The Surrender Gate: A Desire Exchange Novel

  “I’ve got motion control on the cameras here,” Marcus manages. “Turn the lenses if there’s something you don’t want to see. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “You think I’m gonna be able to look away once the crazy starts?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Look, as far as I’m concerned,” Marcus says, “the test is the creepiest part of this whole thing, so—”

  “Wait, really? What do you think they’re going to make them do?”

  “They’re not going to make them do a goddamn thing!” Marcus barks. “She’ll do what she wants and that’s it. If any of those weirdoes tries to force anything on her, I will fucking bowl with their skulls.”

  “Wow. That’s dedication to the job, man. Gotta say, though. Not sure I’m that committed to my charge, if you get my drift.”

  “Jonathan’s a six-foot-three tower of muscle. He can defend himself.”

  He also gets paid to have sex with strangers for a living, Marcus thinks.

  “I don’t doubt it. We’ve got our SIGs just in case, right? But honestly, you think there’s any chance Prince Benoit’s gonna show up to either of these tests?”

  “Well, Jonathan has a copy of Arthur’s letter too, just in case.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was just asking what you thought the chances were. ’Cause that would sure make our job easier. I don't want to find out how many more shopping bags I can fit on one arm here.”

  “Shopping? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, apparently this little gig comes with a nice stipend for them. I haven’t seen this much cash since I watched Scarface.”

  “Nobody gave me any cash for Emily.”

  “Lily Conran, you mean?”

  “You sure he didn’t bring it with him? Guy’s got pretty loyal clients, from what I hear. One of them got us into this whole mess.”

  “Nope. There was an envelope in the townhouse with Leonard Miller’s name on it. I know, ’cause he asked me about it.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe she found hers and didn’t mention it.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Really. Why? It’s all gonna be hers soon enough.”

  “Shopping. He took you shopping. Weren’t you in the Marines?”

  “A sniper. I was a sniper in the Marines and now I’m standing outside of Christian Lowbootin holding his bags.”

  “Lou bah taun,” Marcus corrects him.

  “What?”

  “The designer. It’s Christian Lou bah taun.”

  “Seriously? You’re correcting me on this, Special Ops?”

  “Last girl I was with, she was into nice things.”

  Like the ten million she needed to steal from her dad, but not before setting me up for the crime. But I’m only talking about that at least once every forty-eight hours and you don’t know me well enough yet, Dupuy.

  “Put Jonathan on the phone,” Marcus says.

  “Yeah, we kinda covered that, Dylan.”

  “I’ll deal with the fallout, but there’s not going to be any because I’m not going to say anything to Arthur about it. Are you?”

  “No, but Leonard might, if you shoot off your mouth. You get my drift?”

  “I’m sorry. That’s a drift? Felt more like…I don’t know…dragon’s breath. Right in my face.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “People are asking me that a lot today.”

  “Look, I wasn’t one of those college douchebags who went around talking about how sexuality was fluid. I think women are great and so I spare them the sight of my limp dick by not getting naked with them.”

  “Did you just ask me if I was drunk?”

  “Blind man could see there’s something weird going on with her and the two of you, and I ain’t getting in the middle of it.”

  “Weird? Really? I’m the weird one here?”

  “You have a problem with the women you’re supposed to protect, Marcus. Sorry to be all Chief Justice about it, but it’s not a secret around these parts, and to be blunt, I love that son of a bitch we work for. Sure, he’s kinda nuts and his ego’s the size of Texas. But if he hadn’t hired me when he did, I’d be on a barstool somewhere boring the shit out of people with my war stories and pretending not to drool over the busboy. You get me?”

  “No.”

  “This might be the last job I do for Arthur and I’m not gonna let it get fucked up.”

  I really should have taken a nap.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dupuy says suddenly. “These shoes he’s trying on. They’re like two porcupines stuck in quicksilver. Am I having a stroke?”

  “The letter…”

  “What about the letter?”

  “Did he read it?”

  “No. The thing’s sealed and it’s got the old man’s handwriting on the envelope so Ryan will know it’s legit.”

  Same story as Emily’s copy.

  Maybe he is drunk. Because what he wants to do right then is drive back to the house, find the envelope, tear it open and use whatever confession or apology is inside to hopscotch them past this Desire Exchange bullshit. For fuck’s sake, why didn’t Arthur hire his security team to find Ryan in the first place? Why make Emily do it?

  Because whatever it is, whatever went wrong between them, it’s bad. Real bad. Bad enough that Ryan will vanish into the wind if he gets word his father’s trying to contact him. And this is the man’s last chance to get within a stone’s throw of his only child.

  “Dylan…no offense, man, but didn’t you do all kinds of fucked up shit in the Middle East? I figured this would just be a beach vacation for you.”

  “Put him on the phone, man. And I’ll owe you. Big.”

  “You’re not my type.”

  “I’m not gonna make him run crying to Arthur. There’s…just. There’s just some stuff I need to know.”

  Dupuy’s breath turns into a whistle between his front teeth. “Fuck, man. Hold on.”

