Unmaking Marchant

by Ella James

  No—wait. Rachelle has it. Because no one trusts me.

  Which leads me to remember I need to go see Libby. Soon.

  I surprise even myself by grabbing Suri Dalton around the waist and tossing her onto my bed. Pulling down her pants and eating her pussy. She’s screaming by the time I’m done, and I’m laughing, because really, I do enjoy eating her pussy.

  I lick my lips and scoop the TV remote off a bedside table, toss it her way. Walk over to the wall and press the button that brings the TV down from the ceiling.

  “Wow,” she giggles, pointing the remote at the screen.

  I arch my eyebrows. “I’ll be back in a little while. You eat meat?”

  That earns me a laugh. “Yes. I eat meat—when I’m in the mood.” Another giggle, followed by a palm-muffled, “I’m sorry. I’m not usually quite so weird.”

  If this is weird I don’t even wanna know what she would call me.

  “There’s a TV guide if you press the round, blue button. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  I saunter down the hall feeling oddly light, despite where I’m going.

  17

  SURI

  “Okay, you said not to say it, but I’ve gotta say it. Suri, I think the odds are really good that you have lost your mind. Like…really lost it. Or maybe been abducted by aliens. Is that what happened? You’re the freakish, robotic, sex-obsessed—”

  I squeak. “C’mon, Lizzy! No! This is not about sex.”

  She laughs. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “And that’s how I know you are. Your voice goes up and gets all squeaky, and—”

  “It’s not! It’s not about sex! It’s about…freedom.”

  She laughs even louder. “Being free to be Marchant’s little bunny?”

  “Is that why they call it the fluffy bunny ranch? I thought bunnies were Playboy.”

  Lizzy snorts. “There are actual bunnies, Suri. Look outside.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I’m really not.”

  I frown at the phone. “How did I miss that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Hmmmm…I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “I know I don’t believe you! You’ve had sex with him. I can hear it in your voice. And it’s okay—really, I’m the last person on earth to have an opinion about that. But…seriously, Suri, be careful. Marchant is… He’s Marchant. He’s done a lot of not smart things lately and I just don’t want to see you caught up in that.”

  I cross my legs. I’m sitting on his cozy couch, staring at his bed. “I’m not getting attached. Cross my heart and hope to die. This is just a fling, you know? Something fun.”

  “You need something fun.” See? This is why Lizzy is my BFF.

  “So Hunter is…better?” I ask her. “He seems to be adjusting?”

  “Sort of. I mean…he’s being really nice, and he hasn’t left or called off the wedding or anything—”

  “I knew he wouldn’t!”

  “But he’s not himself.”

  “Like how?”

  “Just not himself. It’s hard to explain. Trust me. He is being weird. But he is still here, and so I’m hoping we can work out…all the other.”

  “You guys are like salt and pepper.”

  “Salt and pepper?” Lizzy says. “Wasn’t that a band when we were in elementary school?”

  “Cinnamon and sugar?” I offer.

  “Yep,” she says. “Like cinnamon and sugar.”

  We talk for a few more minutes, during which she urges me to befriend some of the women here, and during which I ask if she knows what Marchant’s tattoo means.

  “I didn’t even know he had a tattoo,” she says. But she promises to ask Hunter.

  I hang up feeling strangely satisfied. Then I hear the front door open.

  *

  MARCHANT

  I’m looking for the Adobo seasoning when she walks into the kitchen. I can feel her standing there, looking at me, and I don’t like it.

  I wish I’d never volunteered to make burgers. I did offer to make burgers, didn’t I? Now I can’t even remember what I said to her.

  It’s like going to talk to Dr. Libby took me back four days. I feel like I can’t fucking think straight. I feel like shit.

  “You’re going to have a lot of ups and downs in your life. That’s normal for everyone.” That’s what she told me.

  But it’s bullshit. Nothing about me is normal. I did a good job of hiding that for fucking years, but then it fucking fell apart.

