by Ella James
His breathing is faster now, like he's building to something, and I wonder if he's going to hyperventilate.
“Can I get you pain meds? I think there are some here.”
His eyes flip open. “No,” he growls.
His words sound almost slurred, but his eyes hold onto mine until I nod. “Okay. I won't if you don't want it.”
And it's like while he was speaking to me, the pain caught up with him, because he's covering his face and breathing really loudly again now.
“Evan, I want to help.”
“You...can't.” He's panting, and his face is so pale, I wonder if he might pass out.
“What do you do to help the pain?”
He swallows, and there's a faint shake of his head, followed by an awful moan.
“How long does this last?”
He claws at his face, then starts to pull his hair again. “Day…or so.”
I almost fall over. A whole day. That…can’t be real.
“Can I do anything for you? Help you to the bed? Do you want me to rub your back? I do massage sometimes. On children who've been injured. I've helped with pain management before...” and one of the key components is to do a few different stimulating things at once.
“Will it hurt you if I touch you?”
“No...worse,” he pants. His eyes slide open just long enough to meet my own.
“I've got an idea,” I say.
I'm vaguely aware that I'm walking through a room and Merri is holding me around the waist. I'm shaking pretty bad and leaning heavily on her. We come into a bathroom and the black tile is cool on my feet. I'm leaning over, looking down my legs. My left hand burns like a billion needles from the gunshot wound. I spread my fingers wider because the pain of the gunshot is better than the agony coming from my neck.
Pretty soon I get a bolt of pain that makes my knees give out and I'm on the floor again, but she's urging me toward this big room. It's a shower. Big shower room. The tile is cold on my face. I think I like it. There's water. Don't like the water. Then her hands. Those hands on my neck. God, my back. Those hands know what the story is.
Cold water. Hot water.
“Jus' keep rubbing.”
I work his back and alternate cold and hot water from different jets in Jesus's mega-shower. I sometimes whack him on the butt with a back-scratcher and other times I scratch the bottom of his feet. I learned this from Sister Mary Carolina. When someone's in severe pain, you can sometimes distract their brain from processing the pain signals by sending other signals. Signals for things that are only uncomfortable, like water that's a little too hot or icy cold, or long nails scratching the soles of someone's feet. I rub his back hard, like I'm trying to punish him. Most people get a lot of pleasure out of a borderline painful rub, but in Evan's case, that's not the point. I'm just trying to distract his brain from whatever's going on with his nerves.
I remember from the time I caught a bullet near my knee, that when my bed was super comfy and someone was stroking my hair, that's when my wound would hurt the most. I'd notice it less when a lot of things were going on. I would beg Jesus to take me out in his car with him, just to escape the pain.
I don't want Evan to be comfortable enough to feel his pain. I want to throw a million things at him, at once.
I exhaust myself, changing his environment. Hot water, cold water, slapping him, kneading, scratching. At one point he moans, “Pull my hair,” so I go to work on that. The harder I pull, the happier he seems. “That's good,” he moans, and I think I understand why his mouth was bleeding.
I wonder why he won't take pills, and I ask him one more time before he rolls onto his side and says, “No more.”
Don't ask him again, because it's too tempting. That's what he means, I think. I wonder why he won’t take anything. Wonder if I should force something down his throat—but I decide to respect his wishes.
I'm straddling his bare back; I've taken to pulling on his hair with one hand and pressing on his upper back with the other. I haven't seen him be this still or quiet in what feels like hours.
Then I realize he's asleep.
No way in hell am I moving him. Lying on an uncomfortable surface is a great way to get through pain. I get a blanket, because he's soaked and I don't want him to get too cold. I get a pillow for myself, and I lie down beside him.
When he wakes an hour or two later, gripping my arm and weeping into the crook of his elbow, I start my no-pain show again. It goes all night. All day. I'm not even sure what time it is.
But nobody comes for us, and he gets through without quite as much moaning. No more screaming. A lot of the time while I work, he's just breathing.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I open my eyes to find myself inside a massive, onyx and gold shower. Not just a shower. This place is like a bathhouse. I can count nine shower heads without moving my head.
I don't want to move my head, because it feels weird. Good weird. I close my eyes before I realize that’s because someone is playing with my hair.
Awareness returns with a jolt, and I stop breathing. I'm in a super-sized shower with Missy King. Meredith Kinsey. I'm in a super-sized shower with Merri, and in the span of one second, a boatload of insane memories populate my brain.
Merri, stripping off my clothes. Merri, rubbing my back and neck. Merri, giving me water and playing with my feet.
“Anything to distract you.”
God, I know her voice better than I know my own right now. I feel like she spent decades whispering in my ear. I feel like she spent eons lying beside me on the floor. That's what she did, I realize. She must have been in here with me the whole time. How long has it been?
I don't dare move or open my mouth to ask. Her fingers in my hair feel great. I know it's wrong—it’s wrong for so many reasons—but I don't want her to stop.
But all of a sudden, the fingers in my hair go away and I can feel her getting up. When I think she's a few paces away, I slit my eyes and see that she's wearing a short, pale blue cotton nightgown. Since I'm on the floor, I have a nice view of her ass cheeks.
