Unmaking Marchant

by Ella James

  I wonder how I would react if I made such a huge decision when I was in an altered state. If I’m right about what he was saying, Marchant “woke up” from the haze of his mania to find out what was going on, and the deed was done. And it seems like, though abortion is a choice for some, it might not have been the choice he would have made. Maybe he’s right; maybe Marissa made the choice she made because of how he reacted when she told him she was pregnant. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe it’s something she would have done regardless.

  And as for how he acted when he was in a manic state?

  It’s not his fault.

  I wish I could tell him that instead of lying here hugging my pillow. I’m staring at the curtains, wondering if he’s in the house somewhere or out walking the grounds, when I hear the sound of something shattering. I’m up in a flash, headed toward the bedroom door.

  I hear footsteps; a second later, the door bursts open, and I feel a warm rush of relief—expecting Marchant. I get a brief glimpse of a woman’s slim figure and long hair before I hear a cry, and something sharp stings my neck. I’m down on my knees before I know what happened. I press my hand against the spot that hurts and come away with wet fingers.

  “Holy shit!” My heart is pounding as I stand back up on legs that shake. It’s dark in here; so dark I can hardly see. I’m panicking. I turn a circle, shielding myself with my arms like I do in Tai Chi, and I’m grabbed from behind.

  “Die, bitch!”

  I feel another slashing sting across my cheek, and strong hands throw me to the floor. I’m kicked just once before I scream.

  Then Marchant is bursting through the door. The pain flares into agony as he lifts me up onto the bed.

  “Suri, what happened? Talk to me, please, baby!”

  “Where is she?” I croak.

  Somewhere very nearby, glass shatters again, and I feel more than see Marchant hop over the bed. I’m curling into a ball, panting through the terrible stabbing in my ribs, when he yells out the broken window, “Son of a bitch!” He lunges for the cordless landline, and as I hear him barking orders to security, I whisper: “Wasn’t a…son.”

  *

  MARCHANT

  As soon as I turn on the lights and realize Suri is okay, I can dial my terror back a notch. She’s got a slash on her neck, another on her cheek, and the doctors I called out to the house are pretty sure she has some bruised ribs. But she’s okay.

  The cops are on their way, and Dr. Ronland is coming back in a few hours with a portable X-ray machine. Until then, I’m trying hard to keep my shit together.

  To do this, I can’t talk to her. Can’t even stand too close to her. If I do, I’ll crack. I can fucking feel it.

  After she’s swallowed pain pills and I get her comfortable in my bed, I pace the hall that adjoins my bedroom to the den, shifting my attention from the broken window in the foyer to the small, still figure under the blankets on my bed.

  How did this happen?

  The cops should be here anytime. Suri’s sleeping. I won’t let them disturb her for an interview; they’ll have to go through me. Meanwhile, I’ve called in even more security. There are now almost two dozen guards patrolling the ranch. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting Lizzy, who said she could arrange to have Suri’s plane come get her in just a few hours. I’m taking no more chances. I don’t care if she hates me for sending her away. I just want her to be alive.

  That thought makes me sweat. I lean against the doorway of the bedroom, working my jaw until it pops. I use the pain as a distraction from my feelings, but my mind still races. Who attacked Suri—and why? Was she coming for me? If so, why did she call Suri a bitch?

  Marissa is an obvious suspect, no matter how little I want her to be. Dave is finding out everything he can about her right now. I’ve alerted the security guards to watch for a blonde woman, and I plan to tell the police the same thing. I have no idea what Marissa might look like now, but Dave should know soon. He’s a good P.I., and I trust him.

  I’m feeling lightheaded, so I breathe into the crook of my arm. But the guilt I’m trying so hard to keep at bay collapses on me.

  I shouldn’t have left her in here earlier.

  Oh, God.

  What would I do if something worse had happened?

  I watch her pretty, sleeping face through bleary eyes, and suddenly I just can’t stay away. I walk over to the bed and climb up on it as gently as I can. I lie there with my arms folded around my chest, because I’m worried about waking her.

