Unmaking Marchant

by Ella James

  He looks briefly my way, smirking. “Bison.”

  “Bison?”

  “It’s a bison burger.”

  “Really?” I take another bite, and…I’m not sure how to describe it. I don’t eat many burgers. “This is my first time eating bison.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d figure you’d…have a well-rounded palate.” He’s smiling again now, giving me a hard time.

  “You are correct, sir. My tongue is…ah…” I was going to say “well-traveled,” but the double entendre was so obvious even I noticed it. I settle on “experienced,” which I realize the moment it leaves my mouth isn’t any better. Marchant dutifully wiggles his eyebrows, and I roll my eyes. “What you don’t know is: Dad’s vegan, and that’s how we all grew up. So I haven’t been eating meat for very long.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows again, still eating his own burger, and I try not to laugh. “I’m also surprised because it has to be on half the menus of the restaurants in Napa.”

  “It does?”

  He nods seriously. “We’re in the middle of a Bison Boom.”

  “I…haven’t heard that.”

  “Bison. Boom.”

  “Are you in Napa much?”

  He shakes his head.

  “But you grew up in California?”

  “Yes. I did.” He looks weird, and I guess he probably doesn’t like to be reminded of growing up, considering his parents are both gone now. I wrack my brain for a topic that might make him feel better. Less lonely. I think I remember Hunter saying something about a sister, so I ask, “Do you have any siblings?”

  He sets his burger down, fixing me with a stare that could melt steel. “I have a sister. Riker. She’s twenty.”

  I wait for him to reciprocate, to ask me questions as per the rules of normal conversation, but he just eats quietly, looking maybe slightly pissed off. Or maybe just unhappy. I don’t know. I eat a few of my fries, and tell him “these are good, too,” but he barely looks my way.

  We both watch TV as a couple from North Carolina move to Waikiki, but I’m not really watching. I’m wondering about him and all this hot and cold. It’s like he’s bipolar. As the show goes off, he finally looks at me again. “You finished?” His eyes are cold and distant.

  “Yeah. Thanks again for making it.”

  He takes out places into the kitchen, then says, “Have a good night. Treat the house like it’s yours. I’ll see you around nine tomorrow?”

  I nod a little, hoping to get a chance to ask him what’s on our agenda, but he’s gone the next second. I’m alone in Marchant Radcliffe’s kitchen. For the first time, I think maybe Lizzy was right.

  19

  MARCHANT

  I’m a fool. To think I could handle anyone staying at my house right now.

  I go from the kitchen to my room, grabbing a few toiletries I forgot, and then head down the stairs into the basement. It’s dark and cool down here, which is usually a good thing. I work out here. But while Suri is here, I’ll be sleeping down here, too.

  I run my eyes along the rubber-mat floor and think I may not be here as long as I thought. As soon as she gets going with the project, I should take off. Maybe I’ll go to my house in Summerlin. Drive back every couple days to check on progress. After the first two weeks, I could go to the cabin. I’d like to get away from Libby. She keeps pushing me to talk about Marissa, and I’m not going to.

  I do a hard work out, shower, and drag my camping gear out of a storage closet behind my treadmill. Wearing only boxer-briefs, I slide into a sleeping bag and set my phone’s alarm for 7:30, so I can be ready when I meet Rachelle at the front door. I don’t want her coming in tomorrow; don’t want any chance of Suri Dalton seeing her hand me my Lithium.

  I don’t need anyone up in my business, especially not someone like her. I’ve decided the girl’s too fucking perfect. Perfect in bed, perfect family, perfect life. If she knew about mine, she’d have nothing but pity for me.

  I don’t need anybody’s pity.

  Still, I go to sleep dreaming of sliding back inside of her.

  In the dream, I’m fucking Marissa. We’re in my bedroom at West Manor—a cavernous place with navy blue walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a vast oriental rug, a Maplewood canopy bed, and a marble-topped mini bar in spitting distance of said bed.

  The room smells like wood polish, old fabric, and Marissa’s sweet sex.

