Unmaking Marchant

14

MARCHANT

I’ve just swallowed my pills the next morning when I hear the knock. I wonder if it’s Rachelle, coming back for something she forgot, but I get a tingly sixth sense as I stride toward the door. I look down at myself before moving for the knob. I’m wearing battered pajama pants and an equally battered grey undershirt. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough. And it’s not—because my sixth sense was correct. Through the small window at the top of the door, I see Suri Dalton.

She’s gorgeous in a little yellow dress and strappy leather sandals. She’s got on sunglasses I’m pretty sure are Ray-Bans. With her smooth, tanned skin and her pouty, bitable lips, she looks good enough to eat.

I tug the door open, feeling a little like the big, bad wolf. I don’t usually fuck the women on my payroll, but this one came to me.

Still, my conscience stirs; it’s Suri Dalton. She’s beautiful and rich as sin—just about perfect, and she’s throwing off an innocent vibe so strong I can practically smell it. I sort of feel like I’m bro-ing out trying to score with her; like back in my frat days, when the only kind of girl I wanted was the Sunday School Sorority Girl.

On the other hand, Suri Dalton is a grown woman who knows what she wants.

I’m not sure why I’m it—especially when I think about the few hazy things I can remember from the time we’ve spent together—but should I give a shit? I know I’d love to fuck her.

Not for long. No more than a week, and definitely no strings attached. That’s my rule for life, because I would never ask anyone to share my baggage.

I can’t be her friend, either. Too much attraction.

So let’s say I’m taking her on out of curiosity—because I’m curious to see just what she wants from me.

I can already tell it’s gonna suck when the hourglass runs out. I haven’t been with any woman for more than a night—well, consecutively—in years. And Suri isn’t just any woman.

I need to remind myself that this is about sex. She probably sees me as sex personified—she wouldn’t be the first—and wants to pop her stranger-fucking cherry. And I am a stranger to her, thank God. She pulled me from the pool and that’s all. There’s no record of her at the hospital with me. She didn’t see my pitiful state. She sees me as sex.

I peer down at her, already getting hard.

She smiles—a wholesome, winning smile. “I’ll do it. I mean, I’ll take the job.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

I think I see a light blush on her cheeks as she shifts her weight from one sandaled foot to the other. “I don’t have to start today necessarily. In fact, I probably need to go home for a few days and get some of my things. But I wanted to let you know my decision. Also, I’m meeting a team here in about an hour to show them where to look for my grandmother’s ring. I lost it…that night. Which is why I saw the pool,” she tacks on quietly.

I nod. What she means is, that’s how she found me at the bottom of the pool. This morning when I woke up, I remembered a little bit more. Shivering. Getting sick. Feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

Damnit, I’m a mess. I was a mess. I tell myself that shit’s behind me now. I can go back to life the way it used to be. Quiet and solitary; responsible living with the occasional quick fuck. Never anything serious.

And never with anyone who hits me like she does.

I look her over, floored by how fresh and clean she looks. Like sunshine. She tucks a strand of her short, brown-blond hair behind her ear, looking a little uncomfortable, as if she can sense my scrutiny. I offer her a small smile. “Do you want some coffee? Waffles?”

I’m feeling more clear-headed today, so my heart pounds slightly as I wait for her answer. It’s strange; nerves. Like I’m a 15-year-old virgin again. I had my first post-hospital boner this morning, and it was all for her. The fantasy of sweet Suri, sucking my cock with a cherry red condom on it.

“Sure,” she says finally. “I’d like that.”

I swing the door open. “Come on in.”

I think about my house as she follows me through the open living area into the kitchen. Most people who see the place are surprised by how cozy it is. Two fluffy couches in the den, a big, oak chifferobe to hide my flatscreen. Built-in shelves filled with books and other shit I hang onto. The funniest thing: Unlike the main house and the other two manor houses, I decorated this place myself. And I don’t go for that sleek, shiny shit like Hunter does. I like to be comfortable.

The kitchen is done in various shades of brown and beige and wood, with a deep red, cherrywood breakfast table. I’m not much of a cook, but I like to try sometimes, so I’ve got pots and skillets hanging above a small island.

I’ve already got the waffle mix whipped up, because now that I’m mostly just back to my Lithium, I expect to be hungrier. I need the weight if I’m going to get back to the gym. And I am. I need the work outs to keep me level.

