Taming Cross

by Ella James

  As I print off a few more of her stories, it dawns on me that maybe it’s not just curiosity that makes this feel so urgent. So…personal. From the looks of things, Meredith Kinsey had a pretty violent fall from grace. I had a fall, too, didn’t I? Went from the only child of California’s governor—charming and wealthy, with a world as wide as Hargrove Day School and the privileged, sheltered social circles of Napa—to disabled, disinherited fuckup who can’t even work.

  It makes me feel weird about myself. Like I don’t even know who I am. And for some reason, that makes me want to understand who Meredith Kinsey is. I want to know what happened to her. Maybe I just want to see someone else’s route to ruin.

  I shove her stories into my back pocket and speed back to the shop. On the way there, I picture myself in a police station, ratting out my father. I grit my teeth. I’d probably get prosecuted for sitting on what I knew this last year, but I could do it. I still have some of the e-mails I found on my father’s computer, between Priscilla and Jim Gunn, and between Priscilla and my father. Not all of them, but enough that even if he avoided prosecution, he’d be ruined.

  The question is: Should I? If I were to tell the cops, would anyone actually go rescue ‘Missy King’? As far as I know, there’s no organization actively sending people out to look for sex slaves. Some of the authorities investigate, yeah, but that seems to be it. Nobody’s going to jump onto their bike and just go searching through Mexico. Not for a former escort. Not for a married man’s mistress. The legal system is fucked up, and people like ‘Missy King’ usually don’t get justice. People like Meredith Kinsey: pretty, educated, scholarship-getting girls whose families file missing persons’ reports… Now that’s another story. But I can’t actually prove that Missy King is Meredith. Not yet, anyway.

  As I wait at a red light under the dim midday sun, I tick off the verifiable information I know about ‘Missy’. Former Vegas escort, working at the Starry Sky Brothel on the Strip and rumored to be the governor's mistress. This ‘Missy’, mentioned in only one gossip column on a local, Vegas blog, was supposedly “exclusive, in a Kingly way”, which I assume was meant to allude to her relationship with my father. I know, based on what the Love Inc. shrink told Lizzy, that Missy King was liked, and that some of the Love Inc. girls missed her, and felt like not enough had been done to find her.

  Jim Gunn's cousin was a detective in Vegas; still is. Hunter West told me one of the detective’s buddies pulled the Missy King case. I’m not sure if it’s true, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

  I roll into the garage and lift my left arm out of its leather band. And for the first time since the wreck, I feel shitty about my hand for a reason that has nothing to do with me. If I wanted to go look for Missy King, or Meredith Kinsey, or whoever the hell the missing woman really is, I'd probably get my one-handed self shot.

  I swing off the bike and feel the curtain of darkness drop around me, enclosing me inside a box of dread. Then I look up and spot Lizzy in front of the door that divides the shop and garage.

  “Fuck.”

  Lizzy grins evilly and holds up a garage remote. “Bet you forgot who watched over the shop while you were sleeping, bro.”

  “I didn't forget,” I mutter as I bridge the gap between us. I reach for a strand of her long brown hair and tug it, out of habit. “Just didn't figure you'd go sneaking around like a cat burglar.”

  Lizzy curls her hand. “Meow.”

  I brush past her and open the door to the show room. She follows me inside, but instead of going upstairs, to the site of the Suri disaster, I slump down into one of the leather chairs beside a restored, hybrid-ized 1967 BMW R 69S. I reach into an old-school Coca-Cola cooler beside the chair and pull out a glass bottle of Sunkist, which I tuck into the crook of my left elbow. Then I grab a Dr. Pepper.

  Lizzy stands in front of me with her hands on her slim hips. She reaches out and grabs the Dr. Pepper, but she doesn't open it.

  “You know why I'm here, C.”

  I widen my eyes in feigned drama and hold out both hands. “Let me guess: It's an intervention.”

  “You could call it that.” She nods, looking shrewd with black Aviators propped up on her head. And hot in tight blue jeans and a jade green t-shirt, with diamonds winking in her ears.

