Taming Cross: A Love Inc. Novel Read online

  Contents

  1. Cross

  2. Merri

  3. Cross

  4. Merri

  5. Cross

  6. Merri

  7. Cross

  8. Cross

  9. Cross

  10. Cross

  11. Merri

  12. Merri

  13. Cross

  14. Cross

  15. Cross

  16. Cross

  17. Merri

  18. Cross

  19. Merri

  20. Cross

  21. Cross

  22. Merri

  23. Cross

  24. Cross

  25. Cross

  26. Cross

  27. Cross

  28. Merri

  29. Cross

  30. Cross

  31. Merri

  32. Merri

  33. Cross

  34. Cross

  35. Cross

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Taming Cross

  Book Two in the Love Inc. Series

  Copyright © 2013 by Ella James

  ISBN-13: 978-1301833702

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  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.”

  “Where you read them.” Suri smiles gently, touching my elbow with the back of her hand. Her eyes linger on mine half a second too long, and I can't ignore the emotion that I see in them: not just friendship, but something more akin to...adoration. Probably just seeing things.

  A second later, the look melts off her face, and she reaches into her purse for a little pack of tissue. I grit my teeth as she dabs my jaw. Her thin brows pinch together as she draws it away, opening her purse again, this time to pull out a small bottle of water. She pours a few drops on the tissue. Instead of letting her wipe at my face again, I grab the thing from her and do it myself.

  I can tell she doesn't like that. She tries to keep her face neutral, but I know her well enough to see the way her mouth pulls down just a little at the corners. Disappointed.

  I don't get it. Am I supposed to let her mother me? Why would she want to? It’s not like my own mother ever did. I ball the tissue up and toss it onto my bed, not caring if the blood stains my dingy gray blanket.

  It wasn't always like this—things so complicated between Lizzy, Suri, and me. For years, Suri's parents called us the Three Musketeers, and we were good friends. Just friends. I fucked it up first by getting a hard-on for Lizzy. Then Lizzy met Hunter West, they got engaged, and I put a cap on my feelings. Around the same time, Suri and her fiancé, Adam, had a messy split, and I was laid up in rehab. I think Suri needed the distraction of me. I’m not gonna lie: I love her for it. I will always love her for it. But I don't love this. The expectation.

  What the hell does she want?

  I'm looking into her eyes, trying to think of something funny to make her smile, when Suri leans in and puts her palm on my chest.

  “Cross,” she murmurs, looking earnestly up at me as her fingers move slowly over my shirt. “Did I do something wrong?”

  I blink down at her. “No.” Yes—and this is it! I look at her hand on my chest and think about how wrong it is: the way I'm thinking about her tits, freed from her bra, cupped in my hand. The way some evil part of me knows that I could fuck her if I really tried.

  And dammit, wouldn't I like to?

  I can't jerk off—not since the crash. At first, I thought it was the stroke or something messing with my junk, but then I went to Marchant's perv ranch and some chick named Loveless got me off in less than twenty seconds, so I know it's not the hardware. When I'm alone it's just not happening. But when I'm with someone like Suri...

  Gritting my teeth, I move her hand off my chest. I lay my right hand over her shoulder, looking into her eyes again, like maybe mine will tell this story for me. Her frown deepens and I clench my jaw. C'mon, asshole, grow a pair.

  “Suri,” I say, my voice dipping low and deep, “you should be careful.” When her frown deepens, I suck back a big breath. “Doing something stupid with you is the last thing I would want.” I swallow, feeling like that shell-less turtle again. “You're one of my best friends.”

  Her hazel eyes are large and earnest. “Are you saying you’re tempted by me?” She gives a soft laugh, and I run my hand through my hair.

  “Is that such a terrible thing?” she asks.

  “Well, it’s—”

  “I get it. You’re worried I might get hurt.”

  I nod. “I'm…uh…you know. Not really the dating kind. And you are. And Suri, you're beautiful.” But it's all friendship and friendship boners. I don't want Suri in that way.

  Suri's nodding like she's getting it, and I'm so relieved I feel like laughing. Then she wraps her arm around my neck, leans in close enough to kiss me, and lifts her soft hand to stroke my cheek. My dick betrays me as she mashes her breasts against my chest.

