Unmaking Marchant

by Ella James

  “Is this an every woman thing, or just me?” I whisper—because despite myself, I have to know. “Are you just someone who likes to toy with people?”

  He pulls away, and it’s like a house of cards falling. His eyes are surprisingly bleak when he says, “It’s a ‘me thing,’ Suri Dalton.” He laughs, humorless. “I’ve…I don’t know. I’ve got problems.”

  As I move from my seat to one across from him, desperate to put some space between us, I decide it’s a me thing, too. Because even as he takes a long swig straight from his bottle, I can’t seem to get my body to calm down.

  *

  MARCHANT

  Goddamn. This is gonna happen here, and when it does, this beautiful angel is gonna see it.

  I stand up, bottle in my hand, but there’s nowhere to go. The bedroom door is closed, and most of the cabin is this open fucking room.

  I pace toward the cockpit and my mind is filled with crazy shit. I duck behind the curtain and I breathe into my elbow.

  Calm down, fuckhead. You just gotta make it till we land.

  I twist the cap off the Goose and pour it down my throat.

  “Mr. Radcliffe?”

  I blink at the flight attendant who just appeared in front of me. I can’t remember her name right now, although I’m aware that I should know it. She touches my arm, and I’m tempted to slap her.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  I move away and shake my head, already drifting back into the cabin.

  Standing here, looking at the back of Suri Dalton’s hair, I feel like I’m stuck in a movie I can’t turn off. I feel like the only way out is to open the door and just…jump.

  That’s crazy.

  Fuck me.

  I sink into the recliner and take a deep pull of my vodka. Put one arm over my head. I try to pretend I’m in my garden house.

  I swallow—the sound of it is so loud—and open my eyes, so my eyelashes brush the leather of the chair’s arm. For a moment, my body is completely immobile. As I imagine her arms around me. As I think of what I’d like to do to her throat. To her breasts. As I return to the image of her arms around me. It’d feel good to be hugged. Held.

  And then I hear her coming up on me. I hear her soft voice, asking, “Are you okay?”

  Without lifting my head, I say, “I’m fine. I’m just fucking drunk. Started drinking…way too early.”

  I wish that was really the problem.

  5

  SURI

  So maybe my first instinct, back there in the atrium, was right. Maybe something is wrong with this guy. And it’s not that he’s a pimp, and it’s not that he’s a player. I think Marchant Radcliffe must have an alcohol problem.

  Clearly, the universe has decided my adventure into bad-boy land has lasted long enough, and offered me a solid reason to stay away from him. And I’m grateful for that. I tell myself I’m grateful for it as I watch him stride into the big, steel elevator on the first floor of El Paso’s University Hospital.

  I’m trying to think of it like…I don’t know…a muffin. A really good blueberry muffin—my favorite kind of muffin. Except this muffin got dropped in dirt. Or kitty litter! Yep. You wouldn’t want a blueberry muffin dropped in kitty litter, no matter how good a muffin it was. No matter how delicious it looked from far away. Because eating a muffin dropped in kitty litter would be like asking to get sick.

  So as my eyes dart over his handsome face and his impressive body—a body just as scrumptious as any blueberry muffin—I remind myself that he’s a drunk. At least I think he might be. It’s a definite possibility.

  Also possible: He got drunk because he’s scared of planes. Because his parents died on a plane. I wish I knew more about that. I wish I could ask Lizzy about it.

  Since she and Hunter came out of the bedroom, right before we landed, I haven’t been able to get her to look me in the eye. I’m not sure what’s with her sketchy behavior, but the bitchy prude inside me says she knows something happened between Marchant and I, and she respects me less for it.

  I keep my gaze on my feet again as the elevator lifts us to the third floor. I think of Cross. I think of how I wasn’t thinking of Cross on the plane ride over. I’m a pretty shitty friend.

  I think, again, of putting the moves on Cross. What was that all about? I’ve tried hard to self-analyze, but I’m honestly not sure. Not completely. I’m not in love with Cross. I know that. I love him the same way I love Lizzy, except he’s also an attractive and charming guy.