  I push up the sleeve of my battered button-up, so she can see the permanent skid mark scars inside my elbow. “Too much H?”

  She shakes her head. “Too little C.” She narrows her eyes. “I can see you've shaved, and I support that. You went out somewhere, on a bike no less, and I support that, too. But seriously, Cross, I want to know how you are, because Suri's worried about you and I am, too.”

  Right—so this is about Suri. I rub my eyes, but I can't complain much. I should have known a long time ago she was getting too...caught up. Lizzy even told me that she was, on the drive to the vineyard on the day that we got hauled off to Mexico. But I didn’t believe her. And after that day’s adventure, I kind of forgot about it. Selfish, thoughtless Cross. I let Suri get and stay close to me, and then I let her lay it all out on the table before I sent her away with her tail between her legs.

  Through the web of my fingers, rubbing my eyes, I see Lizzy sink down to the polished cement floor and cross her legs. Looking up at me, she says, “It's not your fault she didn't see straight. She shouldn't have thought you felt the same way just because she hoped you did. She's not upset with you. She’s upset...with herself, I guess.”

  I cross my arms loosely over my chest. “That why she hasn't called?”

  Lizzy nods.

  “She ever gonna call?”

  She nods again. “Sometime. Probably soon. I think she's just embarrassed.”

  I snort. “No need for that shit. We're all friends, aren't we?” The question comes out sounding kind of like a jab. I feel like a five-year-old, but the truth is, it bugs the shit out of me that Lizzy's just a few weeks away from walking down the aisle to marry Hunter Player West. Instead of being my friend, she's going to be some other dude's wife. I know it’s immature and patriarchal and whatever else, but it rubs me the wrong way.

  Lizzy makes a tsking sound. “I sense some bitterness.” And then, in all seriousness: “Really, Cross. You still don't like him, do you?”

  I stand up and start pacing like a caged lion. “You tell me he's a fine guy.”

  “But you don't believe me.”

  “So what, Lizzy? I'm gonna forever hold my peace. Isn't that what matters?”

  She stands up, coming over to me, but instead of hands on hips this time, she wraps her arms around her waist. “You know that's not what matters. Cross, we’re family. I don't want you to be unhappy whenever you think of me. I want our friendship to stay strong.” She exhales, looking miserable. “If there's something I can do, something that will make you feel more open to—”

  I toss my arms out. “There's nothing you can do, Lizzy. You've done nothing wrong. Neither has West, at least not to me. And before you ask, I'm fine about the money thing.”

  Lizzy sold her virginity at a brothel in Vegas so she could help pay my medical bills after my motorcycle wreck. Don’t worry, the story had a happy ending—for her, at least. Hunter West, her soon-to-be hubby, was the highest bidder.

  She did this while I was in my coma. When I first woke up, I was pissed, but I’ve gotten used to it now. I can’t change it, so I tell her, “I will always love you for it, end of story.”

  Lizzy comes a little closer, and I can smell her lotion: gardenias and maybe roses. I stare into her face, so different than it was before my wreck. She looks thinner... Less like the grown up Lizzy I knew and more like the girl I knew in high school.

  “It's okay, Liz. I'll learn to like West. I can even show him how to fix that banged up Roadster he's got in the garage.” I paste a smile on, hold my arms out, so she comes in for a hug. “BFFs?”

  “BFFs,” she says warmly, pressing her cheek against my chest.

  I open my eyes and pull away firs
t, then walk back to my Sunkist and ease down on the floor. I motion to the chair. “Sit down and stay a bit.”

  And Lizzy does. We talk for two hours—longer, I think, than we have since before the accident. We talk about everything but the pain attacks; she doesn't ask, for once, and I don't tell her that they're getting worse.

  I wait until she's almost out the door to drop the bomb: “Wanted to mention I'm going down to Mexico.”

  Her eyes pop.

  I shrug one shoulder. “Biker thing.”