  I shut my eyes and feel the weight of the last twelve hours. I’m embarrassed. Ashamed. That I broke down in front of Suri. That I left her here alone. I can’t seem to stay in one place to save my fucking life. I’m good at running away. Maybe because I’ve never had anyone to stick around for.

  Because I shouldn’t, I remind myself.

  I’ve got to come to terms with this. As soon as she’s feeling well enough to travel, Suri will be leaving. I’d been worried that it might be difficult to get her to go, but I’m pretty sure after what I told her earlier this morning, it won’t be quite so hard.

  I watch her chest as it rises and falls. I scoot a little closer, even though I know I probably shouldn’t.

  I don’t want to disturb her, so I wrap my arm around her pillows—and pause when something cool bumps my arm. I fish around under her pillow as gently as I can and come out with the ultrasound image.

  She put this under her pillow? I wonder why.

  My chest aches as I look at the grainy, black and white image. I don’t know why I keep it in my room. I guess for the same reason I got the tattoo. I forget so many things… Wouldn’t it be wrong to let myself forget this one?

  My eyes sting, and I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek. Doesn’t work. Shit leaks all over my face regardless.

  I cover up with my arm, feeling glad no one’s around to see me weeping.

  *

  SURI

  Marchant must be really tired. He slept through the police officers’ drop-by, as well as a visit from the window repairwoman. Combined, both visits lasted less than two hours, but still, I’m surprised he didn’t wake up.

  Now that I’ve taken some painkillers and figured out how to move without jarring the left side of my chest too much, I’m feeling a little more human. It still hurts to climb back into bed, but it’s where I want to be.

  I was asleep when Marchant climbed into bed beside me, and before that, the house was filled with his security team and the doctors who stitched my neck up and put a big sticker on my cheek. Which means we haven’t had a single moment alone since he told me…what he told me in the middle of the night.

  I watch his face carefully as I settle on my pillows. When he doesn’t move, I scoot a little closer. There’s a big, annoying pillow between the two of us, so I move it. I take my time sidling closer and closer to him. It dawns on me that he might not want this, but I’m having a selfish moment. I just want to feel the warmth of him.

  As I press myself against him, I long to feel the safety of his arms around me. Then he stirs a little, and his arm loops over me. It hurts my chest a little, but it feels good, too.

  On impulse, I scoot even closer, pressing my cheek against his lightly bearded one.

  “Oh, Marchant…”

  I shut my eyes and kiss him lightly on the neck. Very softly, I whisper, “Please be nicer to yourself. You’re a good guy.”

  Tears glitter in my eyes as I think about leaving here soon. After what happened this morning, I know there’s no way he’ll let me stay.

  Just like I know that when I go, I won’t be coming back.

  He’s so shut off from everyone, and he thinks what he thinks with such conviction…I’ll never be able to change his mind if I’m not nearby. I barely have a foothold now, but at least I have one.

  I watch his right hand, lying on his chest. It rises and falls evenly, which means he’s still asleep. I take the risk of wrapping my arm around his hips.

  I
t’s hard to think about the meaning of the tattoo under my arm. I picture a younger Marchant, confused about what’s happening to him and anguished over what he perceives to be an unforgivable mistake.

  “Please be easier on yourself,” I whisper to his sleeping face. “I can’t stand to leave you like this.”

  I think of all the time we’ve spent together in the days I’ve been here. He hasn’t always been the perfect guy, but we’ve had fun. More than I expected, that’s for sure. More than I’ve ever had with…well, with most people.

  How funny that is. I wouldn’t have thought. But as I look at his closed eyes and his bearded cheeks, I feel like I know him. I feel like’s mine.

  The realization makes me flush. I feel raw and off balance, elated and sick. And it dawns on me. “I think I love you.”

  My sleeping beau opens his eyes.

  25

  MARCHANT

  I’m having a dream where Suri is telling me she loves me. I’m lying in some clouds, but I can feel her wrapped around me. It’s amazing.