  I’m not normal, and I don’t belong around people who are.

  I don’t mean in matters of business.

  Or maybe I do. I’m used to thinking I do a damn good job with this place, but I fucking burned it to the ground this time. Literally. Someone could have died, and it would have been my fault. Someone could have died because I don’t belong around normal people. Not even in business. Especially not when it comes to business.

  Maybe I should tell Suri Dalton to go. Maybe I should sell this fucking place.

  “Marchant?”

  I stare at the cabinets in front of me, wondering where the fuck I keep my spices. I need to season the patties on the pan in front of me, but I don’t remember where I keep my spices. Because I’m not normal. Normal people don’t sacrifice a slice of their memory to get their mind back in order. Normal people don’t have to do that.

  I wish, for a long moment, that I remembered even less than what I do. That I remembered nothing.

  The tattoo on my side tingles.

  Libby wanted to talk about that today, too, but I said no. No fucking way. I can’t go there.

  “Um, Marchant?”

  I turn around, ready to snap her head off, but I get one long look at her and I just can’t. Her hair’s all smooth and shiny, and she’s wearing another one of those goddamned dresses. This one is plain looking, and kind of peach-ish colored. It fits her curves just right, outlining her small, pert tits, and I can see her bare legs from the thighs down. Her toenails are painted pale purple. I want to suck them. Instead, I drag my eyes back to her face and mutter, “What?”

  “Um, hi.” She gives a little wave and smiles in a way that makes me feel unsteady. “What’s up?”

  I blink a few times, trying to clear my head so I don’t look like a dumbass. “Just working on dinner.” I feel awkward as hell. I mean, really. What am I, her husband?

  “Are those burgers behind you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Would you like some help? Chopping tomatoes or washing the lettuce or something?”

  I rub my face, because I still feel half asleep and foggy. I don’t need her help, don’t even know if I want her close to me. But I say, “Yeah, why not.”

  I pull a chopping board from a cabinet, a knife from a drawer, and a head of lettuce and a few tomatoes from the refrigerator. “There ya go.”

  I turn back to the burgers, and I finally remember I keep seasoning in the cabinet closest to the refrigerator. That loosens me up a little, so I start to hum before I realize I probably sound off-key. I don’t have a good voice. Never have.

  “So, the site has come a long way,” she says.

  I look over at her; she’s standing on the other side of the oven, looking up at me through a strand of her pretty brown-blonde hair.

  “Umm. Yeah.” Fuck me. I try again, hoping to pass as human this time, but all I sound is terse when I say: “It’s coming along.”

  “Bad afternoon?”

  I blink at her.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, but you seem kind of like you had a rough day.”

  I do? Of course I fucking do. I run my fingers through my hair: my go-to gesture when I’m about to lose my shit; one that no doubt makes me look like the strung out junkie I led her to believe I am. I heave a deep breath and cut my eyes her way. “You probably shouldn’t be staying here.”

  “I shouldn’t?” Her hazel eyes widen just a little.<
br />
  I shake my head. “I don’t share space well, and I don’t like making small talk.”

  She opens her mouth, and a big, hot rush of guilt spreads through me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was really fucking rude.” I find myself telling her, “I had a shitty day, okay? I don’t want to talk about it. And thanks for your help with the—” I wave at the small spread of tomato slices out in front of her— “condiments or whatever.”

  Condiments isn’t the right word, and that bothers me. Specificity is a thing I’ve always valued, and I can’t be specific because I can’t remember words I’m looking for.

  The ECT was a bad decision. One I only made because…I wanted to forget my fuck ups. Naturally, I remember all my painful secrets clearly, and what I don’t remember is my way around the kitchen.

  I season the patties while an uncomfortable silence fills the space. I steal glances at her hands to see the moment when she’s finished cutting tomatoes. When she is, I say, “There’s a TV over there by the table. Why don’t you turn it on and find something to watch? I’ll finish this.”