  I guess…I don’t know. I hate to be one of those people who excuse themselves by saying things like, “I just wasn’t in a good place,” but that’s what it comes down to, I guess. That and I was just dumb dumb dumb.

  The elevator door opens, cutting off my thoughts, and putting us off inside a wide, white hallway. Anxiety spreads through me, because I remember this from last time—from Cross’s motorcycle accident back in November—and I really don’t want to remember that.

  A lump tightens in my throat as I wonder if this will be like that. Memories toss themselves into my consciousness like a stack of Polaroids thrown into the air: Cross, bleeding, swollen, bandaged. That horrible breathing tube. The catheter bag. I remember talking to Adam on my cell phone from the waiting room while Cross endured his first long surgery, just a few hours after the crash, and my stomach twists.

  I’m in the back of the group, so I allow a tear to slip out of my eye as I breathe the acrid scent of rubbing alcohol, lemon disinfectant, and rubber. We walk a few dozen more feet to a big, half-circle desk., “OR Waiting Room” is written above the desk in stainless steel letters.

  One of the people behind the desk—a slim, short man wearing light brown scrubs—glances up at us. “Can I help you?”

  Lizzy pulls her wallet out of her purse and wiggles an ID out of one of its pockets. It’s a fake that says Elizabeth Carlson—one she had made so she could visit Cross in the ICU after his first accident. She slides it across the table. “We’re here for Cross Carlson.”

  The man behind the desk looks into her face, a blend of curiosity and pity. “Are you the wife?”

  “Sister,” she says softly, and Hunter takes her hand.

  The man’s blue eyes meet Lizzy’s. “Maybe you can help us. We haven’t been able to find Ms. Carlson.”

  “Ms. Carlson?”

  The man nods, frowning. “Meredith Carlson?”

  I clutch my purse as the room tilts around me, and the man in scrubs explains that Cross arrived with his wife. I tell myself he must be wrong—the man is obviously wrong.

  “She was very upset,” he tells us.

  Lizzy straightens her shoulders, and explains, in her most gathered, Lizzy voice: “I think there’s a misunderstanding. My brother isn’t married.”

  The man behind the desk shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”

  I stare at Lizzy’s shoulders, and Hunter starts asking questions like how long until we’ll get an update, and is Cross still in surgery, and the man in brown scrubs tells us yes; the surgeon will be out to speak to us soon.

  “Is he okay?” I hear myself ask as the others head for little plastic seats.

  “He’s in surgery, ma’am.”

  “But he’s…okay? Like…when they brought him in, he was doing pretty well?”

  “They took him back to surgery,” the man says. “That’s all I know.”

  “Did you see him?” The man’s neutral expression begins to slip, and I add, “I’m just trying to find out all the information I can.”

  “Well, he can’t tell you.”

  I turn to find Marchant Radcliffe standing right behind me. He has one eyebrow arched and both arms crossed. For some reason, the stern, knowing look on his handsome face pisses me off.

  “This is none of your business.” I look into his blood-shot eyes. Eyes that are blood-shot because he’s drunk.

  He blinks. “You want to tell me my business?”

  Heat crawls over my skin at the challenging tone. The same kind
of challenge Adam used to issue when he’d been drinking. I hold my head up higher. “I’m not doing that. I’m telling you what your business is not. My concern for my friend is not your business. Not unless you have something helpful to say.” I nod at the chairs behind him. “You can go and sit back down now.”

  His eyes, on mine, feel hot. “You want me to leave?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t care if you leave or not.” My voice wavers, because I’m upset about being in a hospital again, and now Marchant Radcliffe has turned Adam on me. I whirl away from him, headed toward where Lizzy and Hunter are sitting, when another set of wide steel doors opens and a man wearing pale blue scrubs, a little blue hat, and black sneakers strides out.

  He looks around the room, gaze swinging first to me and then to Lizzy. “Meredith Carlson?”

  I close the distance between he and I, my stomach twisting into a sick knot as I note a few blood smears on his scrubs. My heart is beating so hard I can barely speak, and when I do, my voice sounds low and thick. “Is he okay?”

  The doctor—a man about my father’s age—blinks his pale brown eyes. “Are you Meredith Carlson?”

