Текст книги "Unmaking Marchant"

Автор книги: Ella James

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Feeling like Little Red Riding Hood, I head back past the pool and pond, aiming toward the cottage I heard was his. As I walk through the oak grove, I see Loveless on her way back to the parking lot.

“How is he?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He didn’t answer his doorbell.”

“Oh. Well, have a safe trip.”

“You too.”

“It was nice meeting you.” I’m surprised to find that’s sort of true. I sit by the pond until she’s gone, and then I stand up and watch the workers as they move about the cement truck. I’m not going to see him. Obviously. I was probably stupid to think I would. I should probably just go, but seeing how bad this place looks, learning that Marchant is probably in rehab, I feel compelled to leave a note.

I pull a notepad from my purse and write:

Marchant–

I’m sorry about what happened. I hope your re-building process is as quick and painless as possible.

Suri Dalton.

I’m tucking it into his door when it opens.

13

MARCHANT

I’m shirtless in my most beat-up pair of khaki pants, and I’m in no state to talk to anybody, but once I get a glimpse of Suri Dalton, I can’t help myself. I wrap my hand around the doorknob and look down on her through the window in my door. She’s thoroughly fuckable in black shorts and a cream tank top.

My discharge paperwork says I claimed to have come from Suri Dalton’s hotel room the night of my admission.

It probably isn’t true. I have a memory of kissing her in the bathroom at the Wynn, but knowing what I know of her, I’m pretty sure she didn’t fuck me the night of the fire.

The first thing I remember after walking out the ER’s sliding glass doors is catching a ride with a woman on a motorcycle. She took me to The Deuce Longue, on The Strip, where I saw coverage of the Love Inc. fire on the news, got pissed off, and hit the bartender in the face. I don’t remember any of that, but I have the police report. Apparently I told the cops I wasn’t sure if I was really Marchant Radcliffe.

They asked me for ID, and I said I wanted a ride to the local morgue, because I was no one. They decided to take me to the hospital. When I arrived, I got a shot of sedatives and told someone to call Rachelle so she could verify that Love Inc. had not burned. Rachelle called Dr. Libby. We talked for a while, and I told her I stopped taking my Lithium weeks ago. March 15, to be exact. I woke up feeling like shit and I flushed it down the toilet. She understands why. She knows what that date means to me.

I stayed inpatient for five days, long enough to try ECT twice and decided I didn’t like it enough to try it a third time. Long enough to get my medicine figured out and get me within a few days of Dr. Libby’s return. Long enough to remember bits and pieces of what I can only assume was a fantasy.

I remember a mole on her belly. Does she really have a mole there?

I shouldn’t open the door now, but I do. It’s like fucking magic: Suri Dalton, flesh and blood, sharing air with me. She looks me over, head to toes, and frowns.

“Marchant…hi. I—” Her voice lilts a little and she blinks a few times. “I was here, looking for my grandmother’s ring, which I didn’t find, and I wanted to stop by and…bring you this.” She holds a sheet of paper in front of my face. I read it once, then twice, so it sinks into my sluggish brain. “Speedy and painless…” I give her a tiny smile. “I’d drink to that.” Except, of course, I’m back on the wagon.

She looks me over again. “How are you? You seem…tired.”

I rub my eyes. “Yeah. Long day.” I don’t know what else to say. Hi, I had ECT less than twenty-four hours ago and I can barely remember my middle name. Apparently sex with you was a key part of my psychotic delusion.

I take the note. “Thanks.” I let my eyes meet hers. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Lucky guess.” She smiles, and it’s so perfect I can feel an ache through the thick cloak of my medicine. I tap my fingers on my leg, and suddenly I feel illuminated. Like the blood is pumping through my body again. Like I’m alive. It takes me a moment to adjust, and when I do, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Hunter wants to hear from you.” Suri’s thin brows scrunch a little. “He’s worried.”

I hold out my arms. “Still kicking.” Except I realize there are track marks on the inside of my elbows. And I’m probably giving her a good look at my tattoo. Fuck.

I scrub my hand back through my hair. “I’m fine,” I tell her. I look down at a bowl on a table in my foyer. My housekeeper, Mrs. Everett, likes to fill it with Starburst—my favorite candy. I pluck out a red one and eat the damn thing in front of her. I don’t know why. I’m nervous maybe.