  Her pussy feels like a glove around my cock. I’m fucking her from behind this afternoon, because she’s got a sorority meeting in an hour and she doesn’t want me to get my giz all over her pink blouse.

  I smack her ass as I pump into her, and she moans. Her honey blonde hair spills around her shoulders—muscular shoulders, because she’s on Tulane’s swim team.

  She cries, “Yes! YES! Marchant, yes!”

  Then the ceiling caves in. Flames spring out of nowhere. I can smell the jet fuel burning. And a baby starts to cry.

  My eyes flip open and it takes me a minute to figure out where I am: on the floor in my work-out room, panting in my sleeping bag. I’m sweaty. Shaky. But at least I’m not having a nightmare anymore.

  I push myself up on my elbows and look at the stairwell. And then I hear it: a crying baby.

  What. The. Fuck.

  I’m up in seconds, climbing the stairs with a pounding heart—except the more I climb, the fainter the sound is. All the hair on the back of my neck pricks up as I look around the basement. There’s no baby here. There’s no baby here. Oh, fuck. Is there a baby here?

  I dash back down the stairs and look everywhere I can think: behind equipment, in closets, in the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. As I push into the bathroom, I’m shaking so hard I can barely walk.

  “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

  I don’t want to be crazy.

  I can’t be crazy.

  I’m taking my Lithium.

  “Hello?” I shout into the empty room.

  The baby cries louder.

  I hold my head. I’m imagining these cries.

  But it sounds just like a baby.

  “Oh God.”

  I stumble through the room, it tilts around me. I grab the glutes machine and breathe hard.

  “Marissa?”

  I can’t be crazy.

  Fuck me. I can’t be crazy. Not with Suri Dalton here! I don’t want this. I don’t want this!

  Then I spot the back door. Step toward it. The sound is louder. Louder. Louder. I yank open the door with my heart in my mouth and my lungs frozen in place.

  And there are cats. Two cats. I sink to my knees and let a single sob out.

  *

  SURI

  It’s a comfortable bed. Soft sheets. Mattress not too soft or hard. The room has a slight cinnamon smell; cinnamon and cologne. I inhale the scent, roll over on my side to get more comfortable. But that’s not the problem. Discomfort is not the reason sleep won’t come. It’s all the questions in my head.

  What books are on the darkened shelves in front of me? What’s in the drawers of the nightstand beside the bed? Who’s in the backward-facing picture frame on one of the shelves? All I know about Marchant so far is what I’ve gleaned from his home décor and superficial things, like the types of towels he uses—they’re very soft—and the fact that he has a spare bathrobe in a woman’s size.

  What is with his prickliness? Is it withdrawal, I wonder for the dozenth time? What exactly happened to his parents? I know their plane crashed somewhere in South America, but what were the circumstances? These are things I could ask Lizzy, things I could maybe even look up online, but I won’t let myself. If he wants privacy, I’ll do my best to respect that.

  But I still wonder. What did it feel like to be addicted to drugs? Why does anyone do drugs with a high potential for addiction? In Cross’s case, he was taking painkillers for pain—but other than necessity, why would you do that?

  Marchant obviously has a reputation, but would he if he was
n’t doing drugs? Why didn’t Hunter know what was going on? Has he always done drugs, or only recently?

  Why do I care?

  It’s hard to say why. Maybe I don’t even know. It’s like…every time I’m near him, I feel satisfied. And every time I’m not, I want to be. There’s no logic to it. I’m not even entirely sure what I like about being near him.

  He’s not exactly good company. But he’s funny. I like the way he smirks at me. The way he looks when he smiles. I definitely like it when he fucks me.

  Thinking about having sex with Marchant makes me feel too hot, so I toss the covers off and flop over on my stomach.

  That’s when the phone rings.

  At least, I think it’s a phone ringing. It takes me a moment to see the phone, but then I notice a small, flashing green light on the bookshelf and localize the sound to there. I jump up and grab it, fumbling with the keys to find an “on” button. I press it before I realize I probably shouldn’t have.

