Unmaking Marchant (12 page)

It’s rude to blurt it out this way, but my mouth moves before my brain can stop it.

And then, while her face twists and her mouth opens wordlessly, my brain makes a furious lunge forward.

This woman has red hair.

Lizzy told me ‘Meredith’ has red hair.

“Oh my
God
.
You’re Missy King!
”

“Meredith,” she whispers, wide-eyed.

“Wow.” So this is her: Cross’s Meredith. My gaze sweeps her small, taut body, and I can’t help comparing myself to her. Cross didn’t even want to kiss me, and he wants to marry her. As my eyes sweep her body, she takes a wobbly step back. She’s about to turn, to go, but all I can think about is the one glimpse I’ve had of Cross today, late this morning when Lizzy pried the door open and I peeked in: Cross, lying in his room, propped up on pillows, sipping something alcoholic and playing solitaire on his phone. “Have you seen Cross yet?”

She bites her lip, and I forge ahead—for Cross’s sake. “He misses you so much. And yeah, if you were wondering, I’m okay with that.” My failed attempt at seducing Cross came up when I babbled to the “nurse” in the supply closet, so I’m sure she thinks I’m in love with her man. “Cross is one of my very best friends, and I just want him to be happy. I think he would be, if he knew that you were here. Does he know?”

She steps back a little more. “I haven’t talked to him.”

“So…are you?”

Her green eyes meet mine, and my heart sinks before she opens her mouth. “Listen…I’m just laying low here for a while. Until I get my life together again. It has nothing to do with Cross. I didn’t even know that he would be here.”

“Do you care about him?” I ask bluntly.

Her eyes burn. “I care very much about him, but there’s lots of baggage between us. Lots of…obligation.” Her mouth twists downward. 

 “Well I can tell you this. He really seems to care about you, and I’m sure you know, he’s been through a lot. Be careful with him, okay?”

She nods, tears filling her eyes, and dashes off between the trees, toward what I’m pretty sure is the escorts’ dormitory.

My stomach is in knots as I walk the other way, into the bushes I hope will hide me from Lizzy and everyone at the pool.

I’ve heard there’s a large, shrubbery maze to the left of the pond, before you reach the cottages. It’s a unique feature, so I tell myself my aimless nighttime walk has an educational purpose. That I’m not just running from my troubles.

I breathe deeply as I move under massive weeping willows and between carefully manicured snap roses. Despite the turmoil in my heart, I can’t help but feel impressed. This place might be a cesspool of sex-for-pay, but the grounds and the interior design are stunning. I tell myself they have to be, to keep the clients coming—har de har—but I can’t help wondering if the lavish grounds say more about Marchant Radcliffe than that he’s a good salesman.

What kind of guy is he, other than one who drinks?

I think back on what Lizzy and Hunter have been murmuring about him since that day at the hospital. Hunter thinks he’s doing drugs, and Lizzy thinks he has anxiety or something. Apparently, since he left the hospital that day, no one’s really seen him. He’s not answering calls from anyone but Rachelle, the woman who helps him run the ranch, and he won’t answer the door to his private cottage when Hunter knocks.

Lizzy says he’s drowning in gambling debt because he can’t stay away from blackjack. So he’s a gambler
and
a drinker. Isn’t that lovely?

I wonder what made Adam a drinker. Was it anxiety? I think that was a big part of it.

My thoughts are wandering to what my parents think about the news that Adam and I split, when I step out from beneath a copse of oak trees and I see the shrubbery maze, twisting like a square worm in the darkness. A few more steps, and I can see the shrubs are tall—easily taller than six feet—and in the warm breeze, their little leaves dance.

It would be stupid to go into a maze as it’s getting dark. I’d probably get lost. And yet, I step in. The situation resembles my life right now so much, I almost hope I will get lost, just so I can have to work my way back out.

