Ella James: Unmaking Marchant

I’m coming in her mouth, worrying about her until she screams my name and I can feel her quiver underneath my tongue.

I lift her off of me, lie her out on the coffee table, and suck her tits for a few minutes till she’s writhing again. Then I lift her onto the couch, spread her legs, and plunge inside. She’s warm and soft and welcoming. She strokes my face and cries my name, and you know what? I fucking like it. I might even fucking love it.

It’s not until we’re eating ice cream half an hour later that it hits me like a fucking train.

“I didn’t use a condom. Holy fuck.” I’m off the couch and on my feet, pacing. “I didn’t use a fucking condom! FUCK!”

“Marchant, calm down, it’s—”

“You don’t understand. You could get pregnant!” I’m breathing hard. There’s not enough air in this room. In this house. “Suri, I always use a condom. I can’t believe it! Fuck me!” I’m covering my face with my hand, feeling the familiar coldness in my hands and feet that harkens a panic attack, when she grabs me by my elbows and says, “STOP! Stop freaking out, Marchant. I’m infertile.”

“What?”

Her hazel eyes are wide in a face that suddenly looks breakable. “I said I’m infertile,” she says softly. “It’s okay.” Her shoulders slump. “I’ve known it for a while. So I can’t get pregnant. You have nothing to worry about.”

She sits down on the couch, folding her legs underneath her.

In the last few days, we’ve fucked and worked together, and I’ve never seen her look like she does now. So…vacant.

I go over to the couch and sit on the floor in front of her, surprised by the depth of loss I feel on her behalf.

“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say. But her wide eyes are fixed on my face, so I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “Do you want children?”

“I don’t know. I never really got a chance to think about it. Probably, though. I think I’d like to adopt a little girl or boy.”

I nod a little. “Well…that’s something.”

“Something,” she says. “Yeah. I guess it is.” And, after a moment looking into my eyes: “You don’t want kids? Because of…your mother?”

“I don’t want an accidental pregnancy,” I hedge.

“Well, you’re safe with me.” She winks, but the smile she gives me is not real.

I wonder what she would think if she knew the truth about my problem.

I tell myself that I’m a fool for wondering.

SURI

I’ve been invited to dinner with ‘the girls.’ In the past four days, Marchant and I kept bumping into Juniper, the British one, and she eventually asked if I’d like to go to fajita night with the Love Inc. ladies who are still hanging around. (Some of them took time off, because there weren’t enough cottages for everyone to continue seeing clients).

That was yesterday—the day that turned into the night when I told Marchant about my inability to procreate.

I’m probably being crazy, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s been more distant since I told him. Today he was at the cottage most of the day, doing book-keeping stuff, he said, while I began sorting through fabrics and colors to create the new look for the almost completely sheet rocked main house interior. I think I’ve got the floors and paints mostly decided, and I’ve got a tentative plan for furniture and plants.

I can’t wait to show it to Marchant, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, I put on a strappy red dress, silver shoes, and my favorite low-key jewelry, then pull my hair into a casual bun and add lipstick.

When I walk into the living area, I’m hoping to be greeted by a low whistle. Instead, the place is empty. Or I think it is. I’m at the front door, planning to wait for Juniper on the porch, when I hear Marchant’s voice from the kitchen.

As soon as I walk in, he ends whatever conversation he was having and drops his phone into his pocket. His eyes find mine, and my sketch-ometer starts going off, because he doesn’t even notice I’ve dressed up. He looks distracted. Unhappy.

“What’s wrong?”

He blinks at me like he’s just waking up. “Umm…what?”

“You just…you look— Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He frowns at me. “Where are you going?”

“Fajita night, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Good,” he says definitively.

“Glad to be rid of me,” I tease.

“I can’t hang out tonight. Work stuff,” he tells me.

For once, he didn’t join me in the shower after work.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” he says firmly. And there’s something about the way he says it… Like no way would it be my business.

It bothers me.

“Okay,” I tell him. “See you later tonight.”

As I wait on the porch for Juniper, I’m worrying about what will happen when this project is over—worrying about how hard I’m falling for him—when the door opens and he sticks his head outside. “I just wanted to tell you—you look good. Have a good time. They’re nice people.”

“I know,” I smile. “And thanks. Hope you get your work stuff sorted out.”

“I hope so too.”

There’s something odd about the way he says it. I’m still thinking back to it when Juniper and a few of the other girls arrive.

MARCHANT

My P.I. called today. So did my finance guy. Apparently someone has been attempting to log into my money accounts. I can only assume it’s a minion following orders from Rex Hawkins, who is still pissed off despite my self-fine.

I spend most of the morning pacing around the cottage, wishing I hadn’t re-paid the fucker an extra twenty-five percent of what I owed. Wondering if it was he who sent the text referencing the fire. I know I was late paying him back and I grazed his foot with a bullet, but shit. How far will the motherfucker go?

After weeks of reckless mania, worry is a strange, disturbing thing.

I have my money manager report the suspicious activity to a monitoring arm of the FBI, and he comes back with a long list of IP addresses from places like Tokyo, Lima, Paris, and San Diego. Of course he does. My hacker friend is probably using TOR, a black-market-friendly system that keeps their true location hidden.

I spend some time wishing I could hop on a plane and disappear. Lead my pursuants somewhere far away from here. Trouble is, Love Inc. is an easy target whether I’m here or not. And I guess I’m jumping the gun a little. No one’s made a threat. And I really have no idea who is snooping. I’m not exactly low-profile, and a lot of people assume I’m worth a lot more than I really am. Compared to someone like Hunter, I’m a pauper.

I take a long shower and jerk off thinking of Miss Dalton.

After my shower, I get a phone from a withheld number. Normally I’d ignore it, but because of all this other shit I answer, and after a second, I wish I hadn’t. Fuck. All I can hear on the other end is heavy breathing. For a second, I’m worried someone kidnapped Suri. Talk about an easy target. Her father is one of the most financially successful people on the planet. Makes me so fucking anxious.

But when I walk to the main house late in the afternoon, I find her safe inside, talking to Tom about ceiling textures.

I need to calm down.

I have an early afternoon session with Dr. Libby. Three times a week seems excessive, but apparently that’s the protocol after a manic episode—especially one that includes an adventure to the bottom of a pool. We talk about Riker, by some strange twist of conversation. She’s going to school at UCLA, majoring in environmental science. Libby tries to lead me down the path to my mother—do I remember her being hospitalized for mania?—but I veer the other way. I just don’t fucking feel like it.