Ella James: Unmaking Marchant

I feel like I’ve been slapped. “Are you serious? How could you? Without even talking to me? Marchant, I’m your friend if nothing else. You can’t expect me just to go because someone’s messing with you!”

He laughs, rough and dry. “Of course I can. I asked you to go; you have to go.”

“No I don’t. I’m not going. I’m not ready to go, and I’m finishing the project. If you don’t want the burden of keeping me safe and don’t trust me to keep myself safe—which you should, I might add—I’ll hire some security myself. I have my own people in Cali, after all.”

Before I’m finished speaking, he’s shaking his head. “I can’t let you do that. I can’t be responsible for something happening to you.” I open my mouth, and he puts a finger over it. “I can’t , Suri. I can’t.”

“You won’t be. I make my own choices!” And something dawns on me. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

His eyebrows raise.

“I answered a call one night where no one said anything. They just breathed. And then another time I got a call from a woman named Marissa. Does that ring a bell?” My voice trails off at the end of the question, because his face has lost its color.

He blinks once, slowly, then puts his left arm out on the couch, as if to steady himself.

“Marchant? Are you okay?”

He doesn’t even look my way. Anxiety writhes like a tangle in my stomach as I watch him stand completely still. For like two full minutes.

“Marchant? Who is Marissa?”

His eyes meet mine, and all the heat has gone out of them. “You need to go, Suri. You need to go because I told you to.”

“What? No way! I want to know who Marissa is. If you’re— if you’re leaving me for another woman, I want to—”

His eyes narrow.

Shit! I said ‘if you’re leaving me’ like we’re together ! And we’re not together. I’m so stupid!

I dash back to his bedroom with my hand over my face. I’m shaking and sobbing, embarrassed. So very embarrassed. When did I become such a hanger-on? First with Cross, and now Marchant.

I’m the unwanted woman! The friend or the fuck buddy who thinks she’s something more. Where’s my pride? Where’s my shame ?

It’s right here…

I stumble into the bathroom and lock the door behind me, then I sink down on the edge of the huge tub and let it all out. I sob so hard I can’t hear anything. Can’t feel anything but my grief over the loss of a man I never even had. I must have some problem. Maybe I just can’t stand to be alone. Clearly there’s something wrong with me, I’m deficient in some way, I’m pathetic.

The door swings open and Marchant looks down on me, wild-eyed and extremely wide-shouldered in his button-up. He’s holding the doorknob. He looks stern. Unhappy.

I shake my head. “I’m really sorry for this. If you want I’ll—”

He steps closer. Takes my shoulders. “What I want is for you to strip out of those clothes and get into the shower. What I want is this ,” he says—and then he pulls the straps of my dress down off my shoulders, turns me around, and unzips my dress so that it falls onto the warm stone floor.

He gives me a gentle shove toward the shower, but before I get to it, he grabs me by the wrist and jerks me back. He pulls me to his chest and kisses me hungrily. First my mouth, but he moves south quickly, dropping to his knees as he ravages my breasts and then my belly, moving lower to where I’m wet and waiting for him. He covers my pussy with his hot mouth, and I moan.

“I want you,” he pants, “and no one else. But I can’t have you…so you’ll have to let this…be enough.”

I’m ripped in half.

I hate what he’s saying.

I love what he’s doing.

Either way, I can’t stay standing.

My knees give out and he scoops me up and steps into the shower. It’s huge—maybe the biggest one I’ve ever seen—and all he has to do is press a few buttons and it’s steaming; heat floods down on us from two huge lamps in the ceiling, followed seconds later by deliciously warm water. He stands me on my feet, quickly strips himself, and takes my face between his two big hands.

“I have to be inside of you. Right now.”

I flatten my palms against the muscles of his chest. “Tell me you won’t make me leave.”

His face twists. “I can’t do that, Beauty.”

I open my mouth to tell him he can, but I realize that’s my problem—dating all the way to Adam. I want things to be the way I want them, and sometimes I don’t think enough about how they actually are .

“I want you right now,” I breathe, and our mouths join while his hand works its way between my legs. He slides a finger inside, and I shake my head.

“No,” I say into his neck. I pull away and ease him down onto the warm tile. With water streaming down on us, I crouch with my ass in the air, spread his legs, and suck him into my mouth. I make him come fast and hard, and then I make him come again. I’ll respect his wishes if he doesn’t want me to stay, but first I’ll try to change his mind.

MARCHANT

It’s three a.m., and I’m awake after only two hours’ sleep. That’s bad. I need a consistent sleep schedule to help deal with the Bipolar. But I can’t take my eyes off her. Tomorrow, I’m going to make her leave, if I have to strap her into the plane myself.

Tonight, I stroke her bare shoulders and I tuck myself around her. I press my face against the warmth of her arm and allow myself to inhale the sweet scent of her skin. Even covered in my soaps, she smells like a woman.

“That feels good,” she murmurs, and I freeze.

I contemplate closing my eyes and faking sleep, because I’m not sure I can stand talking to her. More so than even her body, I’ve become addicted to her words.

“I thought you were asleep,” I whisper.

“Not anymore.” I can hear the smile in her voice, even though I can’t see her face from where I’m lying.

I kiss her arm. “You should go to sleep.”

“I will,” she says though a yawn. She moves her arm so it’s around my back and shoulders, and this time, I close my eyes. It feels good. Her fingers skate over my skin, and I feel her lips touch down atop my head.

“Are you going to tell me?” she whispers.

“Tell you what?” I whisper, too.

She twines her leg around mine. “I want to know why you said what you said in the shower. That you can’t ‘keep me.’” Silence closes around her words. With my head against her ribs, I can hear her heartbeat.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

“At first I thought you didn’t want me like that,” she says quietly, “because I was scared you didn’t. But now…now I think maybe I was wrong.” Her fingers skate through my hair, bringing out goosebumps on my head. “Will you just tell me? Please? What that makes you want to stay so…far from everyone? Is it…what happened to your parents?”

A wave of ice-cold dread washes through me as I think about what she said earlier. About Marissa. I remember the last time I saw her, lying so still on the pink bedspread inside her dorm room. I remember her voice through the phone down at the jail. I remember the casket—and I know I can’t tell Suri. Someone like her…someone so kind and generous; Suri would never understand.

Now that we’re as close as we’ve come to be, I’m not sure how to evade her questions—so I roll over with my back to her.

“Marchant,” she whispers. “I have another question. Do you have a baby?”

SURI

Remembering the picture is what woke me up. The black and white picture I saw that night in the silver picture frame, right before I heard Marchant’s footsteps coming down the hall and I dropped it by the curtains. I sneaked out of bed tonight and found it right where I left it—underneath the floor-to-ceiling curtains. One look at the image in the moonlight and I can see it’s definitely a baby. Bigger than Lizzy’s baby (I recently received a text’d image of something that looked like a lima bean).