“You doing okay?” I ask after I swallow.

“Can’t complain.” She runs her palm over her hair. “I’m flying back to Napa tomorrow.”

I want her to stay, but that’s delusional. Irrational. I have a hazy memory of something unpleasant going on between us in the hospital in El Paso when I was manic Marchant. I bet I was an asshole.

I force a smile. “I hope you have a good flight.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like there’s something else that I should say to her, but I can’t think of it. They told me this was normal after ECT—memory problems; particularly problems with short-term memory. And for all that I hated the anesthesia IV and I hate the way it makes me feel like my insides were scooped out and there’s nothing in me now, I’m not manic anymore.

I look down at my feet and then back up at her. I say the only thing I can think of: “It was nice meeting you. You’re a nice person.”

“Thanks,” she says, frowning.

And I want her to go now. I want her to go because I want to kiss her, and I don’t like feeling out of control the way I do now that I am breathing her perfume.

She takes a small step back, and the vice around my throat loosens a little. And then her eyes widen. “Would it be okay if I used your bathroom? I’m so sorry to ask.”

I can’t tell her no, so I open the door a little wider and she comes inside.

* * *

SURI

He looks uncomfortable. Unhappy. I remember how he hasn’t been returning anyone’s calls and how strung out he acted on the plane. I remember when I asked if he was okay that night at the hotel and he told me not to. Clearly, he’s got…stuff. And I bet he wants to keep it private. So it’s not surprising that he doesn’t want me in his house. I wish I hadn’t had to ask, but I’m a long way from the nearest gas station, and I chugged a big bottle of water on the way over here. Nerves, I guess.

He points me down a darkish hallway with stone floor and cream walls dotted with framed photos. I notice college-aged Hunter in a few of them, with college-aged Marchant.

“First door on the right,” he calls behind me, and I wonder in what state I’ll find the bathroom.

The bathroom door is tall and heavy—cherry wood with a crystal doorknob—and the half bath I step into is done in warm sage and cream, with a simple pedestal sink, an ordinary-looking toilet, a plush brown rug, and a rough woven basket that holds magazines. I lean over the magazine basket, expecting Playboy or Hustler, and I’m stunned to see The New Yorker and Scientific American. I glance up at the frame above the towel rack and am surprised to find myself staring down a Jack Kerouac quote.

“Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain’t this and that at all?”

I make a surprised face at myself in the mirror over the sink and glance once at the door before sitting down to do my business. I get up quickly, wash my hands, and dry them on a small brown towel monogrammed with an “M.”

As I blink into the mirror, I remember the lines of his beautiful torso—the mouth-watering body that’s standing right down the hall. The way his weight felt against me on the bed. The way his mouth felt on my neck. The way his cock felt inside of me. And I can feel myself react.

This has never happened before. Ever—except that evening when I first met him in the Wynn.

I look into the mirror and my cheeks are pink. Pink like it’s snowing outside and I have windburn. Pink like too long on the upper deck of a ship on a sunny day.

Before I leave the bathroom, I tell myself to calm down. He seems tired and kind of quiet today. Clearly, not in the mood for a repeat.

I wonder if he really went to rehab. He certainly seems more…settled somehow, now.

I take one more look at the framed quote on the wall and step back into the hall. My mind is spinning. The best thing to do would be to run—not walk—back to my rented Jeep and rely on my team of jewelry-finders to find Gran Gran’s ring.

I’m glad I came and saw him, glad I wished him well, but I lose my head around this man. I’m losing it more now that I know he likes Kerouac.

Real pimps don’t read good literature—do they?

I hurry down the hall and find him leaning against the wall at the mouth of the living area with his arms crossed. I can see the tattoo on his side, the mysterious date I remember from before.

He looks me over. His eyes are intense and slightly heavy. I can feel his attention on me like a laser, making me squirm.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.

“Favorite color?”

He holds up a basket filled with Starbursts.

“Oh. I like the pinks.”

“Good choice.” He picks three pinks out and offers them too me. “For the road,” he says.

“Thank you.” That reminds me of the Kerouac quote.

I let my eyes have their way with his bare chest once more, willing him to respond. Willing him to take me to his bedroom. When nothing happens, I give up. I’m proud of myself for having the nerve to come out here, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I take a step toward the door, and he moves with me. His eyes look a little brighter now; his body seems a little tenser.