8

SURI

By the time I get back into our suite, I’ve decided that I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m not helping Cross, I’m not spending any time with Lizzy, and I’m startling at every turn, worried about whether an encounter with Marchant Radcliffe would result in me slapping him or jumping his bones.

I’m tucking clothes into my suitcase, about to put in a call for the plane to get me in the morning, when the door opens and Lizzy sticks her head inside.

“Suri?” Her eyes double in size. “What are you doing?”

“Liz, I’m sorry, but I just can’t—”

“Suri—Suri, no.” She steps in, shaking her head vehemently. “No. You can’t go now. I need you here!”

Her proclamation irritates me. “That’s ridiculous. You just spent the night with your gajillion hooker friends.”

It’s mean, okay? I know it’s mean. But it’s not
that
mean. So when Lizzy sits down on the bed, drops her head into her hands, and starts to sob, I’m shocked. I step over and throw an arm around her.

“Lizzy—hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh, it’s just, I saw Marchant Radcliffe and—”

“I’M PREGNANT!”

“…What?”

“I’M PREGNANT! No one knows! And earlier today, Hunter said children are…a blight!”

So that’s what she’s been so weird about. “Oh, Lizzy. Oh man. This is big news! But it’ll be fine.” I rub her back as she sobs. “You’ll change his mind. He loves you and you’re getting married.”

“No we’re not! We can’t! I’ll be too fat to—” she hiccups— “I’ll be too fat to wear a dress!”

I pull her into my arms and hold her while she cries about stretch marks and pushing out a “ten pound vagina bomb” and try not to think about Marchant Radcliffe.

It’s going to be a long night.

*

MARCHANT

I’m in the kitchen, about to pop an Ativan, when I hear a knock on the back door. I know it’s Hawkins. I can
feel
it. And this time, I can shoot him, because he’s trespassing.

I run downstairs and punch the glass out of my gun cabinet, grab a .38 and load it quickly. By the time I get to the kitchen, I’ve stuck the gun inside the back of my jeans, because I’ve managed to convince myself it’s only Hunter. Or Rachelle. Or someone else coming to check on me.

But when I open the back door, I find myself staring at Hawkins—the little fuck.

He hits me in the face. Then two thugs grab me by the shoulders and haul me up against the stone wall of my house. I manage to reach my arm behind myself and dig my hand into the waist of my jeans. I work my sweaty fingers around the gun, and when I pull it free I point it toward Hawkins’ legs. I am stunned by the boom as the bullet hits him in the foot. Blood sprays like a fucking geyser.

He howls, and the goons rush to his aid. I dart back inside my kitchen, slamming the door behind me just in time for the bullet that punches through it to miss me.

I look out the square window, and I see one of the goons pointing a pistol at me. I’m slightly surprised to find that I’m not worried. Then I see Hawkins holding up his hand to them—a silent ‘stand down.’ He grimaces as Goon One helps him stand, and I see that my wild shot probably just grazed him. Pity.

Hawkins hobbles to the door and presses his face against the glass, and his panted breaths makes clouds of fog. “You’ll pay for this Radcliffe. I’ve given you more breaks…than I’d give my own damn cousin.”

And I realize for the first time that it’s not Monday. I don’t know what day it is, but I know I missed the deadline to pay Hawkins. I even had the money moved—but I lost track of time.

Fuck!

Hawkins spits on my door, and then he and his crew turn to go. I realize, belatedly, that they’re wearing dark clothes—hoods, even, unless my eyes are playing tricks on me.

It takes me a few minutes panting, chugging vodka from a bottle in my freezer, to calm down, and when I do, I realize I should call security. But as soon as I wrap my hand around my phone, someone bangs on my door. I mean really goes at it.

Shit. So the little bastard came back for another round. I chug some more Gray Goose and palm my gun. Then I pull the door open, stunned to see it’s Juniper, wearing nothing but thigh-highs, a thong, and a lacy dark blue bra.

