Unmaking Marchant

20

SURI

Is this what it’s like—waking up after a night of ecstasy? I’m twenty-three, and this is new to me. I feel…radiant. Warm and glowy. A little quieter. A little slower. Soft, like putty. Light as air. Like I might float through the roof and dissipate over the ranch.

I move about his room almost discreetly, taking care to choose my pink dress and green flats, dressing myself piece by piece: slow, as if I have a secret.

I have a secret!

I think I’m addicted to having sex with a pimp.

I giggle.

I grin into the mirror. Drunken grin.

Suri Dalton—sex addict.

That’s me.

I had great sex—cha cha cha! I had great sex! I shake my ass.

Another big smile, just for myself, and I slip my earrings into my ears. One half spray of perfume and I’m ready for the day.

I’m halfway to the bedroom door when the phone rings. I pause mid-step as I remember the call from last night. I’m not answering this time. It rings a second time, and then a third. I listen but the house seems quiet. What if it’s important? Four times. Five times. I expect an answering machine to kick in, but it doesn’t. Six. What’s the limit on a landline? Seven? It rings eight times. Wow! Nine times, and I lunge across the room, snatching the cordless phone off its base. It rings a tenth time while I fumble with the “on” button. I don’t have a landline at Crestwood Place. This phone is big and weird and—

“Hello?” I say.

Silence hums into my ear.

“Hello?”

My throat feels pinched.

“Hel-lo?”

Cue the goosebumps. Did you ever read an RL Stine book? Too many of them when I was younger. Maybe I should just—

“Hello.” The woman’s husky voice startles me. So much that I actually flinch.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” she says again. My hand around the phone feels colder.

“Hi, you’ve reached the Radcliffe residence. May I help you?” I sound like a receptionist, but I’m not sure what else to say. It’s not my business who calls him. Not yet, a tiny voice inside me whispers.

She hesitates. I can feel her hesitation, even though the line is silent.

“Is Marchant in.” It’s more statement than question somehow—like she doesn’t care what I say. Like I’m no one. One in a steady throng of women he probably parades in and out of his house like show hogs.

Her curt voice seems to echo in the silence after. Is there an accent?

“He’s not,” I tell her. And it’s not a lie. He didn’t answer, did he? Maybe he’s out, or busy. “I’m sorry,” I say—and that is a lie. I want her off the phone. But I’m also curious. “Is there something I can tell him for you?”

Another pause. This is probably where she sticks out her lower lip and feels forgotten. Because she is, my inner bitch whispers.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think so. Could you—” Several seconds tick by. When she speaks again, her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her. “Could you tell him that Marissa called?”

“Of course.” And, on a whim: “Is he expecting your call?”

“No. He’s not.” She sounds sad.

I promise to give him the message and press the “off” button, not sure if I actually will.

MARCHANT

Morning is always easier than night, but this one dawns especially bright. It’s been a long while since I’ve written anything, but before I even leave my sleeping bag, I write a quick poem about Suri’s body with my notepad app. Damn—those fucking curves.

As I shower and dress, I wonder how long till I can tap that shit again. Woman is addictive. The thought reminds me that she thinks I’m an addict. Annoying, yes, but necessary. There’s no other way to explain why I’d forgotten we had sex.

I’d much rather her think I’m battling a substance issue than know that my own brain betrayed me. Or, more accurately, my brain was so fucked up, the only way I could get it back to normal was to let a bunch of doctors give me seizures.

I’m not sure why it matters so much, but I want Suri Dalton to think of me as normal. Well, I think as I slide a belt through my slacks—as normal as a pimp can be.

I’m wearing one of my Brionis today, because they’re comfortable and fit well. I’ve got four of them, three Fioravantis, two Huntsmans, two Kitons, and a Caraceni. I’ve found I’m taken more seriously when I’m dressed for business. Probably because so many people expect to find me dressed for sex.

No. 1, I never fuck my girls, and No. 2, at Love Inc., we’re all about the Benjamins.

Before going upstairs, I send a quick text to my money guy to confirm that the transaction to Hawkins went through. I don’t need to have that shit hanging above my head. He replies as I climb the stairs. ‘Done.’

Nice.

Despite what a prick he is, I feel a bit of guilt for how I handled things with Hawkins. If I’d been myself, I’d have paid him promptly. Since this was only my second manic episode, I hadn’t realized I’d be so reckless with money.

I never expected to have a second manic episode. Fucking naïve.

Still, I’m feeling okay as I sit on my porch. Rachelle arrives in her jogging outfit. She jogs up my steps, and jogs in place as she fishes my pill out of the pocket of her shirt.

“Thanks for bringing this by,” I tell her, swallowing it dry.

“No problem, boss man.” She looks me over. “You look sharp.”

“Thank you.”

