Something Blue Page 2

  I sneak over to the chest of drawers and slide the bottom one open. I reach way into the back, behind his undershirts and boxer-briefs, until I feel a little, brown leather box. With one more glance at my sleeping beau, I pull it out and open the top slowly.

  It’s a diamond—huge and yellow, an old miner’s cut in a dramatic, antique band that I’m pretty sure is platinum.

  Cross bought this for me. Because he wants me to marry him, I guess.

  Some nights, I slide it on my finger, but tonight I put it back in the drawer and return to my chair. I open my Bible, and I try to make my wandering mind read.

  He can’t really want to marry me.

  It’s too good to be true.

  Which is why I never let myself sleep for long beside him, and I never stop asking forgiveness for the sins of the life that brought me here.

  People like me don’t deserve to be happy.

  I don’t deserve Cross.

  *

  CROSS

  She thinks that I don’t know, but I know.

  How she doesn’t sleep next to me after the first hour or so. How, a lot of nights, she goes into the bathroom and cries for hours. I even know that she’s been looking at the ring. I arrange it in the box just so, and I can tell when it’s been moved. I know she’s been looking at it almost every night.

  My sweet Merri.

  I’m goddamned glad she’s looking at the ring.

  I want her to want it.

  I need her to.

  I like it that she’s got that Bible in her lap and she’s pouring over it. If it puts her in touch with what she really wants, then I’m behind it. And I know she really wants me. I know she does.

  I’m not perfect, and I drag all her demons with my dad behind us, just by being who I am, but Merri loves me. I can tell she does, when she thinks I’m asleep and she strokes her hand down my body. She kisses all my scars and plays with my hair.

  She loves me a lot, I’m pretty sure, and Merri’s love is good. I can’t do without it.

  That’s why, as she paces around the room and reads and cries in the bathroom, I almost never sleep.

  I want to know if she tries to leave. I have to know, because I have to stop her.

  And as long as she doesn’t, as long as she stays here, I need to know how upset she is so I can decide if I should intervene.

  Right now, I don’t think so. I think she needs the space.

  I lie in bed, just breathing and listening to the tissue-paper pages of her Bible turn, until she lies back down beside me. I nod off as soon as her warm body snuggles in by mine, and wake up again as she gets ready for her day. While she showers, I pull up the chaplain’s number on my phone. I don’t want to call my plans off, but Merri’s not ready.

  I wanted her to be…

  I want to marry her here at Love Inc., and move back to California with her as my wife. I want her to be mine and only mine. I know, maybe it’s a little over the top, but I’m like that when I’m into something.

  And I’m into Merri.

  After she gets dressed and before she goes to meet Suri and Elizabeth, I lay her on the bed and fuck her, long and slow and gentle. And she likes it. I know she does. I know she loves me. I can tell by the way she buries her face in my shoulder during the times that I’m on top.

  And today, when I’m behind her, she lets me ram her as hard as I want. She never complains, even when she’s tossed across the bed, almost bumping the headboard. She never complains because I make sure it’s good, but I think even if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t complain.

  Because she loves me.

  And also because she can’t be honest with me.

  I understand that.

  I can be patient, until she has time to process what happened when she was in Mexico. Time to accept it all.

  But in the meantime, I stay worried. I always hold her a little longer than I have to before she goes somewhere, because I know my Merri. She’s a runner.

  This morning, I don’t feel so worried, because she’s going off with the girls to do some wedding shit.

  A few minutes after she leaves—just after I pull on some jeans and one of my favorite, banged-up Cream t-shirts—Marchant knocks on my door. He’s wearing dark jeans and a pink button-up, rolled up to the sleeves. He looks like a businessman, sans slacks. Which makes sense, because slacks and bikes don’t really go together.

  He nods at me. “You ready, dude?”

  “Yep.”

  I step outside and lock the door, and there it is again—that little zing, the wonder if, when I come back to this place, Merri will still be here. It would be easy to feel anger. But that’s only if I’m forgetting what Merri went through.

