Unmaking Marchant

by Ella James

  “I guess I have to.”

  Yes!

  I smile. I can’t help it. “Adam, thank you. That makes me feel so much better.”

  “Anything for my girl.” He grins and steps close enough to kiss me quickly on the mouth, then starts stripping off his clothes.

  My body temperature skyrockets. I can’t help it. Adam is lean and cut. I’m not very tall—only five-foot-four—so at five-foot-ten, he’s just my size. His blue eyes and mahogany hair look great with his naturally tanned skin. His grandmother is from Spain, and you can totally tell.

  My mouth falls open when he tugs his boxers off, revealing a stiff erection.

  “Ohh la la.” I giggle and step over to him, and Adam does a deft job getting me out of my dress and slip. He kisses down my neck and over my bare shoulders. A brisk breeze blows, causing chills to pop up on my skin. He tweaks my hard, round nipple, and I gasp.

  “Bad boy…”

  He kneels, thumbing me through my panties before he pulls them down and tosses them over his shoulder. He takes my hand and leads me to the stairs at the shallow end of the heated pool. Steam drifts off the water, and I watch as it laps against Adam’s knees, then thighs, then hips. He’s submerged up to his chest when he turns and tugs me in behind him.

  I sink down to my shoulders, glad my hair is swept up off my neck as I twirl around. It feels exquisite.

  I look over at Adam. He’s up to his pecs now, smiling a sweet smile, looking soft and attentive: the nice drunk he’s never been.

  “Come here baby.” He holds his arms out, and my eyes fly to a bruise on his left shoulder, thinking for a second that he’s finally gotten the tattoo I always fanaticize about.

  Oh, well.

  I step over to him, running my wet fingers through his hair and tugging his lips down on mine. As I do, I press my naked body against his and Adam groans a little.

  “Baby… Oh yeah.”

  He starts kissing down my neck, just the way I like it. He kisses my collar bone and down my breast to my nipple, which he teases with his teeth. Through my haze of lust, I tell myself I’m not going to let his drinking ruin things for us. He’ll go to AA. He did better tonight. He drank a lot in a brief time period and he’s not calling me names.

  One of his hands cups me in the water and he slides a finger in. I gasp, wriggling against him.

  “You naughty, naughty boy.”

  I find him, too, stroking him as he moans.

  He jerks out of my grasp, lifts me in his arms and presses my back against the side of the pool, lifting my legs so he can find my center. He spreads my lips, stroking twice before he takes himself in hand, and, holding onto the side of the pool, pushes inside of me.

  It’s supposed to feel good in the water, but I know after a couple of strokes it doesn’t. I feel stretched too tight, and it stings.

  He begins to thrust a little harder, kissing my mouth and stroking my neck with one hand as the other holds my hips.

  “Oh, yeah…”

  I bite my tongue, trying to get used to the sensation, but the pinching feeling just gets worse.

  “Adam,” I gasp. I push against his shoulder. “Stop, it hurts.”

  His eyes open, as he continues pumping. “Stop?”

  “I’m really sorry, but it hurts.”

  He pulls out and lets go of me. I sink into the water while he spins around. “Damnit, Suri. This is bullshit!”

  A shiver sweeps me as the wind blows. I wrap my arms around myself and hope he’s just being a frustrated guy. This is my fantasy, after all. Something he’s never felt comfortable doing. And I just shot him down.

  Shoving my worries aside, I put on my sexy face and beckon him closer, curling my finger in a come-hither motion as the water laps around my shoulders. “Come here,” I tell him, trying not to shiver as the breeze picks up. When he gets close enough, I’m going to grab his dick.

  But he doesn’t come. Instead, he turns around, running his hands roughly through his hair. “Jesus, you sure know how to kill a buzz.”

  “Come here, Adam.” When he doesn’t, I grab his bicep and turn him around. I grab his dick with one hand, stroking as my mouth finds his. He kisses me back roughly. Almost painfully, as if he’s trying to bruise my lips. I try not to say “ow”—I don’t want to put a damper on our sex life, especially when we only get to indulge several times a month—but he keeps it up, kissing so hard my teeth are almost cutting into my mouth, then moving down my neck and biting. Not sexy biting; real biting.