  I hold the phone to my ear, but it’s a second before I manage to say, “Hello?” I quickly add: “Radcliffe residence.”

  There’s nothing but breathing on the other end of the line. “Hello?” Is that static, or— No, that’s definitely breathing. A million thoughts run through my head, from drug dealers to creditors to card sharks to rival pimps. I feel a rush of protectiveness for Marchant.

  “Look, are you in trouble? Do you need something?”

  The breathing continues, and I take that as confirmation of my suspicion. It’s someone who probably shouldn’t be calling here. “Leave us alone,” I snap. “Don’t call this house again!” I sit the phone on the receiver a little too hard, jarring the bookshelf, and something small falls onto the floor. I scoop it up and carry it over to the window, giving myself permission to check it out since I already knocked it off the shelf. In the moonlight, I blink down at the tiny silver frame. Inside is a grainy image: black and white.

  I’m squinting down at it when I hear footsteps.

  *

  MARCHANT

  I open the door quietly. Despite the state I’m in, I will go if she’s sleeping. As I turn the knob and nudge the door open with my knee, I pray I find her standing at the window. So vividly am I imagining the moonlight on her face, when I actually find her kneeling by the window, I’m sure it’s a dream.

  Then she turns to face me. Moonlight glints off her hair like a crown. Her eyes widen. I step through the door and go to her.

  I start gently. My hands on her shoulders. My fingers on her cheeks. My mouth on her mouth. She accepts me readily. Tilts her head back. Helps me lift her t-shirt when my hands delve underneath.

  I lead her to the bed and lift her onto it. I spread her legs and stroke the soft skin of her thighs.

  “I like these,” I tell her, with my thumb inside her shorts. Then I peel them off. She’s naked underneath; naked and perfect and soft. Already wet. She arches and moans when I slide my finger into her. When I rub my thumb down her slit, she grabs my shoulders. Her legs lock around my waist.

  I’m so fucking hard, I’m worried I might come right now.

  With my finger stroking inside her and my thumb teasing her clit, I suck her breasts. I’m so worked up, my cock is crying cum tears. My balls are hard and hot. I feel like I might explode.

  She’s panting as I lick down her flat, soft belly, lower and lower until I’m flicking my tongue between her lips; between them she’s so slick. And salty. I love the way she tastes. I lick her up and down and stroke her till she’s pulling my hair and gasping like she just finished a marathon.

  “Fuck me, Marchant! Fuck me please!”

  That’s all it takes. I jerk down my boxer-briefs, palming my heavy balls and rubbing my aching cockhead in her wetness.

  I look down at her face. It’s twisted almost to the point of pain. “You want me inside you?”

  “Jesus, Marchant!”

  “Say it.”

  Her eyes flip open, and they’re wild as hell. “Fuck me.”

  I grab her thighs and rock forward, pushing up into her till I’m buried balls deep. As I start to move, I swear to God I see stars.

  Three and a half hours later when I lie back down in my sleeping bag, the workout room is peaceful and silent. So I sleep.

  20

  SURI

  Is this what it’s like—waking up after a night of ecstasy? I’m twenty-three, and this is new to me. I feel…radiant. Warm and glowy. A little quieter. A little slower. Soft, like putty. Light as air. Like I might float through the roof and dissipate over the ranch.

  I move about his room almost discreetly, taking care to choose my pink dress and green flats, dressing myself piece by piece: slow, as if I have a secret.

  I have a secret!

  I think I’m addicted to having sex with a pimp.

  I giggle.

  I grin into the mirror. Drunken grin.

  Suri Dalton—sex addict.

  That’s me.

  I had great sex—cha cha cha! I had great sex! I shake my ass.

  Another big smile, just for myself, and I slip my earrings into my ears. One half spray of perfume and I’m ready for the day.