  “I’m— no. I’m not. He doesn’t have a wife.”

  The surgeon’s thin brows notch, his eyes darting around the room as if he’s already dismissed me. “I was told he has a wife.” His eyes search the space behind me, and Lizzy steps into my peripheral vision with her hand extended. “I’m Lizzy. I’m his sister.”

  “I’m Dr. Hilcox.” The doctor’s hand clasps hers, and he gives her a little nod. “Your brother came through the surgery just fine. He had a bullet wound to the shoulder and a fractured ankle. I also cleaned an older wound—his hand.” The man’s lips draw up, like he’s about to tell us something unpleasant, and my pulse skyrockets. “During the procedure, he asked repeatedly for Meredith. I understand he’s had some injuries recently. Perhaps some emotional trauma, from being back inside a hospital. In the recovery room after his surgery, he got quite worked up. We had to increase his sedation.”

  “He was asking for someone named Meredith?” Lizzy frowns.

  The surgeon nods, looking from me to Lizzy, like he simply can’t believe neither of us is named ‘Meredith’. He shrugs, looking around the waiting room once more before telling us Cross should be settled in the ICU in twenty or thirty minutes, and we’ll be able to visit him one at a time. “Wait here or in the ICU waiting room. A nurse will let you know when it’s time.”

  “The ICU?” I speak before I think about it, and the surgeon’s eyes snap onto mine.

  “Yes. The ICU.”

  “But I thought he…” I shake my head, feeling dizzy and disoriented. “I thought it wasn’t serious. The nurse said…”

  “What nurse?” the doctor asks. He looks peeved. Like he’s in a hurry and I’m keeping him from something.

  “The nurse who called. She said he wasn’t hurt badly.”

  The surgeon’s eyes narrow. “Our nurses don’t make phone calls about patients. Can you tell me what you’re talking about?”

  I frown. I’m feeling…frozen. Like I’m in a state of shock. “He’s really in the ICU? I just…I haven’t even been worrying.” God. I feel like such an awful friend.

  All I can think about is how Cross would feel about being back inside an ICU. I was with him so often after he woke up from his coma. Cross and I. Just Cross and I. He told me things he hadn’t told anyone…and…God, it breaks my heart to think he’s here again. Inside another hospital. Recovering again.

  I bite my lip and turn away. Lizzy and Hunter keep talking to the doctor, but I need to find somewhere to collect myself. I notice Marchant noticing me, and he acts like he’s going to break away from the discussion to check on me.

  No thank you.

  I take off down the nearest hall I see. My emotions are like clothes being tossed around a dryer. I can’t tell up from down. All I know is that I’m hurt, and I don’t want to see Marchant Radcliffe or anyone else right now.

  He follows me. Of course he does. I pick up my pace, till I’m practically running past doors and carts and metal structures like wine racks but laden with oxygen tanks, past a nurse wearing mint green scrubs when I can feel him closing in on me.

  “Suri Dalton, slow the fuck down!”

  I toss a blurry glance back over my shoulder. “Don’t curse at me! And go away!”

  I don’t know why I’m so upset. I just can’t synthesize it. Then I remember—they said Cross was married—and it’s like something bursts open inside my chest, and I’m directionless and dizzy and distraught, and I realize what I’ve wanted this whole time: to be settled. I knew I wanted that, of course, but I didn’t know how much until right now. I think of Cross’s strong, stable arms around another woman and I feel like something is clawing at my heart.

  Why don’t I have that?

  Why didn’t he want me?

  Why didn’t Adam care enough about me to change?

  For a moment, I almost forget I’ve got Marchant Radcliffe on my heels. Then I can’t forget, because he’s right there on me, grabbing my arm.

  I push away from him, and he pushes me up against the wall. His arms touch down on either side of me, pinning me in. His hand goes into my hair and I can feel him breathing, smell him breathing. Smell the vodka.

  “Jesus, woman. You can move.”

  I react irrationally, because in the moment, I’m grieving. Not just for the loss of any chance I might have wanted with Cross, but for the loss of what I thought I had with Adam.