“I like the reds,” he says, “I’m an addict.”

I’m not sure what to say to him. I’m almost to the door, but how do I say bye? I’m flipping through my list of possibilities when I feel his hand on my shoulder.

I turn toward him, struck again by how flipping hot he is without his shirt. Skin so smooth…every muscle flawless. And his eyes—those gorgeous brown eyes are honed on me.

“I…uh. I feel like I should be saying thank you for something. Something big. But I can’t remember what it is. I don’t…I can’t remember much about the last week and a half. Fucking weird, I know.” He moves his hand off my shoulder rubs his head.

“You remember the night of the fire, don’t you? The um…pool and everything?”

His face goes white. He blinks a few times. “I had forgotten that you pulled me out.” His voice sounds low and very deep. His shoulders are visibly tense. I think he may be embarrassed.

Clearly, this confirms he has a drug problem.

“You don’t have to say thank you. I would do it again in a heartbeat. I’m just happy I was there.”

“Well anyway—thank you.”

He turns around and grabs the basket. “Stay and let me pick out all the pinks?”

I’m surprised to feel my cheeks go hot. The way he’s looking at me today…it’s almost…sweet. Strangely, it makes him seem even hotter. I wonder briefly if his asshole moments were all because of drugs. If he doesn’t remember the pool, does that mean he also forgot our night together? That would really suck.

I’m deep in thought when he interrupts with, “You’re a designer, right? Interior decorating?”

I nod. “Yep.” When he just keeps staring at me, I expound. “I own my own business in Napa.” And, after a moment’s hesitation, I decide to satiate my curiosity. “Did you use Sally Hurst when you opened?”

He nods. “Yeah. Fucking loved what she did with the place. She’s moved to Greece now, but I guess you know that.”

I do. “You should try Marianita Juarez.”

He laughs. “I can’t stand her.”

“I see why.” Marianita is just about as bossy as they come. She’s good, but when she designs a space, she does it her way. I can’t imagine Marchant Radcliffe would like that.

He steps a little closer, doing that thing again—the thing with his eyes. I feel like I’m being hypnotized, so at first it doesn’t even register when he says, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any openings.”

I blink, shocked. “What kind of job?”

“You know…” He swipes his hand back through his hair. “The interior. Everything that burned. Possibly the other two buildings, too. So it all matches.” He’s staring at me earnestly. “I’d pay you well. Put you up in one of the cottages.” He frowns. “I know that might not seem so good, but it won’t be like before. No swimming,” he jokes.

“What about sex?” I’m shocked when the question pops out of my mouth.

He’s surprised, too. His eyebrows lift. “You want sex?”

“Maybe. I mean…yes. I think I would…like that.”

“In lieu of payment?”

I laugh, even though I’m practically shaking with nervousness. “You’re not that good.”

His eyes narrow at that, and I think he’s actually going to argue the point. Instead he says, voice all husky, “What if I can’t stick to just once?”

“I don’t know. I’m not interested in something…serious, but I think I might enjoy a few romps in the…hay.” I smile a little, and feel like I might giggle, because I have no idea what I’m talking about. BITE THE TONGUE! BITE THE– okay. No giggles.

But I do tremble a bit when he steps even closer. “Romp implies something casual. Nothing about this will be casual. I don’t have sex—I fuck. You understand?”

I nod. “Of course I do.” Does he not? What kind of drugs was he doing that he forgot a whole night?

“So let me get this straight. You want to fuck me?”

I blush three shades of pink. “I know, I’m being blunt. It’s not my usual style, but…yes.”

“Think about this,” he warns. “Whether you really want to be here, doing this with me. Because once you commit, you work on my terms.”

“I understand.” I just hope he doesn’t walk out on me the way he did at the hotel. “I’ll go back to the pent house for tonight and let you know tomorrow.”

He’s leaning out his doorway as I go. I already know my answer.

14

MARCHANT

I’ve just swallowed my pills the next morning when I hear the knock. I wonder if it’s Rachelle, coming back for something she forgot, but I get a tingly sixth sense as I stride toward the door. I look down at myself before moving for the knob. I’m wearing battered pajama pants and an equally battered grey undershirt. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough. And it’s not—because my sixth sense was correct. Through the small window at the top of the door, I see Suri Dalton.