Her eyes are wide, her hair a mess. She waves her arms and screams, “MARCHANT! COME NOW! THERE’S A FIRE!”

9

MARCHANT

I don’t need shoes or a shirt. I don’t need anything but my gun. I clutch the .38 as I dash behind Juniper, cutting through the grass beside my cottage and following her willowy form toward the pond. I can smell the smoke already. We come around a few oak trees and I see the flames. They’re bright—so bright they almost blind me. It’s surreal.

I feel nothing but the burning of my muscles as I run toward the main house—nothing but that and the determination to get everyone out.

By the time I get within ball-throwing distance, the fire has engulfed most of the back left side of the building, and people are pouring out two sets of rear doors toward the right, even though our fire plan directs them to the front. I don’t see Rachelle, and I feel a sick jolt of fear for her.

Where is Hunter?

Where is Suri Dalton?

Where is Hawkins?

My throat knots up as I realize this fire is his doing.
My
doing. If someone dies, it will be my fault.

I lean down in the bushes to be sick, then push through a frenzied group of escorts, clients, and staff, and run through one of the flame-framed doorways.

Heat engulfs me. My first breath burns my lungs, makes me cough on the exhale, makes my eyes tear.

Shit is falling from the walls and ceilings. Shit that’s burning. The damn black smoke clouds the place so thickly I can hardly see. As I move past the bar into the great hall, where the stairs are, I catch something hard and heavy on my shoulder. It erupts in searing pain that burns itself out as I dash around bookshelves, past couches, screaming, “IS ANYBODY IN HERE?”

Fuck, it’s hot. My bare chest and back feel like they’re burning. I turn a circle in front of the elevator, struggling to get my bearings.

The ranch can’t be on fire. It
can’t
be burning. 

I’m on the move again a second later. I find one of the chef’s assistants covering her face with a towel in a downstairs hall and shove her out an emergency exit at the end of it. I find one of the newer girls—Bree—in a first-floor room, sobbing and screaming into her phone. I break the glass out of a window and send her out, shoving her a little as she crawls over the windowsill, into the grass, which is burning in some spots.

I’m coughing badly now. Every breath is more difficult to pull than the last. I’m dizzy—yeah. I realize that. I just don’t care.

Getting upstairs is surprisingly easy. There’s a hidden, staff stairwell near the exit door at the end of this first-floor hall that doesn’t seem to be burning yet, and that’s the route I take.

I catch a string of violent-sounding Spanish—one of the clients, I guess—behind me. I whirl, but no one is there. I take the rest of the stairs two at a time.  As I reach the door at the top of the two-floor stairwell, I think I hear Hawkins’ laughter. But I can’t be sure. I’m probably hallucinating.

I shudder through a coughing fit before I stick my head into the second-floor hallway and call, “Is anybody there?”

I call out several times before someone screams, “MARCHANT!”

I whirl, and there’s Rachelle, stomping toward me. Her blonde hair is sweat-plastered to her head; her eyes are wild. She grabs my arm—“Are you fucking crazy?”—and hauls me back down the stairs.

The place is going fast. I can’t believe it. The hall where the staff stairwell is, the one that leads to the great hall, is lined with fire along the baseboards. Fire writhes in patches on the ceiling. Beyond it, where the hallway meets the great room, I can’t see anything but light. I think I hear screaming from that direction, but Rachelle starts to choke and cough, and I know I need to get her outside. I tug her out the nearest exit, throw her over my shoulder, and rush around the inferno, cutting through the grass to get her to the front of the building.

I sling her down by a bush that’s not too close to the blaze and grab her face so I can see her eyes. They’re red, just like her cheeks and forehead. “You okay? You breathing okay?”

She nods, and tugs on my arm until I help her stubborn ass up, and together we go through the crowd, checking on people, trying to account for others, and asking if anyone saw where the fire started. For some fucked up reason all I can think about is Suri Dalton, and I don’t see her anywhere.