Unmaking Marchant

  And it fits—because I am.

  *

  SURI

  The first thing I think: There’s something wrong with him. The guy kicking ass in the tuxedo is too frenzied, too fast, too reckless.

  He seems completely unafraid as he takes the big guys—obviously body guards—to the ground. The little guys has a gun, and just as I think I’m going to be witness to a murder, the guy in the tuxedo is on him, and the gun falls into the grass.

  The little guy goes down like a rag doll, and Tuxedo Ass-Kicker drops on top of him and pounds his face with a gusto that’s almost scary. Scratch that: It’s definitely scary.

  I press my back against the ivy-swathed brick wall that helps create the garden-like façade of the atrium. Blood is everywhere now; all over the thick green grass, coating Scrawny’s face, staining Ass-Kicker’s fists. I’ve never seen so much blood in all my life, not even the night Adam knocked my tooth out.

  Finally, Scrawny’s nose starts spraying—literally, spraying blood like a faucet. That makes my stomach lurch. It wakes me up. I fist my hands and lean forward. “Stop it!”

  Ass-Kicker doesn’t even flinch.

  “Stop right now!”

  I take a hesitant step toward them as my ears are filled with the awful sound of bone crunching. When Ass-Kicker doesn’t respond, I rush up to him, throw my arms over his broad shoulders, and shriek right in his ear.

  The hand that’s punching Scrawny slings my way—lightning fast, before returning to Scrawny’s face. A few of the knuckles catch me in the cheek hard enough to knock me off his back. I land in the grass, clutching my face as tears fill my eyes.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper as Ass-Kicker’s gaze finds mine. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open. “Jesus, baby. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re going to kill him!” I scramble to my feet and run toward the door that leads back to the casino’s hallway, but I’ve only taken a few steps when sirens start to wail. Not sirens like an ambulance, but sirens like an alarm system. I’m frozen mid-step when a heavy arm locks around my waist. A deep voice purrs in my ear, “I’ll show you the party.”

  The siren, accompanied by flashing red lights, is definitely of the security type. One of the cameras must have seen the fight.

  Or me. I did run away from someone claiming to be a security guard, after all.

  I tense, imagining scenarios as terrible as getting kidnapped or splashed across the inside pages of a tabloid, and the guy’s grip on me gentles. “I’m a good guy. Swear.”

  Then he tugs me through the door, into the casino. I see a flash of light—red light, coming from chandeliers—and then I glimpse the security guard I escaped from. His dark eyes widen and his mouth pulls open into a snarl. “Ma’am—” he growls, and before he can get another word out, I am jerked in the opposite direction.

  I’m moving because Ass-Kicker is pulling me. He’s pushing me. He’s bloody and he’s gorgeous and he’s trouble. I should run the opposite way, but Ass-Kicker seems to know where he’s going—and I’m clueless.

  We run through a few card parlors and down several crowded halls, up two sets of stairs and into a sleeker, quieter hall before he tugs me into a bathroom that looks more like a formal dressing room.

  I’m not sure who drops whose hand, but suddenly I’m just standing there panting, in between a long, Victorian-style burgundy sofa pushed against one wall and a row of clam-shaped, white marble sinks topped with oversized King Edward mirrors on the opposite wall. The bathroom is empty, so my frantic breaths echo off the mahogany stalls.

  I reach down to tug off one of my flats, which has given me a blister, and when I look back up, I find him slumped against one of the sinks, drained of that fierce animation that made him seem like a super-hero—or super-villain—just a minute ago. In fact, he looks tired enough to pass out. As I roll my gaze up and down his body, focusing for a moment on his familiar-looking face, his brown eyes rise to mine.

  “You okay?” he asks, in that low, rough voice of his.

  I frown, half because his voice is just so sexy; half because I’m not sure what he’s referencing. He waves at his eye and it clicks. He hit me. Right.

  I step to the sink beside him and look in the mirror, surprised to find there’s not even a bruise. The area around my left cheek bone is a little puffy and a little red, but nothing to throw engagement rings about.

  Still— “I must be crazy to have run in here with you.”

  He frowns, looking almost insulted. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “I just saw you try to beat some guy to death!”