  “Is she alright?” Jonathan asks ten minutes later. Ten minutes, Marcus assumes, is how long it took Leonard Miller to buy ridiculous overpriced shoes with Arthur’s money.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay…”

  “If I wait for her, are you going to make problems for me?”

  There’s a shocked silence from Jonathan. Marcus hears foot traffic and canned music. It sounds like they’re in some outdoor shopping center. Maybe he’s standing in one place, trying to get his bearings back.

  “Wait for her? What do you…I don’t…”

  “If I tell her no matter what I have to watch her do, no matter who I have to watch her do it with, that I’ll be right here, waiting, ready to start something with her when all of this over, are you gonna get in my way?”

  “So you’re asking for my blessing? Is that it?”

  “No. I’m asking if you’re gonna keep your hands off her when this thing is over.”

  “When she’s one of the richest women in the country, you mean.”

  “Don’t even. Not for a minute.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “I’m not sitting here going out of my mind over the smell of her perfume because I’m some gold digger. She’s…”

  “What? She’s what?”

  “If I wrote songs, I’d have written five about her already.”

  “But you don’t write songs.”

  “Can’t sing.”

  “You don’t need to be able to sing to write a song.”

  “Look, I just don’t fucking write songs, alright. It’s a figure of speech.”

  “So this is hard for you? Having feelings for someone?”

  “Who’s it easy for? You? Do you have some great relationship history I’m not aware of?”

  “There’s a lot about me you aren’t aware of.”

  “Which brings me back to my original question…”

  “Look, if this place turns out to be some weird sex club and it’s a choic
e between letting some sleaze put his hands all over her or me stepping in, playing the part so we don’t lose our access to Ryan, you’re gonna wish it was me, Marcus.”

  “I’m talking about after The Desire Exchange, not when you’re…in it. None of that will count.”

  “Why wait, friend? Go for it. You’ve got her now. She’s all yours. Make your mark.”

  “I don’t share.”

  “Lord. Straight people. Ruining sex one phone call at a time.”

  “We’re not talking about sex here.”

  “We’re not?”

  “I want more than that from her. That’s what we’re talking about. We’re talking about her head, her mind, and your ability to mess with it if you touch her in the right place.”

  “She’s not a child, Marcus.”

  “No, but you are.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You use your body to get what you want, but you don’t know what you really want so it’s all body, all the time with you. And shoes. You like shoes apparently.”

  “You’re doling out a lot of insight for someone who doesn’t know me very well.”

  “I knew someone just like you and—”

  “That’s not possible for you to say because you don’t know me. So just stop right there before you compare me to some ex-girlfriend, or your sister who likes to shop and fuck a lot, or the one gay guy who used to train at your gym.”

  “I guess you’re right. I don’t know you very well. Maybe that’s why I’m afraid of you.”

  “Afraid of me? Seriously?”

  “I can hear you in her voice. I can see the power you have over her.”

  “I’m her best friend, Marcus. I’ve been her best friend since we were children. That’s never going away. No matter what happens. I’m never just going to toss her to the wind. She’s too…”

  “…amazing,” Marcus finishes for him.

  “That’s a good start, yeah. Look. Whatever happened between us this past week, she put the kibosh on it two nights ago, before we left. We even spent the night together in the same bed, fully clothed. G-rated from start to finish, okay? So relax.”

  “She put the kibosh on it but you didn’t. You’re still leaving it open and she knows that and I can tell she knows that and she’s not going to be done with you unless you’re done.”

  “Has she said any of this?”

  “No, I can tell. Part of her isn’t here. It’s with you.”

  “It’s not with me, Marcus. That’s just the way she is.”

  “I asked her if she thought she could change you and she wouldn’t answer.”

  “Because she overthinks everything. That’s the way she…”

  “What?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this…” he mutters, then there’s a long silence, and Marcus can imagine Dupuy staring Jonathan up and down from a safe distance, trying to determine if Marcus broke his promise by upsetting the guy too much. “Her father was a good man, but he was a cop and cops bring their shit home no matter how hard they try not to. Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t abusive or a drunk or anything like that. But, he made her so afraid of everything. In their house, being smart meant being scared all the time. And I was the joker. I brought the fun. That was my role. But it’s not like I could change the way they were. But, for Christ’s sake, she was valedictorian of our high school class and she’s been working in a restaurant now…for how long?”

  “She quit a few days ago,” Marcus adds.

  “Right, but if this whole thing with Arthur hadn't happened, she’d be working there for another ten years. I mean, it wasn’t a surprise for me. I was a party boy who slept around a lot. But Emily wrote papers in college her professors wanted to publish, but she wouldn’t let them. Because her dad was a good man who taught her how to defend herself in a dark alley and how to show up and honor her commitments, but he scared her out of risking anything.

  “She’s capable of such amazing things. Everyone around her knows it. Everyone. But whenever there’s an opportunity, whenever there’s a new man, she thinks it to death and by the time she’s done thinking, it’s gone. Or he’s gone. And to be honest, it’s starting to look like a strategy, if you ask me. Hell, maybe that’s why Arthur’s leaving her everything. Maybe he hopes his money will take away all the fear her dad left her with.