I pull out a chair for Suri Dalton, and she sits in one elegant motion. She looks up at me, smiling like I’ve done something funny. “You cook,” she says. “Like Hunter. I’m surprised.”

I laugh at that as I move around the kitchen. “No. Bro can cook. I just fuck around in the kitchen.”

“That looks like a real waffle iron to me.”

“Rachelle,” I say, and belatedly realize she doesn’t know what that means. “She won this at a charity raffle. The one she had at home was nicer, so she gave it to me.” I wave in a kind of general way around the kitchen. “I get a lot of her castoffs.”

“Sounds nice.” At first I think she might be sarcastic, but when I look up at her, she seems sincere. I wonder if she likes to cook, but I won’t ask.

I pour some batter into the iron and prep two plates with some fruit Rachelle actually did cut and bring over.

“Milk, Orange juice, or apple?” I ask her as I close the iron and turn to the refrigerator.

“Apple, thanks.”

I pour her juice, plus some water for myself, and glance over at her as she sits there watching me, all prim and pretty. Prim doesn’t really do her justice, though. She’s not prim. She’s more like…put-together. Neatly put-together and kind of…elegant.

She leans forward over the table, distracting me from my thoughts with a hint of cleavage. “So I want to know some more about you. Now that you’re my client and all. And I’d like to know a little bit about the history of this place.”

My chest squeezes as I think about all the shit that burned. The cheesy, framed first dollar that I made. The ribbon from our ribbon-cutting at the original brothel, on the Strip. A bunch of pictures of escorts who’ve worked here. I wish I wasn’t so fucking sentimental.

The waffle hisses a little, so I open the iron and drop it out onto a plate. I’m buttering the thing when I realize I’m not sure how she likes it, and anyway…didn’t she ask me something? I gather the syrup and the butter, plus some silverware, and try to remember what she asked. I feel better today—more like me—but I’m still kind of foggy.

I set the plate down in front of her, set the silverware where it should go, and turn around to grab a napkin.

Oh…the ranch! And me, I think wryly.

I turn back to her with my best poker face. “The truth is, I always did like orgies, so I decided to form my own personal harem.”

I watch her heart-shaped face carefully, focusing on her eyes, because I expect them to get wide. She holds her cards close, though, so the only way I know that she’s unsure of whether to believe me is the tiny twitch at the side of her mouth.

“Really, though,” she says, pouring syrup over her waffle, “how does one decide to be a pimp?”

“I’m not a pimp,” I tell her. “I consider myself a business man, but if that doesn’t sit well with you, think of me as a mack.”

Now her eyes narrow: hazel, framed by long, thick lashes, topped by thin, elegant brows. “What’s a mack?”

I drop down into the seat across from her and rest my forearms on the table. “A mack works for the girk. Keeps her—or in my case, her and him—safe. Makes sure clients pay up. A pimp makes sure the escort pays up. Rents her out.” I shake my head. “Everybody who works here wants to, and they make a fuck lot of money doing it.”

Suri considers this as she chews her waffle, then smiles up at me. Her smile is so damn sweet. I want to kiss her. “I can maybe accept that,” she says. “And I love the waffle. You do cook.”

“Maybe?” I smirk. “Do I look like a pimp to you?”

She laughs as looks me up and down, blatant enough so my cock twitches. “I think the waffle iron might have pushed you more into the mack camp.”

“I’m a mack. I’m telling you.” She licks her lip and I get up from the table. I’ll never lose my boner if I don’t put some distance between us. I angle my body so she can’t see me from the front, then hide behind part of the counter as I pour more batter into the waffle iron that’s resting on my little island.

I look over my shoulder at her. “One of my chick friends in college was a stripper. Never had good bosses, always got a bunch of shit. She told me it was better out in Vegas, or at least that’s what she heard. With it being legal and all, there are rules. A lot of rules,” I say dryly. “I was majoring in business and English, and I thought it sounded like a decent idea. A different kind of brothel. Classy. Clean. Safe. Hunter fronted me the money.” I don’t tell her how I also invested most of my parents’ life insurance. I don’t like to talk about my parents.

“Turned out—” I tap my head— “I’ve got a head for business. And I try to make it a fun work environment.”

“Selling their bodies for sex?” She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “No offense, but how can you make that a fun experience?”

I shrug. “Healthcare. Movie Nights. A movie theatre. Security. Free iPhones. They screen their own clients and accept or decline whoever they like. At least at the ranch they do. The Strip location works more like a typical brothel—mostly a bunch of bachelor parties and high school dudes and basement dwellers stepping out from behind a game console for a few hours.” I throw a sidelong glance at her and wink. “I’ve even got a company shrink out here. A gym, sauna, salon. It’s not such a bad place.”