  He shrugs. “No, not to death.” His eyes bore into mine. “He started it, too.”

  So he was defending himself. And enjoying it.

  I should leave, because this guy is obviously, I don’t know—I guess the only obvious thing is that he’s bad news—but instead I lean my exhausted body against the sink. I’m sweaty and I’m still buzzed and still a little worried that the sirens going off were meant for me.

  I don’t think I did anything wrong, but clearly, security disagrees. The guard with the fuzzy eyebrows was hunting me. Unless he’s not really a guard. What if he’s not a guard? What if he’s a kidnapper?

  I take a deep breath.

  Unlikely.

  Just as I tell myself I’m going to make the rational decision and leave, my antihero straightens to his full, impressive height, strips his coat off, and tugs the pearly cuff links off his sleeves. He pushes them up, revealing thick forearms, and pumps some soap into one of his bloodstained palms.

  I know his wrists and hands are red because he just kicked ass like a thug, but that doesn’t prevent me being mesmerized by them. They’re big and thick and slightly square, and they seem like competent hands. He’s got them washed and dried on one of the casino’s monogrammed towels within seconds, but after that his eyes flick up to the mirror, and I guess he notices at the same time I do that his crisp dress shirt is bloodstained, too.

  He unbuttons it, and as I get the first peek at his deliciously ripped chest, I feel my cheeks color. I turn around to wash my hands as well. They don’t need washing, but now that he’s half undressed, I feel shy about walking past him to the door. Why have I stayed so long, anyway? Just to ogle him? How embarrassing.

  I glance back over at him as I grab a towel, and I realize he really is beautiful: a living, breathing statue come to life. My eyes are drawn to his throat. It’s thick and smooth and neatly shaven, in contrast to his lightly bearded face.

  His face, I notice, looks kind of tight; his eyes troubled.

  “Why’d you do that to that guy? I mean…how did it get started?

  His mouth presses into a solemn line, then twists into a bitter scowl. “That guy’s an ass. And he was the one who started it.”

  I almost laugh, because what he said sounds so eighth grade. Then he leans over the sink and splashes water up his arms and on his chest, and suddenly he seems much more adult.

  I realize that I’m being obvious, but it’s too late. He turns the sink off, wipes his arms and chest with a towel, and looks right at me.

  Since I’ve already embarrassed myself, and I’m still kind of drunk, I steal one final glance at him, looking for tattoos or piercings: anything that gives even a little bit more info about who he is. At first I see nothing but his beautiful skin and well-honed body. Then I notice something dark along his side—a vertical scroll of text just over his hip.

  I crane my neck a little, and the text jumps out at me: MARCH 15, 2007.

  March 15 is the day I broke things off with Adam. I wonder what it means for him. Probably something sad. Why else would someone have a date tattooed on their body? Unless it’s something good.

  His eyes, when I look back up at them, seem slightly unfocused, but he doesn’t seem to be on drugs or anything. Maybe he’s a nice guy with a thousand friends. A nice guy just having a bad night. His suit looks bespoke and his shoes look like Berluti Derbys. He dresses like a guy who could
even run in Hunter’s circle. The thought rings a soft bell inside my fuzzy head, and suddenly I get the feeling that maybe I should know him…but that’s impossible. Right?

  My eyes gravitate to his rock solid pecs, but I jerk my gaze back up and frown at him. “Do you get in fights a lot?”

  He rubs his forehead. “Only lately.”

  “You need to be more careful.” That would be Mother Suri, who comes out at times of injury/sadness. He doesn’t protest.

  “I was careful.” He pulls something small and metallic from his pocket and sets it in the sink. “Didn’t use that, did I?”

  My blood runs cold. “Oh my God, you had a gun?”

  His brow tightens. “Lots of people have guns.”

  “I guess so.” I look at the door, wondering how fast I can get out the door while at the same time trying to puzzle what it is about this guy.

  It’s a familiar feeling. Maybe I don’t know him, but something about him feels very familiar. Or maybe it’s simply how he makes me feel. He’s clearly a mess, and that makes me feel needed. Kind of how I felt with Cross recently, as he’s recuperating.

  Who else was a mess? Adam.