  And then something jabs me in the inner thigh. A knee? A foot?

  “Marchant,” someone hisses loudly, “wake up. I miss you.”

  And it’s weird, because that sounds like Suri, too.

  How many Suris are there in heaven?

  I crack my eyes open, and I see only one. She has a bandage on her cheek, and— Okay, not dreaming. I remember what happened earlier today and sit straight up, feeling like an idiot for nodding off.

  I reach for her face before I tell myself that’s not appropriate anymore and draw back my hand. “You doing okay?”

  She nods, and I realize I might as well have touched her. She’s pretty much wrapped around me, and she’s smiling at me sweetly. “I just missed you. Sorry I kinda woke you up.”

  Heat suffuses me. My eyes ache with unshed tears—because I remember dreaming that she said she loved me. And I’m pretty sure I dreamed it, but I realize I wish it had been real.

  I’m so overcome by my feelings, I can’t do anything but stare at her.

  She runs a tickling finger across my forehead, then proceeds to trace the top of my ear. “You sleep okay?”

  I swallow. Nod. I clench my jaw and drag a shaky breath in through my nose.

  “I’m glad you climbed in bed with me,” she says.

  And for some reason, that simple statement is what does it. The first sob sneaks out with some punch, and I roll over on my side, away from her.

  I cover my head with my arms. I’m such a fucking freak—but my self-loathing doesn’t stop the tears.

  I want her and I can’t have her. Hurts so fucking bad. Confusion roars inside me. I told her why I stay away from everyone and she’s lying here in bed with me, as if she didn’t hear any of it.

  A second later, she’s wrapped around me from behind, pressing her cheek against my back. She’s rubbing my arm. Stroking my hair. She’s whispering my name.

  “Marchant…it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. Everything’s okay. You’re okay…”

  What I am is helpless. I can’t stop this shit from pouring out of me. It’s like every negative emotion I’ve held in since college is gushing out my eyes.

  Even when I regain some control, my body jerks in weird, uncontrollable shudders. My breaths sound loud and wet and messy.

  “Like a fucking toddler,” I mutter—although I can’t even really manage that. My voice sounds broken.

  “No you’re not a toddler.” She kisses my neck. “You’re just a man, Marchant. Like every other man.”

  She’s stroking my back as she says this, and I think I know what she’s trying to impart. I shake my head.

  She snuggles in a little closer and begins to stroke my back. “I want to tell you something. I want to tell you something no one knows, and it’s about Adam.”

  My muscles tighten a little at the mention of her ex, proving I’m a pigheaded idiot for her.

  “Most people think Adam and I broke up because we realized we weren’t right for one another. Really? We broke up because Adam has a drinking problem, and when drunk, he liked to call me names. Not fun, sexy names; real names. And one night, when we were in the pool behind my house in Napa, Adam was drunk and he grabbed my wrist and I fell and knocked a tooth out.” Her hand comes around me and grabs my hand, and she brings it to her mouth. This causes me to turn a little toward her.

  I feel embarrassed by how I might look, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she guides my hand into her mouth. “You feel this tooth? It’s fake.”

  I get the nerve to turn around and face her fully. She’s got a pillow propped under her ribs, and I feel like shit knowing that I’m the reason why. Someone attacked her in my home, and I wasn’t around to protect her because I was in the basement, feeling sorry for myself.

  It’s inexcusable.

  Her hand comes under my chin, and I raise my eyes to hers. “Marchant, I’m okay,” she murmurs.

  “I’m that obvious?”

  “Not always.” She smiles a little, and I remember what we’re talking about. Her ex, Adam. Abusive Adam. Someone needs to kick his fucking ass.

  “You’re obvious now, too. You think you need to beat him up? No. You don’t.” She runs a slender finger over my eyebrows; it feels so good I calm a little. “I’m done with Adam. I’m telling you this because, Marchant… Adam is not bipolar. He’s got two living parents—both great people. But he wasn’t good for me.”

  “What point does that prove?”

