Taming Cross (Love Inc.) (22 page)

What I should tell him is that I'm not the kind of person he thinks. I probably never was, but I'm definitely not now. “That's not even my name,” I murmur.

His eyebrows shoot up. “What's your name?”

I shake my head. “Kinsey wasn't ever really mine. It was the name I took on when I was adopted.”

Silence spreads its roots between us and I think about everything Evan doesn't know about me. I wonder if he'll find out when I get into the States. If his colleagues already know the most sordid part of my story. What Evan would think if he knew, too.

He doesn't seem to care about my past, but that's probably because he only knows me as a victim.

“When do you want to get on the road?” he asks. The low rumble of his voice makes me jump.

I push my hair out of my face and try to look less spazzy. I shrug. “Tomorrow maybe? Like really early in the morning. They tend not to be out then.”

“Sure.” He stands up. All traces of his earlier moodiness are gone, and I get a pleasant vibe again—the kind of vibe that says we might be friends. “And you’re sure no one knows about this place?”

I shook my head. “Jesus was really good at tech stuff. This place is completely self-sufficient and off the grid.”

He nods. “I guess tonight we’ll just hang out? We could watch some TV…well, I guess no cable—”

“Jesus set up satellite somehow. It’s illegal,” I shrug, “but apparently no one can tell.”

“Satellite it is.” He smiles, a smile that looks real and gentle and handsome enough to bruise my heart. “I could use a night of relaxing and I have a feeling you could, too.”

He doesn't know how right he is.

I spend the next two hours soaking in my room's tub, drying my hair, trying to assemble an outfit from the clothes I find in my drawers, and pacing around the room trying to remind myself that Evan No Last Name is no one to me. We're not friends. We're not even acquaintances. The pull I feel is because I spent the last day and a half taking care of him. And...okay, also because he's extremely attractive. And nice.

And I'm lonely. I'll admit it. I'm lonely and pathetic. I feel like a spinster and I'm still not even through my 20s. I know I won't ever walk down the aisle or shop for a new house with double vanities and his and hers closets. I won't have a family or kids. At this point, I'll be lucky if I can get into the witness protection program and befriend my neighbors without worrying that one of them will kill me on behalf of the Cientos Cartel.

I took a nice life and screwed it up because I was foolish. I messed around with a married man for money.

I remind myself that even if I allowed myself to have feelings for a man again, it wouldn’t be fair to him. I would always have to end things before they went too far.

I end up wearing men's purple work-out shorts and a V-neck white undershirt. I find some of my old mascara in the bathroom and can't resist putting it on, if only to feel a little human. It's been a long time since I wore makeup, and I'm surprised by how long my eyelashes look.

As I study my reflection, from my mother's striking green eyes to my Maw-Maw’s rose-cheeked, heart-shaped face, to my father's strawberry hair, I think about my aunt and uncle. I feel a crushing wave of remorse for what I know I put them through. Granted, I didn't plan to run away from Atlanta, but I still
did
. My intentions don't change the sleepless nights I know my aunt endured and probably still does. My uncle and my cousin...surely their lives were changed knowing that someone raised in their house just vanished like I did.

I was selfish. Maybe I've changed—I like to think I have—but it doesn't matter really. My bad deeds are going to follow me forever.

This is my mood when I step out into the hallway and start to look for Evan.

I find him in the kitchen, and my first glimpse of his outfit has me snickering.

He's wearing a pair of Jesus's jeans, which he's cut off at the knee, probably because he’s a good five inches taller than Jesus. There's no fixing the crotch area, though, which is T.I.G.H.T. My eyes run over him, and I know my face is red, because you can see a lot of...well, him.
Look up, look up,
I tell my pervy self. His shirt is a light blue and white button-up which he has rolled up to the sleeves. It makes his blue eyes glow, and I laugh a little because I'm pretty sure if he moves the wrong way, he'll make the buttons pop.

“I didn’t know you were dressing up.” I grin, and Evan flips me off.

“This is the best I could do.” He grimaces, and I giggle.

“Look at you, Mia Hamm.” He nods at me, and I swing my foot, like I’m kicking a soccer ball.

He snickers, and I flip him off. “Whatever, George Michael.”

Evan winces, and I saunter past him and start searching the cabinets for something to eat. I find a bag of popcorn. It's a brand you don't see so much in the States, and Evan takes it from me, reading the Spanish popping information under his breath.

“You speak good Spanish,” I tell him. “Did you learn it in school?”

He nods. He looks like he might say something else, but then he steps over to the microwave and starts the popping. As I lean against the counter watching him, I feel weird being here. Like Jesus and David never existed and this is our hotel or something. It's...inappropriate.

I've been struggling for a day or so now with the feeling that I should be mourning their deaths, but there's no way I can. Living with Jesus was like living with a performing tiger. I survived okay for a while, but eventually he bit me. Not for any reason other than
he's a tiger
, and that's what tigers do.

I look down at my fingernails, wondering what would have happened if Jesus had gotten me back. It's hard to say. But I think I can safely guess that I wouldn’t have liked it. I'm lucky Evan came for me.

“What do you want to watch?” I look up at him, leaning against the counter top across from me. The way he's leaning puts particular emphasis on his... Um, yeah. I cast my eyes to his face, which is serious almost to the point of sullen, and that helps me laugh, because he looks ridiculous. He grins, and his grin reminds me of a lazy dog. Just chillin'.