  I can’t help it. I push his shoulders. “Adam, stop!”

  He shoves one wet hand into my hair, wrapping a strand around his fingers. “Come on, it’s been a fucking week or maybe more.”

  He grabs my hips and pulls me closer to him, easing me toward the side of the pool again. Lifting me up, so the deck is digging into my back. Putting my legs atop his shoulders. He strokes my thigh and licks me twice, then pulls me abruptly back down into the water and enters me again.

  Again, it stings. I’m not sure why. I close my eyes and try to loosen up, but eventually I have to squirm away. I push against him, looking up into his dazed eyes. “Adam, I’m really sorry. It just hurts.”

  He gives me a weird look, almost a sneer. It’s not a look I see on him often, so I’m not sure what it means. He laughs a little. “Don't you want to be a good wifey?”

  The comment is so ridiculously sexist and entitled, I can't believe it came from Adam's mouth. I’m so disgusted, I almost want to hit him. Instead, I splash him.

  “You’re being a jerk, just like you said you wouldn’t be.” I take a few steps back, already glancing at the stairs. There are no towels out here, but I don't care. All I want is to get inside, away from Adam and his issues.

  Adam splashes me back, spraying water in my face. As I blink at him through my smeared mascara, I find he looks legitimately pissed off, as if I’m the one who’s ruined our night.

  “Fuck you,” he mutters.

  My jaw drops. I throw up my arms, shocked although I shouldn’t be. “This is what you always do! You have a drinking problem, Adam!”

  “Fuck you,” he says again.

  “Don’t talk to me that way!”

  He sneers. “I’ll do what I want. You can’t blame me. You’re being a cock tease, Suri.”

  “And you can get out of my house!” I splash him one more time, because I’m furious, then wheel around and splash my way toward the stairs. Unable to just go, I turn around to find him standing there, still as stone. “You need to get a handle on yourself and grow up!”

  I hustle onto the bottom stair, then up the second one, and am holding onto the railing, poised to take a third step, when Adam’s hand closes around my left wrist. He doesn’t yank me, but he grabs me with enough force that I lose my footing.

  I try to take another step and lunge out of the pool, but of course he’s got me by the arm, so I slip.

  When I wake up, I’m lying on my back on the pool deck. My mouth is filled with blood, and one of my bottom teeth is embedded in my gum.

  Adam is sorry, but I don’t care.

  That’s the night I give the ring back.

  *

  MARCHANT

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 2013

  I wish Rachelle would quit blowing up my phone. I should be grateful that she’s calling me rather than tromping over from the main house and banging on my front door—but I’m not. Not at all.

  I toss the phone onto the mattress and drop my head down on my pillow. Close my eyes. Try to get back to the peaceful nothingness I was drifting through.

  Sometime later, I sit up, because I can’t.

  Of course I can’t.

  Seven years, and it never gets easier.

  Sorrow flows through me like poison. Sorrow and sickness. Sorrow and sickness and disgust and horror—and regret. So, so much regret.

  Even with my eyes open, staring at the framed ace of spades on my bedroom wall, I see her. What sh
e might look like now. The color of her hair…her eyes.

  I look down at my bare chest, at the script along the lower left side of my ribcage, crawling vertically up me, just above my hip to just below my heart.

  March 15, 2007.

  It’s March 15 today, and it can’t be over soon enough.

  I lean over, grab my phone, and shoot Rachelle a text: Got the flu; pretend you’re me. You have carte blanche, woman. Use it.

  Hoping the text seems “normal,” I sag back against my army of maroon pillows. Let my eyes drift shut. Enjoy the way that gravity drags down on me, keeping me from moving. I don’t want to move.

  Except the fucking phone is ringing again, and it’s not the Icona Pop ringtone Rachelle attached to her name. I grab the thing, flopping onto my back and holding it up over my face. Libby.

  I press the fuck you button. Drop my arm on my chest. The phone vibrates when she leaves a message. Second one today.