  “What I’m trying to say is that you have to take life on a person-by-person basis. Everyone is different. Lizzy’s mother has a drug problem. She’s been diagnosed bipolar before, although I don’t think she is. But if she was? Are you just like her? Larry Flint is bipolar, I’ve heard. I don’t think Saddam Huessein was. It doesn’t define you. Surely you don’t think it does?”

  “It means I can’t be trusted.” I rub my head. “I do impulsive, stupid things that ruin lives.”

  “Okay. Question: How many manic episodes have you had?”

  I shrug, feeling self-conscious. “Mine last a while, and I’ve had two I think.”

  “Two’s not a lot. Could you be trusted in the interim?”

  “I like to gamble sometimes,” I confess.

  “Do you gamble excessively?”

  “I get myself into a place I don’t like sometimes. But I also win a lot.” I arch a brow.

  “That sounds normal enough.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not normal. I’ll never be normal.”

  “What if I don’t want you normal?”

  Stillness settles over me like a warm blanket. “What do you mean?” I whisper. I look into her eyes, and I can’t breathe.

  “I’m saying that I want you, Marchant.” She grabs my forearm. “Stay! I’m tired of you running from me.”

  “You want me how?” I rasp. I don’t believe what I think I hear; I’m still wearing my poker face.

  “I want you like, I want you.”

  “For sex,” I murmur.

  “More than sex.”

  My mouth moves on its own. I swear it does. Because I say, “I want you, too.”

  *

  SURI

  We spend the next few hours in bed, cocooned in blankets and pillows. I’m caught up in a weird combination of feelings. I’m elated that Marchant said he wants me, too. I can’t get enough of touching him, talking to him. And yet, I’m kind of scared. The police officer I talked to didn’t seem to take the break-in very seriously, but Marchant’s security team definitely is. I feel safe now, with Marchant right by me, but sometimes when I close my eyes, I feel like I’m still standing at the foot of the bed, waiting to see what will come at me next.

  In between kissing me—everywhere—Marchant keeps in touch with the security people.

  “What are they saying?” I ask after coming out of the bathroom. I heard him on the phone while I was in there, showering.

  He turns to me with a weird, expressionless face.
“I think they found out who it was.”

  “You’re kidding. Who?”

  His lips pinch. “One of the ex-SEALS on the team spotted Marissa in a rental car at a gas station a few miles away. She’s wearing her hair long, just like you said you saw, and she’s also slim. When questioned, she claimed that she had come to find me as part of her AA steps.”

  He just sits there, staring at me without moving or even breathing, and the first thing I feel is a rush of sympathy for him.

  “Marchant—God. That’s crazy. Did they arrest her?”

  He nods once. “Lucky for us, she was driving on a suspended license.”

  “Oh.” So that’s it. “Wow. That’s so weird.” I look up at his face. It’s solemn, guilt-ridden, so I grab his hand and squeeze. “You didn’t do this, Marchant. You didn’t do it. Marissa did. And I’m okay.”

  “You have bruised ribs and stitches.” He’s up now, off the bed and pacing. “That is not okay.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I repeat.

  He stops mid-step. “Suri—can’t you see? This is never going to end. As long as I’m me, this shit will happen. And anyone who’s with me will get caught in the crossfire.”

  I close the space between us and grab his neck, wrapping both my arms around him and pulling him down close. “I’ll take your crossfire, any day,” I say into his collar. “It’s better than a day without you. Marchant—” I pull away and look into his eyes— “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here, and finish up the job, and finish this with you.”

  He stares at me again—that long, hard stare that gets the butterflies fired up in my stomach. After a few thunderous heartbeats, he stuns me with a little smile. “So call Lizzy.”

  And that’s how I see the text—the one that says: “We’re on our way. Hunt n me, and Cross + Merri, too. Suri…I’m wearing white! We want to do this now! This week! In Vegas!”

  I squeal and hold the phone up so Marchant can read the text. His eyes widen, and he says, “Well, hot damn.”