor has enough money to hire someone else, so why didn’t he?
Maybe he didn’t want to risk anyone finding out.
I bite my lip. That could be it.
So the best case scenario is: guilt.
Only what if it isn’t guilt? I remember trying to make a sexy joke once about Drake becoming ‘Mr. President’, and he raised his eyebrow like it was possible. What if Drake Carlson is running for president, and he’s trying to tie up his loose ends? The problem with that theory is, I’m not a credible dis-creditor. Who would believe me, a former escort and former sex slave to the leader of a cartel?
But even a headline could be damaging.
And I did come from a “respectable” background. I went to college, unlike a lot of the people who get kidnapped. Cross knows I wrote for the student paper, so maybe they’re worried I’m more resourceful than the average bear.
But if that’s the case, why didn’t Cross just kill me down in Mexico? Why risk bringing me across the border? In fact, that applies to all theories in which the Carlsons could want me dead.
I consider the idea that I’m some sort of revenge. Maybe Cross is using me to get back at his father for something. He doesn’t seem like the sort, but he mentioned not letting people get away with what they did to me. And all the while, he knew it was his own father.
I don’t understand, but the one thing I know for sure is I don’t have all the details. I’d like to, and from the horse’s mouth.
“Damnit!” I hear a pretty female voice on the other side of the door, and then it opens, and a topless girl walks in.
I’m momentarily stunned silent.
This girl looks like a model for Macy’s. She’s got chin-length, butcher-cut brown hair with sun-kissed highlights, and her hazel eyes shimmer with the kind of eye shadow job that only wealthy, fashion-conscious people can produce.