Unmaking Marchant (22 page)

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?”

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 wasn’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.