She’s gorgeous in a little yellow dress and strappy leather sandals. She’s got on sunglasses I’m pretty sure are Ray-Bans. With her smooth, tanned skin and her pouty, bitable lips, she looks good enough to eat.

I tug the door open, feeling a little like the big, bad wolf. I don’t usually fuck the women on my payroll, but this one came to me.

Still, my conscience stirs; it’s Suri Dalton. She’s beautiful and rich as sin—just about perfect, and she’s throwing off an innocent vibe so strong I can practically smell it. I sort of feel like I’m bro-ing out trying to score with her; like back in my frat days, when the only kind of girl I wanted was the Sunday School Sorority Girl.

On the other hand, Suri Dalton is a grown woman who knows what she wants.

I’m not sure why I’m it—especially when I think about the few hazy things I can remember from the time we’ve spent together—but should I give a shit? I know I’d love to fuck her.

Not for long. No more than a week, and definitely no strings attached. That’s my rule for life, because I would never ask anyone to share my baggage.

I can’t be her friend, either. Too much attraction.

So let’s say I’m taking her on out of curiosity—because I’m curious to see just what she wants from me.

I can already tell it’s gonna suck when the hourglass runs out. I haven’t been with any woman for more than a night—well, consecutively—in years. And Suri isn’t just any woman.

I need to remind myself that this is about sex. She probably sees me as sex personified—she wouldn’t be the first—and wants to pop her stranger-fucking cherry. And I am a stranger to her, thank God. She pulled me from the pool and that’s all. There’s no record of her at the hospital with me. She didn’t see my pitiful state. She sees me as sex.

I peer down at her, already getting hard.

She smiles—a wholesome, winning smile. “I’ll do it. I mean, I’ll take the job.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

I think I see a light blush on her cheeks as she shifts her weight from one sandaled foot to the other. “I don’t have to start today necessarily. In fact, I probably need to go home for a few days and get some of my things. But I wanted to let you know my decision. Also, I’m meeting a team here in about an hour to show them where to look for my grandmother’s ring. I lost it…that night. Which is why I saw the pool,” she tacks on quietly.

I nod. What she means is, that’s how she found me at the bottom of the pool. This morning when I woke up, I remembered a little bit more. Shivering. Getting sick. Feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

Damnit, I’m a mess. I was a mess. I tell myself that shit’s behind me now. I can go back to life the way it used to be. Quiet and solitary; responsible living with the occasional quick fuck. Never anything serious.

And never with anyone who hits me like she does.

I look her over, floored by how fresh and clean she looks. Like sunshine. She tucks a strand of her short, brown-blond hair behind her ear, looking a little uncomfortable, as if she can sense my scrutiny. I offer her a small smile. “Do you want some coffee? Waffles?”

I’m feeling more clear-headed today, so my heart pounds slightly as I wait for her answer. It’s strange; nerves. Like I’m a 15-year-old virgin again. I had my first post-hospital boner this morning, and it was all for her. The fantasy of sweet Suri, sucking my cock with a cherry red condom on it.

“Sure,” she says finally. “I’d like that.”

I swing the door open. “Come on in.”

I think about my house as she follows me through the open living area into the kitchen. Most people who see the place are surprised by how cozy it is. Two fluffy couches in the den, a big, oak chifferobe to hide my flatscreen. Built-in shelves filled with books and other shit I hang onto. The funniest thing: Unlike the main house and the other two manor houses, I decorated this place myself. And I don’t go for that sleek, shiny shit like Hunter does. I like to be comfortable.

The kitchen is done in various shades of brown and beige and wood, with a deep red, cherrywood breakfast table. I’m not much of a cook, but I like to try sometimes, so I’ve got pots and skillets hanging above a small island.

I’ve already got the waffle mix whipped up, because now that I’m mostly just back to my Lithium, I expect to be hungrier. I need the weight if I’m going to get back to the gym. And I am. I need the work outs to keep me level.

I pull out a chair for Suri Dalton, and she sits in one elegant motion. She looks up at me, smiling like I’ve done something funny. “You cook,” she says. “Like Hunter. I’m surprised.”

I laugh at that as I move around the kitchen. “No. Bro can cook. I just fuck around in the kitchen.”

“That looks like a real waffle iron to me.”