  If she thinks anything of my suggestion, she doesn’t say so. She just sits the knife down on the edge of the chopping block and gives me a neutral-looking sort-of-smile before walking over to the small TV stand beside my dining table and turning on the TV. She sits down in that way she does things: elegant and smooth, like, I guess, the kind of girl she is. She flips channels while I finish seasoning the burgers and walk outside to my waiting grill.

  18

  SURI

  I’m pretty decent at being discreet with my emotions, and that’s a good thing. Because I feel pretty uncomfortable sitting at Marchant’s table watching “House Hunters.”

  I’m not sure what’s going on with him, but I’m worried I got in over my head. I mean, let’s be honest: I have no experience. The only addict I know is Lizzy’s mother, who battled various addictions for years before the long stretch of sobriety she’s enjoying now. Yes, Adam had/has a drinking problem, but I have a feeling that may be the minor leagues compared to what Marchant is going through.

  Is it withdrawal? He said he’d been to rehab. Would they really send him home if he wasn’t ready? Maybe he left early. Lizzy’s mom used to do that. She also slit her wrists and one time jumped off the second level balcony inside their house when her dealer went on an extended visit to France.

  Maybe I should go to the hotel.

  But I don’t want to.

  I think I need to get some more data before I consider my options, so I turn up the volume and try to focus on a house hunt in Atlanta.

  But my mind whirls. I definitely don’t get the impression that he’s dangerous. Not to me. But is that foolish? I remember how I met him, inside that atrium at the Wynn. Is he dangerous? Obviously to someone who jumps him when he’s drunk.

  But to me?

  I hear the front door open and turn to see him step into the kitchen doorway. His arms are folded, and the sleeves of his white shirt, rolled up to the elbows, strain around his biceps. He’s unbuttoned it at his throat, so I can see a hint of his chest. My gaze drags down his slacks, touching his hips, his legs, even his shoes, before returning to his handsome face.

  He’s smirking.

  Great.

  “You haven’t honed your powers of discretion, have you, Miss Dalton?”

  “I guess not.” I’m blushing too boot.

  “Do you like the way I look?”

  “You know I do.”

  He takes a few steps closer. I feel sweat prickle between my breasts. “I hope you will excuse me for my rudeness earlier. It won’t happen. But if you want to go to a hotel, I’ll understand.” He sticks his hands into his pockets, then winces.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He holds his right hand out and frowns at it. “Oh yeah, I burned myself.”

  “Really? Is there anything I can do?”

  He smirks again. “I can handle this one by myself.”

  I stay seated and feeling slightly silly as he grabs a small Tupperware box from one of the cabinets and slides a pan of sweet potato fries into the oven. Then he walks around the table. He pulls out the chair across from mine and sinks down into it.

  I watch as he props his right hand on the table and bends it at the wrist. “Wasn’t paying attention,” he murmurs as he examines it.

  I’m considering whether or not to offer my assistance a second time—he did burn his right hand, after all—when he smiles a little, like he can see just what I’m thinking. “I’m a leftie,” he says, “so I’m good.”

  I nod, prepared for more painful silence. Instead, as he opens the box and pulls out a little square package, he says, “You’re one of those goody two-shoes types, huh?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re a goody two-shoes.”

  “Again: What does that mean? Or, what do you mean? If you think about that expression, it doesn’t make any sense. Even bad guys wear two shoes.” I notice I’m sitting straight up, so I sink back a little, trying not to look offended.

  He stretches out the fingers of his right hand, ticking off his points as he gives them. “For one, you don’t use dirty language. Unless prompted.” He smirks and I know he’s referring to our time together in bed.

  “And?”

  “You came here, to the ranch, a place you probably dislike, because your buddy Carlson was laid up here. Even though you and he weren't on the best of terms.”

  I nod.

  “Because you tried to make a play for him. Am I right?”

  “That’s not your business.”