“Stop laughing at me.” He lunges to punch me lightly in the arm, then turns his body so his shoulder bumps into mine. “What do you want to watch?” he asks me.

His handsome face is so close to mine that I can hardly breathe, much less answer.

He bumps me again, and I swallow back my nerves. “What about old
Southpark
re-runs?” Evan narrows his eyes at me. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “I like
Southpark
, except the few where they make fun of religious stuff.”

He laughs. “Of course you don’t.”

“Why of course?” I scrunch my eyebrows. “Because you have a hard time believing I’m religious?”

“It's just...” He frowns. “You're not lying to me, are you? You, right now, are the real Meredith?” He shakes his head. “I guess that sounds crazy…”

I think I get it... “You're wondering if I had to be someone else when I worked at a brothel in Vegas, or when I was some drug lord's beard. Or if I’m being someone else now, so you won’t know how messed up I really am.” I press my lips together. “It's an understandable question, but yeah, I'm me. The brothel work was furthest from my norm, but I had a specific role I needed to play for my primary client. It probably wasn't anything like what you'd think.”

He doesn't say anything, and I wonder if it bothers him, that I used to mess around for money. He reads my mind, drumming on the counter as he says, “I just can't picture it.”

The microwave dings, and I slide a glance his way as I step past him to get it. “Dare I ask what part?”

He grabs some paper towels and I get two Cokes from the refrigerator, and we head into the living area. “The you as someone's call girl part. Whether it's a pimp or a client or a kingpin, you just don't seem like that to me. You have your college degree, right?”

“Yes.”

“You used to write for newspapers.”

Yes. Damnit. Before now, I hadn’t been sure exactly what he knew about me, but… “Did you read my columns?” My cheeks are hot again.

“Yeah. Pageant participants as cattle.” He smiles as my discomfort. “So tell me what happened.” He crooks an eyebrow, giving me a look that's surprisingly intimate.

I plop down on the couch and hold the popcorn bowl tightly in between my palms. “Sometimes things don't turn out the way you plan. Or is your life exactly the way you meant it to be?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I want this to be a fun night for her. It’s pretty ridiculous; as if a fun night with her former John’s son will make up for being sold into slavery.

But still, I’m wanting to kick myself for going down this road. I don't need to talk about this shit with her, and I already know that. Some things should stay unsaid, and her involvement with my father is definitely one of them.

I flip channels, watching the images flicker on the massive flat screen as I wrestle with myself—but I already know the outcome. Now that I've peeled back the skin on this, I'm going to dig right in. I can’t help myself. “I told you my sob story.” I say it like a challenge. “Let's hear yours.”

She rearranges herself on the huge leather couch, sitting the popcorn bowl between us and drawing a pillow into her lap. She balances her Coke on the pillow and frames it with her hands. Her long, pale red hair has fallen like a veil between us, but as she taps a frenzied rhythm on the Coke can, I can see her face. I can see the struggle on it.

She sighs and takes a long gulp. Then she tucks her hair behind her ear and looks at me. Her mouth is set into a grim line. Her beautiful green eyes are flat. “Just after college, I dated this guy who put me in a really bad situation, and I had to leave Atlanta, where I was living. At the time I was researching for a freelance article on escorts in Vegas. So I went to Vegas.” She huffs her breath out, causing the wisps of hair around her face to dance. “I guess I kind of ran away to Vegas.”

My mind is reeling, wondering what could have happened to make her run away; wondering why the police wanted to question her. I remember something I read online back in Napa, at the library: about how the police in Atlanta wanted to question her in relation to some guy; I think his name was Sean something. I must be making some kind of pissed off face, because Meredith shrinks away a little, pulling the pillow closer to her chest. She traces the rim of the Coke can with her fingertip, and I want to tell her not to. She might cut her finger.

“When I got there, out to Vegas, I ended up getting to know the manager and owner of this brothel on the Strip. I was working on my story, but I ran out of money, so I ended up crashing there. I wasn't sure what I'd do...” She bites her lip, glancing at me and then down at the floor. “Because of the...circumstances, I couldn't go back home. I was going to get a job waitressing or something. I'd even put in some applications. And then one day, I was on my way to the gym when a client saw me, I think, and it wasn't long after that the owner told me that this guy felt I fit the bill for what he wanted.” Her eyes, on her Coke can, flick to mine. She watches me carefully, waiting for my judgment.

I'm gritting my teeth, so I try to relax my jaw and calm my mind. Do I hope this client was my father, or someone else? The possibilities seem equally awful.

“In what way?” I choke out. I swallow so what I say next doesn't sound so fucking ragged. “How'd you fit the bill?”

She shrugs, like we're talking about the rain. “The client wanted someone young who wasn't seeing many or any other clients. And he wanted a Vegas girl, so I became his Vegas girl.”

And there it is. It's all out on the table. Meredith was my father's Vegas girl.

I nod, keeping a lid on my feelings, and then without meaning to, I'm up, striding into the kitchen. My heart is pounding and my mouth feels dry. I turn a quick circle, careful not to look at Merri. But from where she’s sitting, she might be able to see my face. And if she sees my face, she'll know. I wheel around again and jerk open the refrigerator. I grab the first thing I see—a bottle of beer—and curse as I realize I can't twist the damn top off. Not with one hand.