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 pu**y.
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 f**king 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?