I spend the next two hours getting whipped and slapped and trying not to get too head fucked. I’m not a child anymore. I can fight back, if I choose.
But I don’t.
Chapter 13
Elizabeth
IT’S KIND OF like what I imagine getting sent off to college would be like if you’re in a normal family, where at least one person really cares that you’re leaving.
Suri fusses over me like a mama bird, making egg soufflé and sparkling green tea for breakfast, plus a giant bowl of perfectly gooey orange cinnamon rolls for the road. As we sit and eat our soufflé at the breakfast table, she watches me like a mama bird, too.
In the last two weeks, I’ve hit the elliptical hard; I’ve even worked out at a real gym three times a week, with a trainer, going through photocopied exercises Richard sent. I look better than I have in a long time. I refuse to weigh myself, on principal, but I’m wearing size six pants.
I smile a little, but Suri frowns and shakes her head. “This is your choice, Lizzy. Remember you don’t have to go. I have money.”
I snicker. “I do realize I’m not a sex slave.”
“Speaking of sex slaves!” She hops up and opens the drawer of the desk where she keeps her fabric swatches. She holds out something small and black, and I’m appalled to find that it’s a gun case.
I wobble backwards when she tries to push it into my hands. “Suri, have you lost your mind? I’m not touching that death machine.”
“It’s a .38. You need it! Some escorts have been kidnapped and sold into sex slavery or murdered or eaten!”
“Really?” I pause, mid-chew. I’ve heard a lot of things about Las Vegas, but not that.
“Well, the cannibalism is just a pessimistic guess.” She rolls her eyes, like the specifics don’t matter. “They’ve gone missing. Two or three, I think. One of them was even from Love Inc. Surely you’ve heard about—”
“I have,” I lie, because really—I don’t need any added stress. I probably would have heard about it, had I done excessive Googling on Love Inc., but I didn’t. Because I really don’t care to know more about it than I do. I’ll be there for two weeks, and then I’ll be back home. Surely I can avoid getting cannibalized or kidnapped in less than fifteen days.
Suri pushes the gun into my hand, and I take it. Not because I’d ever shoot someone, but because I want to ease her mind.
“Remember, if you have a problem, call me,” she says, pushing her lip between her teeth.
“I’ll just shoot ‘em dead.” I smile, waving my gun, and she says, “Don’t do that! It may be loaded.”
“You just gave me a loaded gun?”
“No, but you’re always supposed to act like it’s loaded! There are some bullets in the case if you need them.”
With a wide-eyed look at the little black case, I tuck the gun into my bag and turn to Suri, who’s holding out the plastic box of cinnamon rolls.
“Don’t forget these.”
“How could I?” I’m an absolute sucker for orange frosted cinnamon rolls.
Together we walk to my jam-packed car, where I put that awful handgun in the glove box and Suri checks the tire pressure. She once had a flat outside Chula Vista on one of those lonely country roads. She was rescued by a border patrol agent who was dressed like a smuggler; the experience was scarring, so since then she’s always checked my tire pressure.
“Looks like you’re good,” she says, holding out the gauge. Then she throws her arms around me. “Lizzy, you look wonderful and I hope you feel that way, too. I hope it’s perfect and whoever wins the bid is a total prince charming. I’ll come visit soon.”
I squeeze her close. “The bidding’s not for a week and a half, remember?”
“I can’t be away from you for that long, crazy woman.”
Suri and I hug once more, and when she closes me into my car, I roll down the window, preparing to wave until I reach the end of the driveway. Suri will do the same. It’s our thing.
“Lizzy,” she calls, as I shift into drive. She trots over to my window, her long sweater trailing behind her. “I’ll visit Cross. Every day, if you want.”
If I want...
It’s hard to hide my smirk, but I manage. “Suri, that would rock.”
She grins a grin that’s bigger than it ought to be, and then says, “Tell him ‘hi.’”
“Huh?”
“Cross. Aren’t you seeing him on your way out?”
“Yeah.”
“I figured. Tell him I said ‘hi.’”
WHEN I ARRIVE BACK AT Cross’s original rehab, I’m thrilled to find him doing better. The gauze is off his head, and Nanette says his brain scans look much the same as they did the last time he was scanned at NVIR—meaning the stroke was minor and hasn’t affected his long-term prognosis.