“Rachelle,” I say, and belatedly realize she doesn’t know what that means. “She won this at a charity raffle. The one she had at home was nicer, so she gave it to me.” I wave in a kind of general way around the kitchen. “I get a lot of her castoffs.”

“Sounds nice.” At first I think she might be sarcastic, but when I look up at her, she seems sincere. I wonder if she likes to cook, but I won’t ask.

I pour some batter into the iron and prep two plates with some fruit Rachelle actually did cut and bring over.

“Milk, Orange juice, or apple?” I ask her as I close the iron and turn to the refrigerator.

“Apple, thanks.”

I pour her juice, plus some water for myself, and glance over at her as she sits there watching me, all prim and pretty. Prim doesn’t really do her justice, though. She’s not prim. She’s more like…put-together. Neatly put-together and kind of…elegant.

She leans forward over the table, distracting me from my thoughts with a hint of cleavage. “So I want to know some more about you. Now that you’re my client and all. And I’d like to know a little bit about the history of this place.”

My chest squeezes as I think about all the shit that burned. The cheesy, framed first dollar that I made. The ribbon from our ribbon-cutting at the original brothel, on the Strip. A bunch of pictures of escorts who’ve worked here. I wish I wasn’t so fucking sentimental.

The waffle hisses a little, so I open the iron and drop it out onto a plate. I’m buttering the thing when I realize I’m not sure how she likes it, and anyway…didn’t she ask me something? I gather the syrup and the butter, plus some silverware, and try to remember what she asked. I feel better today—more like me—but I’m still kind of foggy.

I set the plate down in front of her, set the silverware where it should go, and turn around to grab a napkin.

Oh…the ranch! And me, I think wryly.

I turn back to her with my best poker face. “The truth is, I always did like orgies, so I decided to form my own personal harem.”

I watch her heart-shaped face carefully, focusing on her eyes, because I expect them to get wide. She holds her cards close, though, so the only way I know that she’s unsure of whether to believe me is the tiny twitch at the side of her mouth.

“Really, though,” she says, pouring syrup over her waffle, “how does one decide to be a pimp?”

“I’m not a pimp,” I tell her. “I consider myself a business man, but if that doesn’t sit well with you, think of me as a mack.”

Now her eyes narrow: hazel, framed by long, thick lashes, topped by thin, elegant brows. “What’s a mack?”

I drop down into the seat across from her and rest my forearms on the table. “A mack works for the girk. Keeps her—or in my case, her and him—safe. Makes sure clients pay up. A pimp makes sure the escort pays up. Rents her out.” I shake my head. “Everybody who works here wants to, and they make a fuck lot of money doing it.”

Suri considers this as she chews her waffle, then smiles up at me. Her smile is so damn sweet. I want to kiss her. “I can maybe accept that,” she says. “And I love the waffle. You do cook.”

“Maybe?” I smirk. “Do I look like a pimp to you?”

She laughs as looks me up and down, blatant enough so my cock twitches. “I think the waffle iron might have pushed you more into the mack camp.”

“I’m a mack. I’m telling you.” She licks her lip and I get up from the table. I’ll never lose my boner if I don’t put some distance between us. I angle my body so she can’t see me from the front, then hide behind part of the counter as I pour more batter into the waffle iron that’s resting on my little island.

I look over my shoulder at her. “One of my chick friends in college was a stripper. Never had good bosses, always got a bunch of shit. She told me it was better out in Vegas, or at least that’s what she heard. With it being legal and all, there are rules. A lot of rules,” I say dryly. “I was majoring in business and English, and I thought it sounded like a decent idea. A different kind of brothel. Classy. Clean. Safe. Hunter fronted me the money.” I don’t tell her how I also invested most of my parents’ life insurance. I don’t like to talk about my parents.

“Turned out—” I tap my head– “I’ve got a head for business. And I try to make it a fun work environment.”

“Selling their bodies for sex?” She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “No offense, but how can you make that a fun experience?”

I shrug. “Healthcare. Movie Nights. A movie theatre. Security. Free iPhones. They screen their own clients and accept or decline whoever they like. At least at the ranch they do. The Strip location works more like a typical brothel—mostly a bunch of bachelor parties and high school dudes and basement dwellers stepping out from behind a game console for a few hours.” I throw a sidelong glance at her and wink. “I’ve even got a company shrink out here. A gym, sauna, salon. It’s not such a bad place.”

