Home > Taming Cross

Taming Cross
Author: Ella James

1

 

 

Cross

 

 

SINCE THE ACCIDENT, I've had a sixth sense. I think it started because of the pain. I don't remember much about the coma—most of it is sounds and smells and feelings stretched apart and pushed together like a dream—but I remember the pain. It was...different than the pain you feel when you're awake. The kind of shit that flows through every part of you. Sweeps you up and swallows you. And lots of times, I could feel it coming like you hear a train from a few miles out.

The day I had the stroke was like that. I had started to come around a little, and my body knew its routines, even if my mind was still in Neverland. I could tell something was wrong when they wheeled me out of my room and into the ambulance, moving me from the private rehab where I started to a state facility for people whose families couldn’t afford more, or in my case, just said fuck it. As they lifted my stretcher into the ambulance, I could feel a current of panic underneath the waves of nothing.

Since I’ve come out of the coma, every time I get that panicked feeling, bad things happen.

Like when I got it two months ago, sitting in my friend Lizzy’s Camry, waiting for her to come out of Hunter West’s house in Napa. I woke up from a nap drenched in cold sweat, just as Priscilla Heat—my dad’s former mistress, who sold her predecessor into the sex trade—walked around the house and tapped her long red nails on my window. And I knew, half a second before I saw the spark of her Taser, that I was fucked. Sixth sense.

Tonight, I tell myself it's just my parents throwing off my equilibrium. Making me feel bad. That weird kind of bad I've come to know and fear. The fingers of my left hand tingle and my neck feels tight. I blink in the mirror, squeeze my eyes shut. Grab a deep breath. Keep shaving.

I don't shave every day anymore, but my pal Suri will be here in a few minutes to accompany me on my grim excursion, and I want to clean up for her.

When was the last day I went out? Suri and Lizzy hauled me to The Napa Noodle…eight days ago? The night before they left for Paris. They got back yesterday—Friday—with Lizzy's wedding gown in tow. I left the house on Monday. Grocery run. So yeah, it's been four days.

I'm taking it slow on my neck—I'm a leftie, and since my motorcycle wreck, my left hand’s pretty much fucked—but when I hear the bell atop the shop door ding, I speed up. Occasionally when I was in rehab, Suri shaved me, and if she sees how long it takes me, even after three month’s practice, she's likely to try again.

My fingers sweat as I finish up my jaw. I hear the clack of expensive heels on the cement stairs leading up to my loft, and—fuck! There’s a sharp sting under the razor, followed by a splotch of blood that quickly snakes down my neck. I'm muttering curses, tossing the razor into the sink, when Suri calls my name.

“Just a second,” I call through the door.

Dammit, I sound surly.

“Okay.” Suri, as always, sounds like she belongs in the angel choir.

I pull open the swing-out mirror, revealing a shallow medicine cabinet that doesn't hold a shave stick. Shit. Through the door, I can hear Suri humming “Sympathy for the Devil.” Guilt prickles through me, like I'm growing a cactus underneath my skin, and I feel it again—that dark tug that's just a breath away from panic.

I use my stupid but working right hand to press tissue against the cut while I ease my left arm into its shirt sleeve. A few of my half-curled fingers get caught on the inside of the cuff, and I'm trying to get my numb hand through when she calls, “C? You okay in there?”

“Fine.” I'm trying for a more chill tone this time, but I don't really manage it. I still sound grumpy. I’m probably the last person Suri should be spending her night with. Except, of course, my asshole parents—and they're the reason for this ordeal.

I smash the tissue onto my jaw and inhale deeply. This was a mistake, letting her go with me. I pull the tissue off my face. It's still bleeding, but it's slowed enough now that I can get my shirt the rest of the way on.

The dress shirt is blue, which I happen to know makes my blue eyes look bluer, not that I give a fuck tonight. It feels like a lifetime since I tried to get a piece of ass—or thought about my appearance. I'm only looking myself over now to see what my parents will see: dark brown hair still a little shorter than I used to wear it; probably a good thing, because it makes me look bulkier. As I run my gaze down my shoulders, chest, and pants, and then back up to my face, I see myself clearly for the first time in a while, and I'm surprised to feel a sick pit in my stomach.

I look like shit.

Not as bad as I did a few months back—not nearly—but still, not like me. For starters, I'm too damn skinny. I remember around the time Priscilla Heat and her lowlife partner in crime, Jim Gunn, hauled my friend Lizzy and me off to Mexico, hoping to dispose of us so we didn’t spill their human trafficking secret, I was really thin. I could feel my hip bones and my ribs. The bones in my wrists and hands jutted out, and my face looked like I needed to eat a motherfucking sandwich.

I’m not that bad off now, but I still look different. Muscle over bone and not a whole lot else. Then there's the scars: on my temple, in my hair, under my collar, on my neck, on my hands, the creases of my elbows...and way too many underneath my clothes. I realize in this moment that I hate them. They make me feel... Fuck, I don't know. Like a turtle without a shell.

I grit my teeth and rub my right hand through my hair. Tuck my bum left hand into my pants pocket and shove through the bathroom door.

I don't bother faking it for Suri. No need for a phony smile as I step into the little loft above my bike shop, where I keep my weights, my mini-fridge, two plastic bins of clothes, and my narrow bed.

Suri is perched on the edge of my mattress, wearing some kind of silky, pale green dress that's short enough to show off her legs and strappy over her sun-kissed shoulders. Goes well with her hazel eyes and brown curls.

Her eyes widen. “What happened?”

I frown before remembering my jaw. “Oh.” I cover it with my right hand, but it's too late. Suri's on her feet, gliding toward me in a haze of sweet perfume. With her chest only inches from my pecs, she catches my hand in hers and spreads her fingers over mine, so for a second we're both touching my face. Our fingers tangle further as she pushes my hand away from the cut and makes a clucking sound.

Her subtly made-up eyes flick to mine. An eyebrow arches. “Shaving, weren't you?”

“Smart, aren't you?” I smirk at her, and Suri swats at me. “I am smart. Smarter than some of us, who’d rather hack themselves to pieces than ask for help!” She sticks her pink tongue out, wiggling it in a way that tightens my pants. “I bet you hadn't shaved in days. Am I right?” She folds her arms, giving me a pointed, wifely look.

I shrug and shift my feet, putting a bit of space between us as I look her over. “What about you, Madeline? Paris treat you ladies right?”

Suri grins. “I’m surprised you know your kid lit.”

I shrug. “Lizzy's house.” I mean Lizzy’s childhood home, where I hid out for a few months when the shit with my dad and the whole sex slave/mistress situation got sketchy. “She said she got the Madeline books to give to Martine or whatever her name is. Her little sister.” As in, from Big Brothers Big Sisters. I shrug. “But they ended up in Lizzy’s bathroom.”

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