  I wonder dully about the likelihood that she’ll hunt me down. Then, from the depths of my cloudy memory comes a convenient bit of information: Libby is leaving for France on Friday, to visit her daughter.

  Friday is today.

  How long will she be gone?

  Two weeks? Four?

  I sit up again and rub my blood-shot eyes. I can’t remember.

  That should make me concerned. I should hear alarm bells peeling from somewhere through the fog. But I don’t. Because I just can’t seem to make myself care. About anything. And least of all, me.

  I slide my tired ass off the bed and walk slowly to my bathroom, where I open the medicine cabinet and remove several unlabeled bottles of prescription pills: my dirty little secret. I pour one bottle into the palm of my hand and stare at all the little round, white tablets. I wonder how many swallows it would take to choke all of them down.

  Since I’ve forbidden drop-bys to my garden house behind the three main Love Inc. buildings, it’d probably be a while before I was found. I’m the one in charge here. I’m the boss. No one would defy me. Not because I’m an ass (although I can be). It’s because they’re all so goddamn well-paid. I’ve learned the best way to ensure loyalty is with lots of the green stuff; everybody at Love Inc. ranch is very loyal.

  I’m still staring at my hand when the doorbell rings.

  I roll my eyes and toss the pills into the toilet.

  It rings again.

  Go away, Libby. I’m not gonna answer you today.

  I sigh and find my phone. Type out a text. Got the flu. Hook up next week? Skype?

  Even finding the question mark key on my phone is so fucking wearying.

  I hit ‘send’, then grab the other two bottles and empty them into the toilet.

  This shit is over. It’s not working anymore. I need something else.

  A good lay, maybe, or a game of blackjack. A fucking drink. Maybe something a little bit stronger just to pick me up.

  And that’s how I end up at Tao, in the back room with the high rollers, gambling away two million dollars I don’t exactly have.

  That’s also how I end up snorting a couple lines of coke and fucking twins named Elise and Elsbeth.

  I feel on top of the world by the time I’m zipping up my pants. When that little fucking twerp Rex Hawkins finds me outside the men’s room and asks for what I owe him, I don’t give a shit. I laugh and tell him, “Later. I’ve gotta move the funds from the money market.”

  The money is there; it’s just hard to get to. I give him one of my business cards, the little red ones with the sexy Love Inc. logo.

  “You need it sooner, come to my place.” It’s a challenge, and he knows it.

  I barely even feel it when one of his thugs smashes his fist into my face.

  I’m up again. I’m back in business. The clock just struck midnight.

  March 16.

  2

  SURI

  NAPA, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 19, 2013

  The first thing I notice is how gross my mouth feels. I swish my tongue over my teeth: unbrushed. Ugh.

  I lift my head and find myself at the work desk in my bedroom. My stiff neck protests as I turn to search for the wall clock. Based on how tired I feel, and by the dim light filtering through the long, pale green curtains, I’m guessing it’s still early. Which is why, when I see the actual time, I shriek.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

  I’m up and running to my bathroom, because it’s nine fifteen. I have an appointment in the vineyard in less than an hour. Still, there’s time to shower. Something quick, and I’ll let my curly, brown hair air-dry on the drive over to the Bernards’ country home. I lean over to turn the shower faucet, my hair falls over my shoulder, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice a web of pink that makes my blood run cold.

  I whirl around, fully facing the wide, long mirror and seriously almost cry. That pink stuff is bubble gum. I fell asleep chewing bubble gum, and now it’s in my hair!

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

  I pick and pull at the mess, but it’s overtaken the entire left side of my head. I glance around the bathroom, searching for a clock that isn’t here. Of course I don’t have time for an emergency trip to Julian, my stylist. But I can’t go to the clients’ house with gum in my hair. It’s a consult. They won’t hire me if I look like a crazy bag lady.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” I tug open a drawer, grab my small, stainless steel scissors, and get to chopping. Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in a red Armani pants suit with a slouchy fedora. Underneath it, my now-straight hair hangs just a little bit below my chin.

  My shoulders feel too light. My face looks blunt and sharp and not like me.

