Unmaking Marchant

6

SURI

I veer down a different hallway, wrapping my hand around my blouse and jerking hard as I let out a furious sob.

I look down to find my bra showing. It’s lacy and beige, and I don’t know when anyone will see it again. This makes me cry harder. And then I pass a man in scrubs and I realize…I’m half naked!

“Damnit.” I look up and down the hall. A dozen or so yards ahead of me, a group of people in scrubs rounds a corner. They look young. Like…my age. Interns? Residents?

I clamp my hand over my mouth and try the first door I see. It’s unlocked, so I rush inside. I blink at some metal supply shelves through blurry eyes and try to hold back my tears so the people passing by in the hallway won’t hear me crying like a lunatic. Then I see the woman standing in front of me and I’m so shocked I start to sob again.

Everything is so messed up…

I don’t plan to sit down; my legs wobble, and suddenly I’m sitting cross-legged on the cold tile floor, holding my head because I’m freaking out. And I’m not thinking about Marchant Radcliffe, the world’s biggest dick. I’m thinking about Cross. Who might be married. Cross who I tried and failed to seduce. Cross who I could have loved. Could have built a life with.

I mean, yes, he’s a player sometimes. Yes, he gets drunk and horny and seduces twins with names like Barbie and Cookie. But he’s a good guy, and he’s my friend. And suddenly, I want him more than anything. But he doesn’t want me.

I fold a hand over my head. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with ME?!” My eyes fly to the woman in the closet with me.

She’s got wild red hair and big green eyes, and I can’t stand the weight of her curious gaze so I jump up. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me!”

She’s about my age, and she looks like she thinks I just escaped the psych ward. I’m crying as I watch her gather herself. I can practically see her trying to decide what to say as she looks me over. I press my lips together to try to stop my crying, and she settles on: “What happened to your shirt?”

That sets off another wave of sobs. I look at the girl through my tears, and she looks at me. She looks freaked out. I don’t blame her. I rub my hand over my face and say, “I tore it.”

She looks at me like she’s wondering how that happened, and I shake my head. “No, I’m saying I tore it. I got pissed off and tore it, like a wrestler!”

The woman laughs. I laugh, too. “It’s okay. I’m insane. I know.”

“You’re not insane. Just upset,” she says kindly. And I notice that her red hair is wild. Like she’s been on an adventure. Maybe she has. Maybe she would understand if I told her.

“My life is so messed up. You don’t even know. First my fiancé broke things off and then I fell for my best guy friend. It was messed up—really messed up—but I’ve had a crush on him since like, the dawn of time, and he was in the middle of a really awful time and I just…I don’t know.” Tears clog my throat. “I think I just wanted to be invaluable to someone.” I meet the woman’s green eyes and hold her gaze, pretending I am in confession. “He really needed me at the time, and I wanted to feel special. I let myself get carried away, and then I embarrassed myself. And now he’s here, and I want to be his friend and be here for him but I’m not sure how I can.”

I wipe my tears, then glance around the room, suddenly remembering I’m in a supply closet. I inspect the little room more closely and notice a black leather jacket folded neatly on one of the shelves. A familiar black jacket. “Oh my God, is that Cross Carlson’s jacket? Are you his wife? Are you that biker chick he met in Mexico?”

Her eyes bug out, and oh my God. I whirl around. “I can’t believe I told you all that! I can’t—Oh my God!”

Well this settles it: I will never, ever let myself fall for the wrong person, ever again. Not a friend and not a drunk. In fact, I refuse to fall for any guy!

MARCHANT

I bump into Missy King on the first floor of the hospital. It’s maybe half an hour after I was an asshole to Suri, after I’ve arranged to have a private plane take me home.

Missy King is this call girl type who used to be friends with some of the women at my ranch. She vanished two years ago, and everyone assumed she was dead.

So I’m surprised to see her.

At first, I just stare at her, wondering if it’s really her, or if my addled mind is playing tricks on me. But she continues to be there, petite, red-haired, looking much the same (one of the things my mind is actually good at is remembering faces). Then, she seems to notice me. Yep, she thinks I’m familiar. So I walk into the little seating area where I spotted her and decide to offer my services as Rescuer, pro bono.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” I say after I walk up to her, “if you’re safe or not, but I can keep you safe,” I promise. “You can hide out at the ranch—as long as you want. No strings.”

I say other things. Maybe they’re more eloquent. It’s interesting how I can be in my head and say whatever I’m saying to convince Missy King to come with me, and I’m not really aware of the words.

If she notices that I’m a few colors short of a rainbow right now, she doesn’t show it. The taxi ride is quiet, and when we reach the private airport where the plane is waiting, she follows me up the stairs without asking any questions.

I’m not inclined to try to talk to her. I’ve made enough of an ass of myself today without adding to it, and she doesn’t seem interested in talking anyway.

Before the plane takes off, I lock myself inside the little bedroom and stare at the ceiling while I battle my demons. The same ones I’ve always had. The ones I know I can’t afford to listen to. I put my hands over my ears. I roll over on my stomach. I dig my fingers into my hair. I cup the tattoo on my side and try to pretend it isn’t there. I get up and pace the bedroom.

I step out of the room for a minute and watch Missy, working a crossword or Sudoku or some shit. She looks okay. She’s still here, so I figure she’s not a hallucination. I’ve been known to hallucinate when I’m in this state.

I shut myself back into the tiny bedroom and allow my mind to wander to Hawkins. How much I’d like to kick his ass again. But when the plane lands at the airport behind the Love Inc. ranch, I’m shaking and I just need to find someone to fuck.

I call Rachelle and tell her to put Missy in my suite at the main house. I also tell her to put one of the guards outside her room.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” I say before I end the call, even though I know I won’t be any better tomorrow.

After aiming Missy—Meredith, she said her real name is—toward the main house, I hurry around the pond, to my garden house, and slam the door. I feel a little more relaxed, but I’m still geared up. My clothes feel itchy, so I peel them off and throw on a robe.

Then I call Ansley’s, a discreet escort service I used to use, years ago, before I decided it was bad for business. I order three women, all with short, dark hair, and spend the next few hours trying to escape myself.

When they leave, I stumble into the bathroom, dressed in nothing. I look at myself in the mirror and I see someone I’ve never seen before. I try to pull the wrong hair out and try to wash the wrong face off, but it doesn’t work. In fact, I’m bleeding now.

From somewhere very far away, I remember Dr. Libby telling me to take some Ativan if this happens. So I take some. I can’t remember how many, so I settle on five, and now it’s getting dark.