She gives me an unreadable look, and I shake my head. “And still, the lady doth protest.”

“It’s not that.” She shrugs one bare shoulder. “I just think it’s weird.”

“It is, I guess. But it’s a service that’s in demand. That’s not changing.”

“It’s made you a good living,” she says thoughtfully.

Yeah, it has, but I shrug. “I guess.”

“Do you enjoy it?” she asks before biting a strawberry in half.

“I do, mostly. It’s a lot like running a hotel—or at least I imagine it is. You’ve gotta focus on the client. The experience.”

Her cheeks redden at the word experience, and it hits me like a fucking asteroid. I remember everything. Suri’s face inside the ambulance. Suri at the hospital. I remember pulling her into my hotel room and—

“Jesus Christ.” I wheel around, leaning on the island, and grab my head. My legs feel weak. For a moment, it’s a struggle just to breathe.

“Marchant? Are you okay?” She’s on her feet. Probably about to come over here. I can’t take it, so I whirl around. “I’m fine,” I snap. “Sit down.”

Oh, fuck. I fucked Suri Dalton—fucked her hard—and I left her there alone. I rub my face and flinch when I smell the waffle burning. I pull it out and toss it on a plate.

I turn to her. “Why are you here?” I snarl. “Are you stupid? Or do you like being treated like a whore?”

Her mouth drops, and her face reddens. She’s shocked, angry, insulted. “I thought it would be a fun job. Is that a problem? What is wrong with you?”

“Why do you want to sleep with me again?”

“I want to fuck you,” she corrects.

“Fuck.” What’s wrong with her? I tug at my hair.

“You’re acting weird. Like you’re pissed. Was that another thing that you forgot?” She looks disappointed.

I don’t address that—the part about me forgetting. I figure I look crazy enough without confirming her suspicions. “Not pissed. Fucking confused. What about that night appealed to you? What made you want to do that again?”

“…I don’t know,” she murmurs. She’s looking down at her perfect manicure. Her eyes collide with mine. “I wanted to get to know you more, I guess. The attraction—the chemistry— It’s clearly there. Don’t try to say it’s not, because I won’t believe it. You didn’t treat me like a whore. We had rough sex, which I liked.” She shrugs. “Anyway, why are you asking all these questions now?”

“What does it matter?” I snap.

“Marchant,” she says gently, “do you have a drug problem?”

“Did I tell you that I did?”

Her eyes widen. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

“No. I’m not. I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the island again. God, I need to get myself together. I stand up straight and turn to face her. “Suri…I think this is a bad idea. You being here.”

“But you’re the one who—”

“I know, but look—I changed my mind.”

She’s up from the table in an instant. Her hair falls in layers around her face, and her hazel eyes look red and watery. “Was it that bad?”

“No. Jesus, no. Not at all. I don’t remember very clearly, but I don’t need to. You’re goddamn beautiful and I’m just sorry that I left you there.”

“You have a drug problem,” she says slowly.

“Yes,” I tell her grimly, hoping this will send her on her way. I open my mouth to tell her I’m a wicked bastard—good for no one. Just ask Marissa.

“Were you in rehab recently?”

“I was,” I say.

“So you were on drugs that night? The night of the fire?”

“Yes,” I lie. A drug problem is better than a mental problem, isn’t it?

“And now you’re clean?”

“That’s none of your business,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be nosey. I just…want to help.”

It’s something about that. Something about the way her face goes soft and caring. I just can’t take it.

“If you stay, you stay on my terms.”

“We already said that. Yesterday. I’m fine with that.”

My frustration multiplies. I wave at the door. “Go. Find someone else.” This won’t be the emotionless fuck-fest I’d imagined for us. Not now that I know she saw me sniveling about needles. Not when she saw me getting all teary on the bed at the hotel because the smooth lines of her soft body reminded me of Marissa.

“Go,” I tell her. “I don’t want you here.”

She walks close to me, so close I can smell her syrupy breath. She runs a finger over my lip, and I go so still.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Stupid,” I say.

I lift her in my arms to carry her to the door. Because I’m humiliated. Because I feel something for her—because she saw me in that state and she came back.

Halfway across the den, she wraps her arms around my neck and rests her forehead on my chest. I divert toward my bedroom.