  I’m halfway to the bedroom door when the phone rings. I pause mid-step as I remember the call from last night. I’m not answering this time. It rings a second time, and then a third. I listen but the house seems quiet. What if it’s important? Four times. Five times. I expect an answering machine to kick in, but it doesn’t. Six. What’s the limit on a landline? Seven? It rings eight times. Wow! Nine times, and I lunge across the room, snatching the cordless phone off its base. It rings a tenth time while I fumble with the “on” button. I don’t have a landline at Crestwood Place. This phone is big and weird and—

  “Hello?” I say.

  Silence hums into my ear.

  “Hello?”

  My throat feels pinched.

  “Hel-lo?”

  Cue the goosebumps. Did you ever read an RL Stine book? Too many of them when I was younger. Maybe I should just—

  “Hello.” The woman’s husky voice startles me. So much that I actually flinch.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” she says again. My hand around the phone feels colder.

  “Hi, you’ve reached the Radcliffe residence. May I help you?” I sound like a receptionist, but I’m not sure what else to say. It’s not my business who calls him. Not yet, a tiny voice inside me whispers.

  She hesitates. I can feel her hesitation, even though the line is silent.

  “Is Marchant in.” It’s more statement than question somehow—like she doesn’t care what I say. Like I’m no one. One in a steady throng of women he probably parades in and out of his house like show hogs.

  Her curt voice seems to echo in the silence after. Is there an accent?

  “He’s not,” I tell her. And it’s not a lie. He didn’t answer, did he? Maybe he’s out, or busy. “I’m sorry,” I say—and that is a lie. I want her off the phone. But I’m also curious. “Is there something I can tell him for you?”

  Another pause. This is probably where she sticks out her lower lip and feels forgotten. Because she is, my inner bitch whispers.

  “No,” she says. “I don’t think so. Could you—” Several seconds tick by. When she speaks again, her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her. “Could you tell him that Marissa called?”

  “Of course.” And, on a whim: “Is he expecting your call?”

  “No. He’s not.” She sounds sad.

  I promise to give him the message and press the “off” button, not sure if I actually will.

  *

  MARCHANT

  Morning is always easier than night, but this one dawns especially bright. It’s been a long while since I’ve written anything, but before I even leave my sleeping bag, I write a quick poem about Suri’s body with my notepad app. Damn—those fucking curves.

  As I shower and dress, I wonder how long till I can tap that shit again. Woman is addictive. The th
ought reminds me that she thinks I’m an addict. Annoying, yes, but necessary. There’s no other way to explain why I’d forgotten we had sex.

  I’d much rather her think I’m battling a substance issue than know that my own brain betrayed me. Or, more accurately, my brain was so fucked up, the only way I could get it back to normal was to let a bunch of doctors give me seizures.

  I’m not sure why it matters so much, but I want Suri Dalton to think of me as normal. Well, I think as I slide a belt through my slacks—as normal as a pimp can be.

  I’m wearing one of my Brionis today, because they’re comfortable and fit well. I’ve got four of them, three Fioravantis, two Huntsmans, two Kitons, and a Caraceni. I’ve found I’m taken more seriously when I’m dressed for business. Probably because so many people expect to find me dressed for sex.

  No. 1, I never fuck my girls, and No. 2, at Love Inc., we’re all about the Benjamins.

  Before going upstairs, I send a quick text to my money guy to confirm that the transaction to Hawkins went through. I don’t need to have that shit hanging above my head. He replies as I climb the stairs. ‘Done.’

  Nice.

  Despite what a prick he is, I feel a bit of guilt for how I handled things with Hawkins. If I’d been myself, I’d have paid him promptly. Since this was only my second manic episode, I hadn’t realized I’d be so reckless with money.

  I never expected to have a second manic episode. Fucking naïve.

  Still, I’m feeling okay as I sit on my porch. Rachelle arrives in her jogging outfit. She jogs up my steps, and jogs in place as she fishes my pill out of the pocket of her shirt.

  “Thanks for bringing this by,” I tell her, swallowing it dry.

  “No problem, boss man.” She looks me over. “You look sharp.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her delicate blonde brows wriggle. “You look better than you have in weeks. You get laid or something?”

  I try to laugh her off, but I think I come off looking guilty—or even worse, smug.