  I can see the approval on her face—the relief that I'm finally living life again.

  I shut the door behind her, grab my soda and head up to my room to read the folded papers in my pocket.

  I surprised myself, too, with that little revelation. I'm going to motherfucking Mexico.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been more than three weeks since my last confession.”

  I press my butt more tightly down against the backs of my shins—my legs are folded under me—and glance through the curtain of my strawberry hair at the sheet of thatch that stands between me and the priest. I can't see his face, but I assume because it's the second Tuesday of the second week of the month, that it's Father Mendez, the traveling priest from Fresnillo.

  “Yes, child.” The gravelly voice confirms my suspicions. Definitely Father Mendez. His advanced age—eighty-one, the nuns say—means he's one of the few I trust not to have ties to the Cientos Cartel. So I shut my eyes, inhale deeply, and try to really pour my heart out.

  “I must confess many sins,” I whisper in soft Spanish. “The first is envy.” Another breath to rid myself of my embarrassment—the embarrassment of being totally open and honest with a virtual stranger—and I plunge forward. “I envy the nuns who are able to leave the clinic when I can't. I feel like a prisoner, and rather than being thankful for the second chance I've been given, I'm...frustrated. I know I have no one to blame but myself, so I just keep praying for forgiveness and hoping I’ll find a way to feel more grateful.” I’m silent only long enough to clear my throat. “I definitely need to feel more grateful for what I have right now. But sometimes… I miss certain parts of my old life.”

  I close my eyes, and I can see Katrina, with her sparkly nail polish and kind smile, rubbing my calves and painting my toe-nails in the beauty parlor in Jesus's mansion. Sometimes when I'm eating rice here at the clinic, I can taste bell peppers and that yummy cheese dip that Arman, Jesus's chef, used to whip up. “I miss seeing the sun, but I miss other things, too, like taking a long bath with soap that smells good.”

  I also miss the more forbidden things—like the feel of a man's mouth on mine. That particular desire tosses me all the way back to eleventh grade, the year I lost my virginity to my high school band's assistant director, Sam Kline. Sam was only twenty-two, and he ended up transferring schools at the end of my senior year because he felt so guilty about what we did every afternoon in the instrument closet. But I can still see his brown eyes. Read the feeling in them. When he clung to me after we both got off, he held me tightly, like he was desperate to feel my body against his.

  I press my lips together until they sting, because I'm not going to tell Father Mendez any of this; but sometimes when I remember Sam, my chest feels like there's a fire inside of it. That's how much I crave that closeness. After Sam...

  There were half a dozen others after Sam, but God is only holding the last one against me—because it’s the only one I’ll never confess. It’s the only one that really feels ‘sinful’. So I skirt it, going as close as I ever do to a confession: “I'm an impure woman,” I murmur, lifting my head and looking at the thatch.

  “I know I'm not cut out to be a nun, but I love being here and helping. And that leads me to my worst sin since I've been in this place.”

  I hear the rustling of robes on the other side of the thatch, and I push myself to continue, even though I feel like I can't breathe. Father Mendez knows a little bit about me—he knows all my confessions over the last nine months—but he might have heard more. He might know exactly who I am and where I came from. The thought fills me with shame, but not as much shame as I feel for the sin I breathlessly confess.

  “I'm afraid some people from my past have tracked me down. I'm afraid the explosion that blew up the cafeteria was a warning. A warning that I need to leave. I've told Sister Mary Carolina but she either doesn't believe me or she refuses to make me go.” I hesitate, trying to think of how to explain, in case he doesn't remember my story or never really knew it.

  “Before I was here, I was in...a bad place, with people who were bad. I managed to run away,” I say, frowning at the horrible memory—which is so much more than merely running away.