Her delicate blonde brows wriggle. “You look better than you have in weeks. You get laid or something?”

I try to laugh her off, but I think I come off looking guilty—or even worse, smug.

She snorts. “Good for you.”

“You make it sound like I’m a fucking charity case.”

She laughs again, her head thrown back. “Now I know that is not the case.” She gives me a quick roll of her eyes before jogging off. “After tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll give them back to you. Sound good?”

“Yeah.”

I’m doing okay now. Feeling less head fucked. As I make my way to the kitchen, I’m surprised to find my mood is…pretty damn good. I crank up some Led Zeppelin on my Bose and crack two eggs, planning to whip up breakfast, before I get an even better idea. I’ll make something portable, and invite Suri Dalton to the maze with me. Maybe we can have a quick fuck in the bushes.

I grin, and I’m grabbing some fruit out of the pantry when I hear the click of shoes on hardwood, and there she in the doorway between my den and kitchen, looking gorgeous.

I can’t help how good I feel. I give her a big, stupid smile.

She grins back at me. “You look nice today.”

I look her over, deliberately lingering on her tits. “You look better.” I have to fight the urge to yank her dress up and fuck her on the kitchen table. I’m already hard, and I don’t try to hide it as I grab a paper bag from a nearby drawer.

“You going out?” she asks me.

“Yeah.”

She walks into the kitchen, giving me a great view of her ass, and leans against my counter. With her hair hanging a little past her chin and her pink lips smiling, she looks like a girl someone should love. Which is a fucking weird thing to think.

I rub my head, and she says, “Where ya going?”

“Thought I’d go for a walk.” I thought I’d go with her, but now that I see her looking so beautiful and fresh, I’m not so sure. Wasn’t I supposed to be keeping this professional?

But it’s just a walk, right? It should be pretty hard to ruin the beauty that is Suri Dalton in the course of a twenty-minute walk. And if we fuck? Well, it’s not the first time. I’ll end this fuck-fest soon. Get some willpower and take off to my house in Summerlin.

Till then… It’s been a long time since I took a walk around the grounds for no reason at all.

I look back over at her to ask if she’ll go with me, and find her smiling slightly.

“What?” I ask.

“Oh…nothing.” Her smile widens, and she laughs.

“What is it?” I rub my hand over my face. “Do I have a booger?”

“No.” Her eyes are twinkling, swear to fucking God.

“Then what?”

“You’re packing a lunch for yourself.” She’s still smiling.

I hold out two apples and a banana, like I’m surrendering a weapon. “You mean this?”

“Yes, that.”

I feel a little hot under my collar. “So what? A person’s gotta eat.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s cute.” And then she giggles. It’s a real giggle. Like…I don’t know. Something real and nice.

I’m surprised to find it makes me laugh a little, too.

“I was thinking one of them could be for you. You like apples? Or bananas?”

She twirls a piece of her hair, still smiling. I swear to God, this girl is like sunshine. “I like them both. Where are we walking?”

I shrug as I throw the fruit in the paper sack, prompting her to laugh again. “Just around. I like to stretch my legs sometimes.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and want to groan, because I sound like an idiot. I screw up my face and pull out my country voice. “Want to throw some stones in the pond? It’s real fuuun.”

She giggles again. “Sure. I throw a mean stone.” I don’t even know what this means

I walk past her, headed toward the ’frige to grab some bottled water. She catches me by the arm and tugs me close to her. I’m still as one of her hands twists around my nape and pulls my face down close to hers. I’m ready to kiss her. Ready to fuck her. Instead she pulls me even closer and I feel her lips press gently on my forehead.

It’s fucking weird, the way it makes me feel. Just…warm in my chest, like someone poured hot water into me.

She looks into my eyes. I must be frowning because she frowns a little, too, then smiles and ruffles my hair. “Don’t be so uptight. I just wanted to kiss you. No strings.” She pushes me gently away and holds up three fingers. “I swear.”

“I know.” I give her a small smile and grab the water from the refrigerator, and by the time I’ve turned around the weirdness of the moment has passed. She grabs an apple out of the paper sack, and I grab the other one, and we leave the sack in the kitchen and head out the front door. I have a memory of walking out of the house with Riker when we were children, armed with bed linen and kitchen utensils. I guess my brain is dredging up strange shit because of Suri’s presence in my house. I usually don’t let women stay, or even fuck them in my cottage. That’s what my room in the main house is— was for.

As we walk toward the pond, she asks, “What are you thinking?”

I shrug. “About the new building.”

It’s out there in front of us, and the construction crew is already moving this morning. Their big machines beep and buzz as they resurrect the building.

“What about it?” she asks.

“I used to have a room there. Like, my personal room.”

“That’s cool.”

“I mean for sex.”

“Okay—still cool, for you, I guess.” She gives me an unreadable look.

