Love Inc: Taming Cross Part 18

From where we are, just outside Camargo, we can probably make it to Ciudad Juarez in five hours, give or take, if I drive like lightning.

There, she will find out who I am. If she doesn't get a glance at my pa.s.sport, she'll notice the name on hers: Meredith Carlson.

Maybe I shouldn't have used Carlson for her surname, but my father is the patron saint of drug control in California, and this means he's funded a lot of upgrades for border patrol and scheduled a bunch of campaign stumps along the border, which means most of them know his name. After my last Mexican adventure, a lot of people know me, too: Cross Carlson, black sheep. If we run into trouble, I'm going to juice my name for all it's worth.

Merri is leaning against the counter with my big, heavy bag slung over her shoulder. I've got a great view of her profile: small, straight nose; smooth lips that always look pink and are maybe a size too big for her face (I think this is one of the reasons I'm always wanting to kiss her); full, squeezable cheeks; slightly pointy chin; soft, elegant throat. My gaze races down her body and I jerk it up before her eyes notice mine.

She presses those pink lips into a tight smile. "Ready?"

"Yep." I take the bag from her and sling it over my back, walking in front of her so my wandering eyes don't get me into trouble.

From behind me, she says, "Evan."

"Yeah?" I look over my shoulder to find her frowning deeply.

"Do you know...if I'm wanted by anyone in Georgia? The stuff I said my ex, Sean, might have tried to blame on me?" She catches her lower lip between her flawless, white teeth, and I want to punch the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in the nose.

"No, you're not. You're not wanted for anything. I ran your name before I left."

She nods. "Okay. Cool." But her lighthearted tone of voice doesn't go with her body language. She looks weighed down. Nervous.

I wonder if she feels f.u.c.ked with, because of what happened last night. I wish I'd had more self-control.

Or less...

Heat washes over me, just the thought of last night making me hard again. I look from the bike to her. "Let's get out of here."

She nods.

I strap the bag to the back of the bike and take the black and grey helmet off the seat. "Here. This is yours, remember?" She takes it from me and cradles it to her chest, giving me a sad look.

"What?"

"I just...kind of think you need it more than me."

Because of my neck. I shake my head. "It's yours."

"Thank you, Evan."

After strapping the thing onto her head, Merri pushes the visor up and presses her back to the wall, getting in front of me and the bike. She opens a little metal flap on the wall where the door is and says, "Did you notice this? The camera?"

"Nah, I just chanced it."

"Well, there's n.o.body out there that I can see." She pauses for a second while she takes in a few different views on the screen below the metal flap, then looks back at me. "I'm going to press this b.u.t.ton and make the door open. You push the bike out and I'll press it again so it closes, then hurry out and get on behind you. I don't want to linger."

"Me either."

"After we get going, we're going to take back roads for a little while and then get on a main road. I forgot the name of it but I'll know it when I see it. Just pay attention when I tap you and we should be okay."

When she presses a b.u.t.ton on the wall, I've got my left arm in its support and I'm pus.h.i.+ng the Mach awkwardly, the way I always do now. I high-tail it outside, where the dusty ground is mud and the sky is a sheet of melancholy gray.

I start the bike up, then get on, nearly falling over as I do; with my arm already in its strap, I'm not very mobile. But I manage, somehow, and then Merri climbs on behind me. She calls over the hum of the motor which direction to veer in. I nod.

Her arms wrap around my waist, and my c.o.c.k hardens as I gas the bike and we coast down the path the late David chased us down. We wheel around the house/dirt mound and I pray no one is waiting for us on the road.

They're not. Our path is a barren, cracked ribbon of asphalt, faded pale from the sun and lined with desert scrub.

I drive fast: ninety. Behind me, Merri feels like everything I didn't know I wanted, and I wonder what it will feel like to lose someone I never had.

I was right about the drive. Slightly more than five hours later, we're nearing the end of our sprint to safety, on the outskirts of sprawling, dirty, sophisticated, dangerous Ciudad Juarez. Up until about thirty minutes ago, we'd seen almost no one.

We make a quick stop at a gas station and after we study the map for a few minutes, I walk Merri to the ladies' room, counting down the seconds until we're back on the bike. Before I pull back onto the road, she squeezes my waist.

"We're almost there, Evan!"

I nod, glad she can't see that I'm not smiling.

I'm a selfish a.s.s.

As we work our way through almost an hour of thick mid-city traffic, I'm tense with wanting to get her somewhere safe, but a part of me is also glad for every minute spent without her knowing who I really am.

You need to get over it. Forget about her. The sooner the better.