  I tilt my head a little, wondering if I’ve suddenly developed a fetish for men with issues. First, I was in a decade-long relationship with a guy who became an alcoholic—and a mean one, at that—and now I find myself getting hot for a guy who just got into a casino fight? Do I think I don’t deserve a ‘nice’ guy?

  But no.

  I can tell right away that that’s not it.

  Adam was a nice guy, until he wasn’t. And this guy…I want to lip-lock someone like this dude, a brawny badass, just so I can turn and walk away. So I can be the badass.

  I could kiss him, I think. Take him by surprise and kiss him once, deep, and then ZIP out the door, and I’d be on his mind for the rest of the night.

  I assess his face. It’s a strong face—a sportsman’s face—with a square jaw, a gladiator’s nose, a short beard, and those deep brown eyes topped by strong brows. His hair is slightly messy, and it’s hard to name a color: brown, blond, red?

  He takes two steps closer to me, and I know I should probably hit the door and run from my weird, slutty impulse, but that chest. God, that chest is just amazing. It’s freaking…Spartan. I’m shocked to find that I feel heavy, achy, damp between my legs. I tense my muscles there and the feeling spreads.

  “You should go now,” I tell him, but my voice cracks on the word “go.”

  This seems to catch his attention. He raises one brow. “You sure?”

  I nod, and he turns away, toward the door. My eyes cling to his back—it’s sleek, gym-ripped, and slightly tanned—and immediately, I feel a sinking sense of loss. This is a good thing, I start to tell myself.

  And then he turns around. He grabs one arm of the couch and pushes it in front of the door, then turns to me. My mind fast-forwards. I can feel him stepping toward me before he even moves—and then he does. He is. He’s within reaching distance, and his arms are going around me, pulling me to that chest, where I can feel the raw, pure heat of him.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, thumbing my short, highlighted hair out of my face. “I saw you earlier…walking down the hall. God…this ass.” He squeezes it, bringing my hips flush with his strong thighs. I shut my eyes as his mouth covers mine, caressing then pulling away. His forehead touches mine, and he stares down at me.

  “Your lips make me feel…well,” he whispers, and as I’m wondering what exactly that means, he kisses me under my ear, along my neck, just where I’ve always liked it best.

  His hands skate down my belly, playing with the waist of my jeans. Alarm bells peel in my head, but his mouth knows the code. I’m surprised to find my own hands pulling him closer.

  “Oh, God.” I want this, too. This…abandon.

  His hands are in my shirt now, crawling up my belly, sneaking underneath my bra, gently skimming my breasts. I look into his face, opening my mouth to say I’m not sure what, but I find nothing but reverence in his features. Reverence and the kind of need that makes no sense, considering we’ve never even met.

  His nimble fingers take care of my jeans button while his other hand continues stroking my breast. His hand is in my pants. I’m holding onto his hips. My eyes slip shut as his mouth worships my throat. He smells like shaving cream and…male.

  “Not Adam,” I whisper. Or Cross.

  “No.” He smiles, then lifts me up onto the nearest sink, where he spreads my legs, pushes my jeans down, and finds me underneath my lilac thong. His finger strokes me up and down. It feels amazing. I’m already wet.

  “This is crazy,” I gasp.

  “I like crazy.”

  I guess New Suri does, too, because I let him finger me. While his deft hand makes me gasp, I hook my leg around his waist and pull him closer—close enough so I can rub him through the soft material of his slacks. He’s hard and…huge. Like whoa huge. I can feel the head of him so well, even through his pants. I fold my hand around it, stroking down his length, and he’s stretching his fingers inside me, and oh man, he’s got the right spot. I am shaking, panting, clenching, coming apart to the sound of his low, wicked laugh. By the time I have the wherewithal to look up into his brown eyes, I’m desperate to have him inside of me.

  Then my hand around him pumps once more, and I watch his face tighten. He gives a low grunt, brown eyes closing, body slackening, and…

  Oh my God! He’s going to need another pair of slacks.

  His eyes flutter open, and he laughs, low and quiet, almost like he’s embarrassed.

  I gawk at him. “Who are you?”

  He grins, totally lazy, dominant male. “A guy with a penthouse. We can get to know each other better there.”