  I miss being coupled! I miss snuggling up to a warm body in bed. I miss being known. Being accepted and loved.

  I blink at the beautiful man in front of me, and I push against his chest as I start to cry. “Go away,” I sob. “I’m upset!”

  His mouth is on my neck so fast, I don’t know what hit me. “That’s exactly why—” he says as he bites me— “I’m not leaving you alone.”

  He kisses me, and I kiss him back. My hands are all over him, grabbing at his hips, pulling him into me. He grabs my breasts, my ass. His hand moves to my back, where his fingers dig so hard they almost hurt.

  As he looks at me, his eyes grow stormy. Just like Adam’s used to. “You his girlfriend, Dalton?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Are you Carlson’s girlfriend?”

  “Why?”

  “Are you?” He looks pissed off.

  “No.”

  “You wish you were?”

  “That’s not your business.”

  “Everything about you is my business.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “And you’ve got a thing for Carlson.”

  “No I don’t. We’re just friends.” But I sound guilty.

  His face goes from furious to disdainful in a second. He looks me up and down—scornful in his assessment. And like before, in the bathroom at the Wynn, I feel as if he can see every part of me I don’t like. His eyes return to mine, heavy with the verdict of his judgment. “I had pegged you for lonely and inexperienced, Dalton. Not desperate.”

  I’m pretty sure my mouth falls open, because I’m shocked. Not just by the meanness of his comment—although it is definitely mean—but because it snags me like an arrow in between the ribs. Because it’s true. I’m both lonely and desperate. How did I get here? I blink at him, and the hall around me seems to tilt.

  “You’re an asshole,” I whisper.

  He glares, a smirking, petulant look that reminds me slightly of a child. Or a drunk. I close my eyes. He’s just like Adam. Nice guy, sober. Mean drunk. I’m single for mere weeks and the first guy who catches my eye is a mean drunk!

  My eyes tear up again, and I think it’s probably good that I’m infertile—a failsafe, because apparently the only men I’m going to end up with are assholes.

  I rub my eyes and get a blurry glimpse of Marchant Radcliffe. He looks serious. Almost solemn. “You’re right,�
�� he says. “I am an asshole. Crippled Carlson’s probably a better choice.”

  He shrugs, then stalks toward the elevators, and this time I know my mouth is hanging open.

  6

  SURI

  I veer down a different hallway, wrapping my hand around my blouse and jerking hard as I let out a furious sob.

  I look down to find my bra showing. It’s lacy and beige, and I don’t know when anyone will see it again. This makes me cry harder. And then I pass a man in scrubs and I realize…I’m half naked!

  “Damnit.” I look up and down the hall. A dozen or so yards ahead of me, a group of people in scrubs rounds a corner. They look young. Like…my age. Interns? Residents?

  I clamp my hand over my mouth and try the first door I see. It’s unlocked, so I rush inside. I blink at some metal supply shelves through blurry eyes and try to hold back my tears so the people passing by in the hallway won’t hear me crying like a lunatic. Then I see the woman standing in front of me and I’m so shocked I start to sob again.

  Everything is so messed up…

  I don’t plan to sit down; my legs wobble, and suddenly I’m sitting cross-legged on the cold tile floor, holding my head because I’m freaking out. And I’m not thinking about Marchant Radcliffe, the world’s biggest dick. I’m thinking about Cross. Who might be married. Cross who I tried and failed to seduce. Cross who I could have loved. Could have built a life with.

  I mean, yes, he’s a player sometimes. Yes, he gets drunk and horny and seduces twins with names like Barbie and Cookie. But he’s a good guy, and he’s my friend. And suddenly, I want him more than anything. But he doesn’t want me.

  I fold a hand over my head. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with ME?!” My eyes fly to the woman in the closet with me.

  She’s got wild red hair and big green eyes, and I can’t stand the weight of her curious gaze so I jump up. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me!”

  She’s about my age, and she looks like she thinks I just escaped the psych ward. I’m crying as I watch her gather herself. I can practically see her trying to decide what to say as she looks me over. I press my lips together to try to stop my crying, and she settles on: “What happened to your shirt?”