  I grab my makeup bag and dash out the front door, down the porch, toward my lilac Land Rover, still dotted with dew under an overcast sky.

  I know for sure I’m having “one of those days” when a bird smacks into my windshield before I even get out of my driveway. It’s cute and small and brown, and based on the tailspin it takes in the wake of the Land Rover, I’m guessing I just punched its ticket to bird heaven.

  Lovely.

  As I jet from Crestwood Place, a columned, brick home on one-hundred acres just outside downtown Napa, to the valley, I try driving with my knees, something my father absolutely loathes and something I’ve never been great at. I manage to run off the road once, smear my eyeliner (top and bottom) on my right eye, and put on the wrong color eye shadow, so I appear to be going for an emo look.

  Lovely.

  When I’m finished with my makeup, I flip the mirror up, press the pedal to the floor, and turn up some Florence and the Machine, holding onto the wheel as I fly down hills, around curves, past acres and acres of grapes. I make it to the Bernards’ house only two minutes after our set appointment time of ten o’clock.

  The crumminess of the day is once again confirmed when I climb out, briefcase on my shoulder, smile polished and ready, to find Dr. and Mr. Bernard standing several feet apart in their freshly sodded lawn, screaming obscenities at each other.

  Behind them, their sprawling Tuscan-style home stands empty, waiting for my finishing touch, but as their heads whip to me in unison, I know it’s not going to happen.

  “Miss Dalton.” Mr. Bernard strides forward, trying to greet me, and his wife throws a wine glass at his shoulder. It shatters, falling in glittering pieces to the lawn as my mouth drops open. He turns around. “Honey, now is not the time or—”

  “Yes it is the time!” Her shoulders are heaving, her long blonde hair bouncing down her back. She’s wearing scrubs, no makeup, and she looks like she wants to murder her husband. “You lying, cheating, small-dicked bastard—”

  “Miss Dalton,” Mr. Bernard starts. “Perhaps another—”

  “No.” The woman turns to me. “No other time. This is my money, my vacation house, and he won’t get a thing after I divorce his cheating ass!” Panting, she quickly gathers herself and adds, “Sorry, Suri. We’ll have to try this another time. Give your mother m
y regards.”

  I stand there only a second longer before Mr. Bernard turns to go inside. His wife intercepts him, shoving him toward the garage. “Don’t you even think if stepping foot into my home you fucking asshole.”

  Just great. I lost this job. I don’t have another booking until mid-May. This leaves me with enough to pay the essentials, but not as much as I need if I’m going to save for a trip to Paris in the winter.

  And—damnitty damn!—I cut my own hair for these people. Because I didn’t think I had time to get to Julian’s.

  My shoulders slump. I climb into my car. Turn down the Florence. Turn up some Bon Iver. But listening to Bon Iver while driving out of the valley reminds me of my good friend Cross Carlson. Cross, who last November had a motorcycle accident on one of these very vineyard roads. Cross, who a mere week ago was the recipient of my… My what? My desperate advance? My half-naked body and enthusiastic lips? My dashed dreams? My fledgling hopes? I roll my eyes at myself and turn down the music. I’m sick and tired of replaying the sad scenario with Cross. Putting the moves on him was a stupid thing to do—one I probably wouldn’t have done had I not still been in a state of shock and alarm over the way things ended with Adam.

  Adam.

  Ugh.

  I’m tired of thinking about Adam, too, and I’m tired of slow, sad songs.

  I roll the windows down, find some Sara Barilles, and am headed toward Julian’s studio when my mother calls. I hit ignore. She calls again. And calls, and calls, and calls.

  I sigh and answer. “Do you need me, Mom?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. Where are you, darling?”

  “Leaving the Bernards’ house.”

  “Oh that’s right. How did it go?”

  More than thirty years of being married to an uber secretive tech tycoon has made my mother very discreet—or maybe she always was. I give her a quick rundown of the situation at the Bernards’ house, figuring she’ll hear it soon enough from Dr. Bernard, anyway, since the two are good friends. I’m almost to Julian’s, and am feeling a little less pessimistic about the world, when Mom asks, “So…are you going to New York?”