  “But my point, Marcus, is that the part of her that’s not there with you has never been there with me either. She’s too busy trying to figure out what she should want, and it makes her forget what she does want. I can’t touch that part of her. And I sure as hell didn’t touch it during our one whole night together, all right? But if you can…if you’re the man she wants, Marcus. If you’re the man she can finally try for, then I will move mountains to get out of your way. But, I swear to God, if you ever treat her like anything less than the queen that she is, I will be the hell on your earth.”

  There’s a scraping sound against the phone before Marcus can say anything else, and then Frank Dupuy says, “Well, that sounded really peaceful.”

  “We’re cool.”

  “Kid seems pretty riled up.”

  “He’s an emotional guy.”

  “He wasn’t until you called.”

  “We’re cool, Dupuy. Relax.”

  “If we have to keep shoe shopping over this…I swear to God.”

  It takes Marcus a few seconds to realize Dupuy just hung up on him.

  14

  Marcus isn’t sure who he’s talking to. It’s either Tyler or Chase. Both of them are guardhouse guys back at Magnolia Gate. Both of them were Recon Marines and both have those twangy East Texas accents that make them impossible to tell apart on the phone.

  But it doesn’t matter who the voice in his ear belongs to right now. What matters are the man’s assurances; no one went near the beach house during Marcus’s absence. And what matters even more than that, apparently, is that Marcus finds the perfect height for his cushy desk chair. For some reason, he can’t stop playing with the adjustment no matter how hard he tries to focus on the guard’s words. He figures it’s his body’s reflexive way of keeping him from passing out face down on the table in front of him.

  Thank God he’s allowed to keep the trailer’s cooling going after he leaves; otherwise the tiny bulletproof box would be a sauna by now. Four CPU towers and twenty-seven flat screen monitors make for a lot of heat in a small space. That’s why the tech guys ordered him to always run the ductless AC at seventy degrees, tops. He doubts, however, Arthur’s computer geniuses factored in the body heat he gives off watching several different angles of Emily’s every slinky move, so he’s been running it at sixty-eight just to be safe.

  The displays are color and HD, some of the best money can buy, and they’re organized into three banks of nine—one bank for upstairs, one for downstairs, and one for all the exterior views on the house, including the walkway to the beach. Each bank is at a slight angle with one next to it, like the components of a church altarpiece. The setup is designed to ensure sudden motion in one bank of screens will show up in the corner of his eye even when he’s studying another bank. But the way he’s watching bright sunlight pool in Emily’s luscious cleavage as she moves through the kitchen, it’s doubtful he’d notice a murderous, marauding clown waving a bloody knife in front of one of the other cameras.

  Emily is shelving groceries, groceries she insisted they stop to buy on their way back from The Shore Club, despite Marcus’s insistence that a woman as rich as Lily Conran would never be seen out in public buying her own groceries.

  Also, wasn’t the house fully stocked when they arrived? Wasn’t there anything in the cabinets she could snack on?

  Not Wheat Thins and sliced salami, apparently.

  God forbid anyone should have to go a day without Wheat Thins and sliced salami.

  “Not even any birds,” the voice on the other end of the line says.

  “Birds?”

  “You know, like on the roof? We didn’t even see an
y birds land on the roof. Hey, you tired, man? You sound like you could use a—”

  “What about the beach? Anyone take a conspicuous stroll?”

  “Yeah, no, I had the feeds from the roof cameras up and it got everything from the edge of the pool deck to the sand. I mean, I guess someone could have been pressed up against the dunes the whole time. But how’d they find a hiding spot without walking through my view first? I’m telling you, nobody took a nibble at the place all day. Looks like y’all are gonna have a quiet night.”

  “Maybe. Or these people don’t do recon.”

  “Which means they’re not very organized. Less for you to worry about, I guess.”

  Except for this whole falling for the woman who’s about to inherit my employer’s estate. Maybe if I could stop staring at the way the sun is kissing the nape of her neck through those giant plate glass windows.

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions about how this crew operates. Not yet anyway.”

  “Marcus, you sound tired. We can keep the feeds up here for a while so you can get some rest.”

  It’s a tempting offer. But just thinking it’s a tempting offer makes him feel like a wuss.

  He should have waited to bathe, that’s for sure. He thought the sputtering shower with its occasional shotgun blasts of air-pressure driven spray would wake him up a little, but the feel of even lukewarm water against his skin had the same effect as downing a pint of chamomile tea.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “Thanks, Tyler.”

  “It’s Chase”

  “Sorry. You guys sound alike.”

  “Hey. Don’t mess with Texas!”

  To save himself further embarrassment, he ends the call.

  Then it’s just him and the screens, and Emily standing on her toes to put a jar of Nutella in one of the top cabinets.

  It takes him a second to realize his right eye has closed.

  He grabs the mouse for the central computer, starts clicking on the microphone icons next to the directory listing for each camera feed.