I know that's the logical thing to do, but logic means nothing to me. I can't think straight when I'm near Merri. That she's the one girl I can't have: that's a curse I f.u.c.king earned. I tell myself I'll have to tough it out, and when I feel the hollowness inside my chest, I just ignore that s.h.i.+t. Nothing else I can do, right?

There are a couple ports of entry into El Paso, and we're headed toward the one Meredith thinks will be the least busy. It's a tiny bridge near some farm land, and by the time we reach it, my heart's pounding hard enough to make me sweat despite my lack of bike helmet.

Merri's grip tightens on my waist, and she presses her cheek against my back. I inhale deeply, trying to save the moment onto my hard drive. I have the sinking feeling I might need it later. For the next five minutes as we wait on a transfer truck to pa.s.s, my neck aches and my arm feels strange, but I know it's just from stress. Nothing weird going on here. I've got the appropriate papers, plus our pa.s.sports. As soon as we get through the checkpoint, Merri will be home free.

I try to find happiness in that.

When the wooden bridge spits us out at a rickety plywood wall topped with barbed wire and outfitted with a rusted metal tower, my stomach clenches so hard I think I might be sick.

Merri's hands stroke my back. She's feeling grateful, I realize. She lets out a little whoop, and as a black van is waved through the gate, I'm washed in cold sweat, kind of like the feeling you have when you're in opiate withdrawal.

We roll closer-close enough so I can see two dark-haired border patrol guards with automatic rifles-and I tell myself again that I'm just being paranoid. Feeling nervous because I had to ditch my gun at the last bathroom stop before the chekpoint. Antic.i.p.ating what's going to come next, with Merri.

I swallow hard as we get close enough that I can see the tallest guard's eyes. They go right past me, seeking Merri's face behind the helmet. Sweat breaks out on my chest, and I have the overwhelming urge to gas it right past him.

I slow down, though. Automatic rifles make big holes in bare skin, and Merri is behind me.

I slow down, and both guards lunge at us. Before I can even stop the bike, the larger one's hand is locked around my left arm. The shorter one shoves his gun into my face.

My arms around Evan's waist go numb as the barrel of the semi-automatic is shoved into his face. Before I can scream or even flinch, the larger guard points his own gun right at my nose.

"Get off the motorcycle!" he screams in Spanish. He waves the gun, his torso bobbing up and down as his face twists furiously. "You are coming with us!"

I blink at him. Logically, I understand why this is happening, but some part of my mind-the innocent part, the part that still has dreams and wants-is stunned to stillness. This just can't be real.

"GET OFF THE BIKE!"

I shut my eyes as the cold, hard muzzle digs into my forehead.

I know I should go with these men. I should spare Evan. We're still in Mexico, and even in a big city like Ciudad Juarez, the Cientos Cartel has sway. Enough sway to install two cartel lieutenants at a rural border patrol post. But my fingers won't let go of Evan's s.h.i.+rt.

"This is the girl! I have seen her before!" The muzzle slides down my forehead, bruising my temple. "Come on, b.i.t.c.h! Or you'll have a hole in your head!"

Somewhere in the back of my mind, like crickets singing in the background of a Southern front porch conversation, I can hear Evan imploring the other guard to listen to him. He says that I'm his wife, and we're headed back to our house in California.

I want to cry, because I want it to be true. But my emotions have dried up. My mind is only capable of processing the simplest facts. The one that stands out is: Evan will fight them for me. He won't let them take me; he'll fight, and he'll get shot. This gives me the strength to hold my hand up, signaling my gunman to lower his gun, and swing shakily off the bike. Despite my determination to surrender, my legs are weak as jelly. I collapse into the guard, who scoops me up under his arm and starts to run.

I shut my eyes. This can't be real. This isn't real.

I picture Evan and me, back on the motorcycle, both wearing bullet-proof vests. In my re-creation of our fate, when the faux guards pull out their guns, Evan just jets past them, through the gate that would have swung down over us. They're lousy shots and all their bullets miss us. In real life, I'm panting, probably close to pa.s.sing out from fear. I've surrendered fully, accepting my fate, but I want to stay awake. I combat my near-debilitating terror by remembering the feel of Evan's warm, hard abs underneath my hands.

From somewhere close, I hear screaming. The shrieking peel of rubber on asphalt. Gunfire. Evan!

Don't open your eyes.

I tell myself the sound of whirring tires was Evan, jetting past the border.

It's time to go. Time to go to G.o.d.

I open my eyes with a plan to fight my captor. That way, I'll get shot and die without the rape I know is coming.

The guard whose gun was in my face is bleeding all over the ground, his forehead ripped open like a busted watermelon. The other still has Merri. She's tucked under his arm like a football. He is running toward another fence, behind which is a navy blue Range Rover with s.h.i.+ny rims. As I gas the Mach and fly toward Merri, thugs dressed in military gear pour out of the Range Rover and start to run toward her, too.

f.u.c.k no they won't. She's mine!