  “So I thought.” He looks smug, and I bite my cheek so I don’t give anything more away. “Point three: You haven’t seen many dicks.” My jaw drops as I wonder how the heck he knows that, but he continues. “Four: You jumped into the pool to help a stranger and then conned your way into my ambulance. Plus—” he gives me a sudden, catlike grin— “you’ve just got that angelic glow thing going.”

  I drop my head into my hand in mock exasperation. “I am not an angel. Maybe I just seem like one compared to your usual women.”

  “I have women?”

  I humph. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  “Okay.” He holds his left arm out in a surrender gesture. “But I’m not pretending.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows you have a bunch of different women.”

  “Have them?” He shoots a pointed look at me. “As in, they’re mine?”

  “As in you sleep around. You’re a man whore.”

  He smiles, closed-lipped. “Why can’t I just be a whore? Why do you have to distinguish me as a man-whore?”

  I snort. “So you’re a feminist now?”

  “Surely you’ve heard.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Well, allow me to enlighten you.” He holds up his hand to tick points again. “Women own at this point about thirty-two percent of my company. If any of them get pregnant and want to be pregnant, they get six months maternity leave. They make more money than the men. Plus my dear friend Rachelle, who you may have noticed is a woman, runs the place. A woman who is married to a woman. Also, I think it’s kind of hot when women don’t shave their legs. So yeah, I’m a fucking feminist.” He looks at me, dead pan, and I laugh.

  He laughs, too, but as soon as his eyes meet mine again, he looks back down at the wrist he’s taping a bandage onto. Like he remembered he’s not supposed to talk to me.

  But I’m not going to give up. “I took a course women’s studies course in college. And while a lot of those things are good, I, uh—”

  He snorts. “You don’t think I’ll be invited to any bra burnings?”

  “I don’t think that’s even been a thing since seventies.”

  “Maybe not,” he concedes. “But what about your feminist credentials?”

  Hmmmmm… “I think men should manicures and pedicures, just the same as women.”

  He laughs at that, his face alight. �
��You’re a trailblazer.”

  “Toenails are the most important. I like a man with well-trimmed toenails.”

  His shoulders are shaking with his quiet laughter now. As he settles down, his eyes tug up to mine. “I’ll be sure to keep my toenails away from you.”

  I smile, big and slightly silly. “I didn’t say all men have gross toe-nails. Just that there’s something nice about groomed hands and feet.” My gaze zips over him, from his neatly tousled hair to his crisp white shirt, to his big hands, spread out on the table. “Have you ever gotten your nails done?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Maybe I could do them for you while I’m here.”

  Marchant looks slightly helpless. “You could...”

  I grin. “Good. It’s settled, then. After dinner, you’re getting mani-pedi’d.”

  He chuckles, like he thinks I’m crazy, and gets up without another word, putting the first aid kit back in the cabinet and disappearing in the direction of the front door.

  Minutes tick by. HGTV shifts to a show about buying real estate in Hawaii. I keep looking across the kitchen, toward the doorway that adjoins it to the den. Finally, I hear the front door open; hear his footsteps through the den. I smell the burgers and then Marchant comes through the doorway, looking slightly like a sexy waiter in his slacks and white shirt.

  “Dinner—” he lowers the tray onto the counter— “is served.”

  I start to get up, but he waves me down. “What do you like on yours?”

  “I’ll take everything.”

  He’s quiet as he prepares our burgers, puts some fries on both plates, and opens the refrigerator. “What do you like to drink?”

  “Anything is fine. Anything except pineapple juice. Which I doubt you have.”

  “You’re right—I don’t. How’s lemonade?”

  “It’s good. Thanks.”

  A minute later, he’s setting my plate and my glass in front of me. He takes the seat across from me again and barely looks my way as he bites into his burger. In fact, I almost feel like he’s trying not to look at me.

  I try my own burger and am surprised by how much I like it. “This is great. I mean…really. What’s your secret?”