She turns to do something, and I shut my eyes as she sinks back down beside me.
“Can you drink some water for me, Evan?”
She thinks my name is Evan. Right.
I don't move, and I feel her small hand touch my shoulder, fingers tickling the skin before settling warmly on it. I think I'm naked under a towel.
“Evan...” I can feel her breath on me. Beneath the towel, I'm getting excited. I try to think about baseball, but I never did like that shit. Maybe I make a weird expression, because she cries, “Evan, are you awake?”
I open my eyes slowly, finding hers and giving her a small smile. “Guilty as charged.” I start to cough because my mouth is dry, and she's right there with a glass. There's a pink straw in it. I raise my right hand to guide it to my mouth but I grab her hand instead.
“Sorry.” A blush spreads across her cheeks. “I'm used to doing this part.”
With her delicious little body half an inch away from mine I’m even thirstier. I gulp the water down. I finish, and she sits up straighter, giving me a great view of her amazing rack. Waves of reddish hair obscure her face. She brushes it back, revealing a smile that looks shy. “This is weird, huh?”
“What, this?” I wave at myself. “Nah. I spend most of my time in showers with beautiful women, so this is just a normal day for me.”
Her eyes widen, and I laugh. “Kidding.” I push myself up on my right elbow, slightly embarrassed to find that, yeah, I'm naked and hiding a boner under a bunch of half-wet towels. “So I’ve been naked for how long?”
She blushes, and I'm surprised she still does that, after everything she’s been through. “In a few hours, it will be twenty-four hours.”
I give a low whistle. “That long.”
She nods. “You had a rough time.”
“So I hear.”
“You don't remember after?”
“Bits and pieces.�
�� I never remember anything coherent. Just sensations. Most of them brain-killingly painful. I'm not gonna say that, though. Don’t want to sound like a pussy.
She tilts her head to the side, then leans closer and smooths my hair back with her palm. She smiles. “It dried standing straight up. Because I was rubbing your head.”
I look into her face and try to picture that. My moaning, sleeping ass, attended to by someone who looks like the nurse you only get in a dirty movie. Someone who, even now, is looking at me with a double dose of concern.
Why does she care?
I like it.
I shouldn't like it. This is my father’s former mistress. That’s just fucking weird as hell. So why is it so hard to remember?
Moving stiffly, I scoot so my back's against the onyx tile wall, making space between us. I rub my right hand over the scruff on my face and look down at my bare legs, sticking out of the towels. I want to say thank you, but I don't know how. I’ve never had anyone around during of my neuralgia attacks. Other than the nurses at NVIR, and all they did was give me Dilaudid and let me ride it out.
I swallow hard and force myself to meet her eyes. “You were good to me. I remember that much. Thank you.”
Her expression is understanding, as usual. Casual and warm. “I'm sure you would have done the same for me. You were in trouble, and I was here. You don't owe me anything.”
But that's where she's wrong. I owe her a hell of a lot. More than I can ever, ever give her. So much more than I wish she had to know. I take a deep breath, noticing as I do that my neck and shoulders feel more relaxed than they have in probably years. Woman's good with her hands. I remember that much, too.
I look down at my chest. It's bare because the towels fell into my lap when I scooted back. It's bare and I can see the scars. For just that moment, I wish I could turn back time and be the old Cross Carlson. The one I was last year, before I found out about the woman my father sold as a sex slave. When I was wrapped up in my carefree world of bikes, women, and parties. I wonder what Merri would think about that guy.
I look up at her, and I really want to tell her who I am. It's not right to lie to her—not after everything she's done for me. But if I tell her now, she might not travel to the border with me. I think she would. No one in their right mind would stay here to face the cartel, but I don't actually know. What if she ran off or something?
Maybe I'll give it a little while longer—just another day—for her to get to know me more. To trust me more.
I'll tell her tomorrow, when we finally reach the border and I hand over her passport. Maybe even before.
Evan is looking at me funny, and suddenly I feel self-conscious. I've been in this shower for the better part of a day, and I know I must look like dog poo on a stick. I bite my lip, remembering that I'm not even wearing a bra or panties. When I changed into this nightgown, it was only to get out of the disgusting clothes I'd been wearing since I left the clinic. Evan was in the shower, quiet between spells of pain, and I ran into my room and just stripped everything off. I don't even think I remembered to hang my underwear and bra so they'd be dry when I needed them next. Which would be now.
I put a hand up to my face and try to pretend I'm wearing something snazzy. Maybe a business suit, the kind I used to wear when I pitched stories in person.
Evan's eyes are stuck to me like glue, and it's weird to feel so embarrassed. We've been here in this shower together for a long time. I feel like I know him. For sure I care about him. And maybe it's just sad, because all the sweet, intimate things he said to me when he was half out of it...they made me feel good. Not just good as in useful, because I've been useful at the clinic. But good in another way. A way I really shouldn’t want.
My eyes wander over the scars on his chest, and I want to ask about them. I want to ask how old he is and where he’s from. Obviously we haven’t had time to get to know each other...