“I was just wondering if I’m going to rebuild it.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know.”

We walk a little more, and it’s fucking weird, because I kind of want her to tell me not to. Instead she says, “Did you ever imagine this place would be so successful?”

We sit on some stones by the pond and I tell her about my first few years as a brothel owner, how I started with the Strip location but wanted something more exclusive, something less stereotypical and more high-end. I tell her about how I met each of the girls—and guys. I tell her about the first escorts who worked for me, about the brothel manager who embezzled almost a million dollars from me when I was still green and didn’t know to keep a sharp eye on my managers. I even tell her about how my cheesy, framed “first dollar” burned. And she listens. I can tell she listens, and she doesn’t judge me even though she’s not a fan of sex-for-pay.

About that time Juniper walks by, wearing a black sports bra and hot pink leopard printed tights. She’s holding hand weights with little snoopy pictures on the sides. We both laugh.

“Hello,” she calls.

“Hello.” I smile and Suri waves.

“Whatever works,” I say as Juniper passes.

“You know…” Suri sits her apple core on a stone beside her, “when Lizzy said people here were like family, and I scoffed at her. But it seems to be true.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are we converting you?”

“Maybe,” she says coyly—but she can’t keep the grin off her face. She trails her bare foot over the water’s edge and looks around. “Who designed your maze?”

“I did actually.”

“Really.” I nod. “I’m impressed.”

I stand up and offer her a hand, which she takes after sliding her sandal back on. I pull her up. “Want to go?”

“Maze walking?” She smiles a little. “I got lost there the other night.”

I’m still holding onto her hand. I tuck it closer to me. “If we get lost this time, it’ll be because we want to.”

We start off over the plush grass, toward the maze, and after a few steps I can tell something is wrong. Our earlier banter and easy conversation is gone. Suri is quiet; her face looks tight, and her hand in mine is still and almost stiff.

I can’t think straight knowing something’s bothering her, so I give in. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

She glances up at me from underneath her long eyelashes. “I was just thinking of before the fire. I was planning on going back to California the next morning.”

“Oh yeah?”

She nods. “One of the reasons was you.”

My chest aches. I guess because she takes me off guard. “It was?”

She nods.

I’ve still got her hand. Impulsively, I squeeze it. She squeezes back, proving—as if I needed proof—she’s the kindest, most perfect woman alive. Regret spills through me, dark and messy. “I was an asshole, right? When was it? At the hospital in El Paso?” Everything from around that time is hazy—probably due more to the mania than the ECT that followed—but I definitely remember pressing her against the wall of a hallway. I don’t know what I said, but I remember discharging my anger.

I feel ashamed, now.

She doesn’t look at me as we step into the maze. Now that we’re surrounded by walls of ruthlessly manicured bushes all around us, I fantasize about lying her down face-first on the little pale pebbles, lifting up her skirt and having her here, under the afternoon sky, but the fantasy loses a considerable amount of appeal when I see the tension tugging at her mouth.

I decide in a heartbeat that I want to give her something. Not the truth—that would cost me too much—but something close to it. I want to get as close as I can to honesty with her. I’m not sure why, but I want to.

I squeeze her hand once more and take the plunge: “You know…you’re the only one who knows about my…problem. Besides Rachelle,” I say. “And she only knows because they called her. From the…facility.”

She looks up at me, wide-eyed, and I push my chicken-shit self forward. “I’ve been this way since college,” I say slowly. And I’m not sure how to follow-up that particular confession without lying big time or telling her what really happened. But I open my mouth and find that words roll out. They’re quiet words—hard words. Maybe it’s her soft, cool fingers, stroking the back of my hand that makes them easier to say.

“We had a memorial ceremony for my parents on a Sunday. It was spring break Sunday. They died the first Sunday of Spring Break, and this was the last—the day before school started back. My little sister Riker was only twelve. My dad’s parents had her. They’re the ones who ended up rearing her.” I feel a lumpy knot in my throat, because Riker had wanted to live with me—but I couldn’t. “I couldn’t take her because…” I shake my head and look ahead, at the bush-framed path that turns left in a few more steps.

“I couldn’t take her because I was…unfit,” I confess. From this point on, I fix my eyes on the path ahead.

“It happened for the first time when I was flying back to school. From Santa Monica to New Orleans. I just…fucking snapped. My parents weren’t perfect, but they had always been there.” Mom had bouts of mania and also depression, but it was mostly managed, and she and dad had always seemed like they loved each other, and us. “And then one day, I get a call at the frat house—fucking kitchen phone; we had been playing whiffle ball—and some fucking stranger tells me they’re gone. Their plane went down in the Ecuadorian Andes. My mom was flying. She crashed into a mountain.”

I tug in a deep breath and shock myself by hoarsely adding, “She was bipolar.”