  I look down at myself, at my unbuttoned jeans, my still-trembling legs, my frisky hands—and I feel like Cinderella must have when the clock struck midnight. I meet his eyes—hypnotic eyes. “I- I can’t go with you. I’ve got to find my friends.” And my purse, I realize. Holy crap, I lost my bag! That must be why I was getting chased! My purse is so enormous…maybe they thought I was trying to leave a bomb or something. I probably looked even sketchier after I asked for Hunter. He’s kind of a high-profile guy.

  I slide off the sink, and my mystery man is there to catch me when my legs wobble. Looking at my face, into my eyes. Buttoning my jeans. I’m astonished when he sinks down to his knees and kisses me again, through my blue jeans.

  “Beautiful woman.” He grins up at me, then gets back to his feet. “Can I walk you somewhere?”

  I look down at where he’s laced his hand through mine. It feels…good. Too good, considering. I pull my fingers out of his and shake my head. “No. No—thank you.”

  I step toward the door, unable to tear my eyes away from him as he turns the sink on, splashing himself on his torso and lower on his pants legs to disguise the stain near his...

  My face burns. I’m not some girl who messes around with strangers in casinos. I’ve never even had an orgasm from anyone else’s hand but Adam’s. Well, except my own.

  Something about that thought brings tears to my eyes. The stranger is washing his hands again, drying them roughly with a monogrammed towel, and I realize I’ve missed so much in my time with Adam. We lost any semblance of spontaneity—any shred of lust or adoration—before we finished high school, and since then…since then we’ve just been drifting. I’m drifting.

  The stranger’s eyes find mine, and twin tears fall down my cheeks. I don’t even know this guy, but I know I need someone like him. Someone who will make me feel. Someone who can’t keep his hands off me.

  This man, as his eyes hold mine…he seems to understand. He steps slowly to me, strokes my cheek. His eyes are so raw and real, I’m sure he sees right through me, down into the pitiful depths of my self-doubt. “There’s nothing to feel bad about, okay?”

  I nod—except I’m remembering what happened with Cross. The humiliating rebound attempt that
probably wrecked our friendship.

  Shameful tears fill my eyes as I turn and push through the bathroom door. Do I need affection so badly that I’ll let myself get intimate in a casino bathroom?

  I wipe my hand over my eyes, looking down at the glossy hallway floor and moving as quickly as I can when I hear someone say, “Suri!”

  I jump as I slam into something, and there is Lizzy, dressed in skinny jeans, a giant beige sweater, and charcoal Chucks. She looks pink-cheeked and beautiful.

  “Oh my God, Suri! Are you okay?”

  I wipe my eyes and nod. “I lost my purse and security acted bizarre, and I didn’t believe the guy was really security; I thought he was a kidnapper, so I ended up running off.” I roll my eyes at myself. “It’s a sad, pathetic story—” and that’s not even telling half of it. I sigh softly. “Where were you when I called?”

  “I’m so sorry, I fell asleep!”

  Lizzy looks nervous, but before I can ask why, Hunter appears behind her, and he has my purse.

  “Hunter. Thank you.”

  “The casino’s director of resident operations said to tell you he’s sorry about the misunderstanding. Whatever that means.”

  “I understand.” I squeeze my eyes shut. I guess that’s what I get for name-dropping.

  I take the purse and Hunter frowns at Lizzy, then me.

  Lizzy’s face goes serious—that plastic, frozen kind of serious that always makes my blood run cold.

  “Is something wrong?” I frown at Hunter, who’s wearing a Lakers cap and a t-shirt. “I thought you had a fundraiser tonight…”

  Lizzy turns to me and takes my hands, and my stomach clenches. “Suri, Cross is in the hospital—in El Paso.”

  “What?”

  “You know how he was down in Mexico for that motorcycle convention? Well, apparently he got into another accident. But don’t worry, it’s not—”

  “Oh my God. Is he okay?” My voice cracks, and tears fill my eyes so rapidly I can’t see Lizzy’s face.

  “It’s okay, Suri. A nurse called Love Inc. looking for Marchant, who isn’t there, and when Rachelle didn’t get Marchant, she tried Hunter.”