Unmaking Marchant

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.

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.