I lean forward, pressing the weight of my body against the handles so I have better balance, and with my right hand, I raise the stolen semi and spray all of them with bullets.

It's a risky move. One, because I wobble on the bike and almost crash. Two because the ones that don't fall, fire back. I feel a searing pain in my right calf but I can't think about that now. One of the car's pa.s.sengers-a woman with long, black and white striped hair and a bullet-proof vest-is almost to Merri. It takes everything I have to raise the gun again with only my right hand and aim at just her.

As I pull the trigger, I actually pray. Please, G.o.d.

I only have enough strength in my arm to pull the trigger once. Somehow, the woman falls.

The other thugs running toward Merri start to scream and wail, but my eyes are trained on Merri. Her long, red hair ripples in the hot wind. Her legs kick. Her hands claw her captor's arm. He yells something.

I try to follow her as I swerve to dodge bullets. One thing they're screaming makes it through my head: "CHRISTINA..."

"Christina, Christina!"

"Christina! No! No!"

I remember the name Christina. That's Jesus's sister.

I feel another bite of fire, this time near my throat. Adrenaline sweeps through me, and I make a bold decision. I point the bike at Merri and her captor, and I surge forward, toward them. When I'm close enough, I aim at the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head and slam on my brakes as Merri tumbles to the ground.

I open my eyes, and all I see is ground and sky, flipping like I'm rolling down a steep hill. Pain shoots through my body-stinging, tearing pain-and I realize that's because I'm rolling on asphalt.

"MERRI! COME ONE! GET ON THE BIKE!"

That's Evan's voice. Blearily, I note some of the cartel's remaining higher-ups running toward us. I feel heat shoot through my hair and smell the bullet as I whirl around to find Evan, wide eyed and urgent, on his bike.

"GET ON!"

He can't help me and balance the bike at the same time. He's holding the phony guard's light-weight semi-automatic rifle with his right hand in the most awkward position I've ever seen in my life. The second my b.u.t.t touches his bike seat, we shoot off like we're on the back of a runaway horse. Bullets follow us, pinging against the bike's metal. Ripping, again, through the curtain of my hair. Hitting Evan's right shoulder.

He screams "f.u.c.k," the bike's rear tire slides a little, then we pick up speed, shooting through the gate. It takes me a moment to notice that the roaring noise behind us is Christina's blue Range Rover mowing down the barbed-wire fence. They're coming after us.

Then I notice Evan's bleeding really bad.

"Keep on going," I scream. Blood is pouring down his back, but we don't have another choice.

I can feel Evan panting underneath my arms as he fights against the pain. We swerve around a mechanical arm and through a crack in a second, half-opened gate, pa.s.sing a few cars that must be sitting, waiting for this interior gate to let them through.

I hear the roar of the Range Rover behind us, then hear metal crush metal and turn around in time to see the blue SUV bash into a white Mercedes Benz. Horns start honking but I don't care right now.

We're through. They're not. And Evan's blood is dripping in my lap.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

The pain brings tears to my eyes as I call over my shoulder, "Take the gun!"

I would pa.s.s the d.a.m.n thing to her but I know I'll lose my balance if I try. The shoulder hurts like a motherf.u.c.ker, and I know that for once my history with pain makes me lucky, because if I weren't used it, I could never stay upright on this b.u.mpy a.s.s road.

As it is, I try to breathe through my teeth and tell myself that if I can't keep it together, terrible things will happen to Merri.

Her left arm tightens around my waist and her right one comes around to take the gun. It's easier to drive once she has it. I pick up speed, back up to ninety, but I quickly drop down to eighty, then seventy. My vision is blurring, every time I inhale, smearing the yellow lines in the middle of the road.

I feel like we're on fast-forward. The scrubby bushes that line the highway are trembling furiously. The clouds in the vast, blue sky are racing overhead. My pulse comes in uneven bursts. I know it's because of the bleeding, but there's nothing I can do about it until we get into El Paso.

As it is, I'm worried we'll get stopped by cops. Or maybe that would help, I think hazily-they might help get me to a hospital-but they also might ask to see our pa.s.sports.

I feel Merri's helmet b.u.mp against the back of my head just as her breath warms my neck. "Do you want me to drive?"

I struggle to swallow so I can answer her, but I can't get my throat to work. I'm shaking so bad now. I don't want to do it, but I brake and pull over on the side of the road, where I barely stumble off the bike before I'm violently sick. Merri's arms are around my back, and I'm so f.u.c.king disgusted with myself.

Time to phone West for another rescue, says a little voice inside my head.