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I smile a little, figuring Suri must be thinking the same thing, but instead of complimenting me she frowns a little and shakes her head. "This is your choice, Lizzy. Remember you don't have to go. I have money."
After a second reminding myself she's only looking out for me, so I shouldn't roll my eyes or get irritated, 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 shocked to find that it's a gun case.
She holds it out to me, and I wobble backwards. "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 a little over a week and a half, and then I'll be back home. Surely I can avoid getting cannibalized or kidnapped in eleven 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, with 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!”
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 trunk and Suri checks the tire pressure. She once had a flat outside Tyler, Texas, 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. 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'm reminded of Hunter, which makes my chest ache. I really need to try to forget about Hunter.
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 smiles a smile 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."
"Tell him I said 'hi.'"