She gives me an unreadable look, and I shake my head. “And still, the lady doth protest.”

“It’s not that.” She shrugs one bare shoulder. “I just think it’s weird.”

“It is, I guess. But it’s a service that’s in demand. That’s not changing.”

“It’s made you a good living,” she says thoughtfully.

Yeah, it has, but I shrug. “I guess.”

“Do you enjoy it?” she asks before biting a strawberry in half.

“I do, mostly. It’s a lot like running a hotel—or at least I imagine it is. You’ve gotta focus on the client. The experience.”

Her cheeks redden at the word experience, and it hits me like a fucking asteroid. I remember everything. Suri’s face inside the ambulance. Suri at the hospital. I remember pulling her into my hotel room and—

“Jesus Christ.” I wheel around, leaning on the island, and grab my head. My legs feel weak. For a moment, it’s a struggle just to breathe.

“Marchant? Are you okay?” She’s on her feet. Probably about to come over here. I can’t take it, so I whirl around. “I’m fine,” I snap. “Sit down.”

Oh, fuck. I fucked Suri Dalton—fucked her hard—and I left her there alone. I rub my face and flinch when I smell the waffle burning. I pull it out and toss it on a plate.

I turn to her. “Why are you here?” I snarl. “Are you stupid? Or do you like being treated like a whore?”

Her mouth drops, and her face reddens. She’s shocked, angry, insulted. “I thought it would be a fun job. Is that a problem? What is wrong with you?”

“Why do you want to sleep with me again?”

“I want to fuck you,” she corrects.

“Fuck.” What’s wrong with her? I tug at my hair.

“You’re acting weird. Like you’re pissed. Was that another thing that you forgot?” She looks disappointed.

I don’t address that—the part about me forgetting. I figure I look crazy enough without confirming her suspicions. “Not pissed. Fucking confused. What about that night appealed to you? What made you want to do that again?”

“…I don’t know,” she murmurs. She’s looking down at her perfect manicure. Her eyes collide with mine. “I wanted to get to know you more, I guess. The attraction—the chemistry– It’s clearly there. Don’t try to say it’s not, because I won’t believe it. You didn’t treat me like a whore. We had rough sex, which I liked.” She shrugs. “Anyway, why are you asking all these questions now?”

“What does it matter?” I snap.

“Marchant,” she says gently, “do you have a drug problem?”

“Did I tell you that I did?”

Her eyes widen. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

“No. I’m not. I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the island again. God, I need to get myself together. I stand up straight and turn to face her. “Suri…I think this is a bad idea. You being here.”

“But you’re the one who—”

“I know, but look—I changed my mind.”

She’s up from the table in an instant. Her hair falls in layers around her face, and her hazel eyes look red and watery. “Was it that bad?”

“No. Jesus, no. Not at all. I don’t remember very clearly, but I don’t need to. You’re goddamn beautiful and I’m just sorry that I left you there.”

“You have a drug problem,” she says slowly.

“Yes,” I tell her grimly, hoping this will send her on her way. I open my mouth to tell her I’m a wicked bastard—good for no one. Just ask Marissa.

“Were you in rehab recently?”

“I was,” I say.

“So you were on drugs that night? The night of the fire?”

“Yes,” I lie. A drug problem is better than a mental problem, isn’t it?

“And now you’re clean?”

“That’s none of your business,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be nosey. I just…want to help.”

It’s something about that. Something about the way her face goes soft and caring. I just can’t take it.

“If you stay, you stay on my terms.”

“We already said that. Yesterday. I’m fine with that.”

My frustration multiplies. I wave at the door. “Go. Find someone else.” This won’t be the emotionless fuck-fest I’d imagined for us. Not now that I know she saw me sniveling about needles. Not when she saw me getting all teary on the bed at the hotel because the smooth lines of her soft body reminded me of Marissa.

“Go,” I tell her. “I don’t want you here.”

She walks close to me, so close I can smell her syrupy breath. She runs a finger over my lip, and I go so still.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Stupid,” I say.

I lift her in my arms to carry her to the door. Because I’m humiliated. Because I feel something for her—because she saw me in that state and she came back.

Halfway across the den, she wraps her arms around my neck and rests her forehead on my chest. I divert toward my bedroom.