I push away that urge and stand carefully, so he can't see under my gown. I hold up a finger—be right back—and go into the bathroom, where I grab two fluffy black robes and slide one of them on. I walk back into the shower, where I find Evan standing. One of the towels from the shower is wrapped around his waist. It's wet, so it hangs off his hips. I can see the little indention hot guys have in that area, the spot on their hips where I've always thought a woman's hands should grip. I can see how flat his belly is. Flat but rippled with muscle. Dusted with a soft trail of dark hair. I've seen his body before—all of it, in fact—but it was different when he was delirious with pain.
Now he's standing right in front of me, with his hair tousled and that five o'clock shadow thing going, I want to walk over and wrap my arms around his shoulders. My sleeping beau is awake, and I just want to hug him again, like I did when he was sleeping.
Geez, I don’t even know this guy. I must be a lot lonelier than I thought.
I put on a smile and try not to let my eyes cling to his body. “You're up. How do you feel?”
I feel like I just got off a bender. I rub my palm over my hair—which is sticking up in every direction—and I avoid her eyes as I say, “Alright.”
I can't seem to look at her at the moment, so I look at the robe she's holding. It matches the black one that drags the shiny floor. She blinks and holds it out. “For you.”
Even leaning close to her to take the robe feels...like too much. I grab it and try to get my left arm into it quickly, without too much struggle. All I can think about as she watches me out of the corner of her eye, messing with her own robe and trying to look inconspicuous, is Suri, always offering to help me with everything. I don't want help. I don't want to need help.
I pull the robe roughly up my left shoulder, which still feels a little tender, and jab my right arm into its sleeve. Merri starts gathering damp towels off the floor, but before she can bring them to her chest to carry them, I take them from her.
“I got these.”
As she looks up at me, her hair falls around her face and I feel like someone just lit a light bulb inside my chest.
I hold the towels closer and grab a few more off the floor. Then I walk into the bathroom, because I can't keep being in the shower with her. The space is too damn small.
She's on my heels; I can see her—all long, wavy red hair and enormous tits—in the opulent gold mirror that stretches across the wall. “Do you want to go find some food?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I mutter, glancing at myself in the mirror. I look about as rough as I feel.
I lead the way through a cavernous bedroom with a larger-than-king-sized bed that has thick, wood posts and a brown canopy.
“I guess this is the love nest.”
From behind me she says, “Yeah. Why don't you leave the towels by that fireplace? You know...so we don't have to go in the laundry room.”
“Right.” Where the dead dude is.
I dump them by the marble fireplace and give it a frown. “This thing work?”
“No, it's probably just for candles.” And yeah, now that she says that I notice it's filled up with half-melted candles.
“Sexay.”
I catch her eye for the first time in a while and her mouth is pulled into a pensive expression.
“Sorry,” I say. “I like to make inappropriate jokes about the dead.”
She smiles a little, leading us through the bedroom door, into the hall. “Once, when I was a little kid—like four, I think—I was in a beauty pageant. When it was time for me to go to the microphone and sing my solo, I got nervous and decided to lead with a joke. I said, 'How long did it take for the chicken to cross the road?' Everyone was either staring at me or laughing, and I loved it. I waited so long I couldn't remember what I was going to say, but I knew poop was funny, so I said, 'Three farts.'” She grins. “Needless to say, my aunt was not amused.”
“Aunt?” I ask as I follow her back toward the kitchen.
“Yeah. I grew up with my aunt and uncle.”
I shouldn't ask, but I can't
seem to help myself. “Your parents...they, um, passed away?”
Her veil of reddish hair moves as she nods. “My mother died when I was born and so my Aunt Britta and my Uncle Walter raised me. They have a son, Landon, who's a year older than me.” Glancing over her shoulder, she frowns. “But I guess you know that. Do you?”
“I don't know your history,” I hedge. “I just came to find you and bring you back.”
We make it to the kitchen and Meredith holds out a chair for me. “My legs are kind of crampy from sitting, so I figured I'll rustle up our food,” she says. “Also, though, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“I was wondering,” she says, going over to the freezer and opening it, “what's the incentive? For coming to find me, I mean.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Shit. I don't want to lie to her. I stretch my left arm out in front of me and pretend to examine the bandage for a second. “Um, there's not really anything in it for us other than a paycheck. The company just takes contracts from government agencies or private individuals on people who are missing.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “Also it’s the kind of job you can feel good about doing.”
She presses her lips together, poking and prodding several frozen Ziplock bags on a small granite island. “Can I ask you something else?”
I nod, even though it's the last thing I want.
“Who contacted you about me?”
I shrug. “I think I heard from your co-workers that it was your aunt, but that's not really part of my job.”
“It's okay. It doesn't matter I guess.”
But she looks disappointed, so it does matter. “I'm sure lots of people missed you. Your aunt filed a missing persons report a while back. And I remember some women in Vegas reported you missing, too. My co-worker mentioned it to me, that there were several of them.”
She smiles a little. “I made a few friends there.” She holds up a bag. “Sausage okay with you?”