  “I selfishly sought refuge here, and the nuns were kind enough to take me in and train me to do massage therapy for the children. But I'm afraid that if I want them to be safe, I need to leave. But I can't make myself leave. I'm afraid of death.” My voice cracks, surprising even me. “I'm afraid to die without ever falling in love or having children. I wanted a good life, one that wasn't complicated or full of pain, but I ruined everything.” I press my hands over my eyes, trying to compose myself. I take a few long breaths and find my protective shell again, and along with it, my rationality. My sense of responsibility. “I know that this mess is my fault. I didn't use good judgment and I wasn't living my life in a way that would please God.”

  Silence eats my words, and I wipe my eyes with the palm of my hands. My heart is beating hard, and for some reason I think of walking out of my second grade classroom to Aunt Britta’s van, of how my backpack felt so heavy, and I disliked being stuck in that school building all day so much. I want to cry some more, but I manage to hold it in, because I'm not a girl who cries.

  Finally, I hear the slight rustle of Father Mendez's robes, and his low voice travels through the thatch.

  “The Lord hears you,” he says. “I don't want you to say Hail Marys. Close your eyes and see your past and understand that you have paid these debts already. Sister Mary Carolina—she wishes to shelter you. St. Catherine's offers shelter for all people and if there is danger we will trust our Lord to deliver us.”

  And now Father Mendez leans forward, so close to the thatch divider that I can smell a whiff of coffee. When he speaks again, his voice is nothing but a hiss. “But if you want to ensure that God keeps these children safe, I have a message. Walk out the door nearest the site of the explosion Thursday at ten o'clock in the evening.”

  He leans back into his seat.

  “I cannot promise that the Lord will preserve your life, but I have heard your confession and I believe your heart is pure. If you perish, you will join our savior in Heaven.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Once I decide to go looking for Meredith Kinsey, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. It's my fault she's still in Mexico. If she's dead and gone, that's my fault too. I could have told someone. Shown someone the files I saved on a USB. Copies of e-mails that showed my father conspired with Priscilla Heat and Jim Gunn to sell one of his former mistresses as a sex slave.

  When I found out, last May, Cross Carlson had his own shit going on. He was busy making money, tweaking bikes, fucking around.

  He’s done fucking around.

  I have to drive to Vegas before I do anything else. I leave early Wednesday morning, armed with my trusty leather bike bag, plus my passport and a fake I bought last night from one of my high school buddies, a civil servant who specializes in fake documents for illegal immigrants. After making a pit stop at a bookstore, for a road map of Mexico, I adjusted the Mach’s arm band for extra mobility and steering accuracy. Right before bed, I called my mobile phone provider and got the internet turned back on; I’ve e-mailed both Wil and Napo, plus my old receptionist, Martha, informing them that I’ll let them know something about the shop in the next two weeks. It’s a small step, I know, but it feels good.

  The air is coo
l and crisp at 6 a.m. as I head down I-680 toward Walnut Creek and Dublin, which will get me close to I-5 South. The sky is caught between shades of blue, the grass glows yellow-silver with the sun’s first rays, and on my bike, I feel okay. Capable. Good.

  I got a voice mail in the wee hours of this morning from my father. He sounded drunk and said some vaguely threatening shit about the situation between us deteriorating further if I stirred up any trouble regarding ‘the situation we discussed’. If anything, it was the final affirmation that I’m doing the right thing.

  I make good time through Walnut Creek, past Livermore; then my route veers eastward, then South on I-5 toward Bakersfield. I make a couple of stops to stretch my arm and shoulder, but I’ve got PB&J and water, plus some jerky and a couple of apples in my bag. It’s enough to tide me over until I get to Vegas.

  The nine hour drive is surprisingly enjoyable. I haven’t felt the wind on my face the way it hits you on the highway in a long, long time. I know I must be hard-up for this when I feel my throat get thick outside L.A. It’s not the most beautiful place to ride—far from it—but it just feels so damn good to be back on the road.

  By the time I roll to a stop at a gas station in Vegas, it’s mid-afternoon and I’m sweaty, stiff, and tired. Still, I grin when I pull my helmet off and rub a hand back through my sticky, matted hair. I unzip my leather jacket and fish a map of the city out of my bag.