  “There's nothing to worry about, Cross. I know you can't make promises...and that's okay with me. What I feel for you—” She looks into my eyes. “What I feel for you is unexpected, but I love it.”

  My lungs stop, mid-breath. What?

  Suri takes my hand and tugs me over to the bed. I follow mostly because I don't know what else to do. When she urges me down onto the mattress, I let her—and then I let her climb on top of me. Because I'm a bastard and my cock is cheering like a Red Sox fan in 2004. Because it feels so good to have a woman's body on mine.

  Then she leans down, cloaking me in the curtain of her hair, and she kisses me like I never thought Suri would kiss. Holy fuck, I can't help but kiss her back! I squeeze her hip and grab her ass. I try to grab her ass. Both arms raise, both hands move to cup her taut cheeks. But as my right hand grabs her through her silky dress, my left just hangs from my arm—dead weight.

  That's all it takes to break the sex spell Suri has me under. I blink up at her, and the wrongness of it hits me even harder.

  “Suri.” I'm panting as I scoot back toward the headboard. She crawls after me, but when she gets close enough that I can smell that damned perfume, I hold my right hand up. “Suri...”

  Her lips part, and it's weird as hell to see her like this—like a vixen. She scoots a little closer, and my cock throbs painfully against my pants.

  “I told you Cross, I don't care about the details. I just...” She makes a funny little face—her shy face—but it's quickly transformed into something surer, something fierce. “I just want you, Cross. Is that so awful?”

  Jesus Christ.

  I push myself up on my elbows, trying to think past the throbbing in my pants. “Suri, I'm not saying that it's bad.” I flick my right hand at her. “Look at you. You're gorgeous. Any man would want you. I'm a man, Suri, so yeah, I want to fuck you upside down and sideways. But you're my friend.”

  I clench my jaw, because I’m imagining the upside down and sideways, but the fantasy disintegrates as I watch her eyes fill with tears. Somewhere in the last few months, Suri caught feelings for me.

  Lizzy tried to tell me once, but I didn’t take it seriously. Now I really wish I had.

  Surri tucks her chin, looking down at the blankets, and I can see her lip tremble. I feel awful, so I reach for her. She crawls off the bed and steps toward the bathroom, and I feel slightly dizzy as I think, I knew this night would suck.

  How the fuck did this happen? It doesn't matter, Cross. Just deal with it.

  I get up off the bed and grab her hand. “Suri, you're one of my closest friends. You and Lizzy.” She won't look at me, but that doesn't mean I'm going to quit talking. “But that's all it should be. Do you think I want you to be just another fuck?” Her eyes widen, and she tries to jerk away, but I tighten my grip on her wrist and hold her gaze. “That's just it—you wouldn't be. B
ut I'm not ready for this, Suri. It would be bad. It would end up being bad for you.”

  When eyes finally find mine, they’re red and wet. “I don't know how I read this all so wrong.” She sounds teary.

  I grit my teeth. I don't know how, either. “I love you, Sur, you know I do, but we're friends first.”

  More tears drip down her cheeks as her chin trembles, and I feel like a steaming pile of dog shit. “You want to be more with Lizzy,” she whispers.

  “No, I don’t.” I grit my teeth as my heart pounds. It’s true, I got distracted by Lizzy a few months back, but that’s over. “I don’t want anything with Lizzy.”

  She shakes her head, then turns on her heel and marches into the bathroom.

  For the next few minutes, I stand by the door, feeling helpless and heartless and frustrated. I consider knocking, but I can hear her sniffing and I wonder if she'd rather have her privacy. I rub my neck, which is still aching.

  I'm mulling that one over when I hear the door creak, and Suri steps out, looking calm and gathered. I reach for her hand, touching it for a moment before she draws away.

  “Suri, I'm really fucking sorry.”

  She holds up both hands. “I know, Cross. And it will be okay. I still want to go with you tonight, just as a friend. You really shouldn't have to face the firing squad alone.”

  I shouldn't face the firing squad at all, but I’ve got things to settle with my dad. “I appreciate it. You'll never know how much. But I think it would be better if you just go home tonight. We'll talk tomorrow.”