  Of course she’s got a lot of baggage. I’ve got baggage, and I haven’t been through a tenth of what she has.

  I’m shooting the shit with Marchant as I think about my girl—talking about his new car, a charcoal Bentley Continental that just got delivered this morning. We talk about its specs, and then we’re there; I’m sliding in on the passengers’ side, bracing myself with my left hand as I get into the seat. And it works out fine.

  So fucking great.

  Marchant and I have no trouble making chit-chat as we drive. Neither of us is like West, hanging onto our words like they’re worth cash money. And we have the bikes to talk about. He spends most of the ride telling me about an engine problem his DUU is having, and I throw out suggestions that may or may not work. I’m not a DUU expert, but we decide I’ll take a look at it when we get back.

  We drive about ten miles to the warehouse where my delivery guy, Todd, is dropping off West’s wedding present from Liz—a Cross Hybrids creation Merri and I made to Liz’s specifications, after Hunter told her he was interested in one.

  The warehouse is surrounded by an empty parking lot, so we stand there in the sun, looking at the remodeled, vintage Harley before I get on it and drive it to its hiding spot at the ranch. March likes it. Keeps running his hands over it, especially the detail stuff that Merri did.

  He asks about the yellow stripes on the bike’s black sides, and I tell him. He strokes his chin, like a professor. Or someone puzzled. “She helping you with a lot of shit?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Some.”

  I swing my leg over the bike, because really, I don’t feel like talking about Merri.

  He doesn’t take the hint, or maybe doesn’t care. “She gonna stay?” he asks.

  I bite my cheek, and try not to let my irritation show. It’s not fair to steer it all toward him. “I don’t know,” I say.

  I look up at him—his face is dark against the sunlight—and decide to punt the ball back. I’ve been wanting to ask anyway. “What about you, man? You treating my girl Suri right?”

  He nods. “Of course.”

  “You care about her? More than just a lay?”

  His lips press into a flat line, and he looks into my eyes. “I do.”

  The next question is a dicey one, but I don’t care. I’m going to ask it. Because I care about Suri. “Are you cleaned up?”

  His lips press flat again, and now I know he’s irritated. He takes his hands out of his pockets and folds his arms over his chest and gives me that Radcliffe evil eye, which is surprisingly cold. “I don’t have a drug habit. And Carlson?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “She’s not your girl. You could have had her, and you didn’t.” He takes a deep breath, the kind of deep breath people take to soothe themselves, and then he rubs his head like he’s exhausted.

  “You telling me you’ve never been on drugs?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer to my own question. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve been around the guy. I don’t believe he’s not into something mind-altering.

  “I don’t have a drug habit,” he says again.

  “Don’t lie, man. I won’t judge.” I had my own version of a drug habit after rehab. Even if I hadn’t, I’m not a judger.

  Which is a good thing. Because he’s looking right into my eye, watc
hing for my reaction, when he says, “I’m bipolar.”

  “Shit. No way.” How the hell did I not know this? Fucking West. He could have told me. What am I thinking? Of course West didn’t tell me. He doesn’t talk to anyone but Liz.

  “Hunter knows?” I ask.

  “I told him recently.”

  “You had…issues with it?”

  “Yeah.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The last few months.”

  “You’re talking like bipolar being depressed and moody, or like the intense stuff?”

  “The crazy shit,” he says. He arches his brows.

  I think about how Suri pulled him up from the bottom of the pool. That’s pretty damn intense. I nod slowly, trying to come up with the right thing to say. “Things going better now?”

  “Yeah, dude.” He nods.

  “Good.” I rev the bike up, wanting to give him a chance to get on out of here if that’s what he wants. But he stays, so I shift my weight a little and tell him, “Adam was an asshole. Suri deserves better.”

  “Yeah,” he nods, “she does.” He steps from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable, as if an ant crawled up the inside of his pantsleg. Then he looks me in the eye again and says, “I’m gonna do my damndest to treat her how she deserves.”

  I nod, affirming. “Same for me, with Merri—if she’ll let me.”

  Chapter Three

  SURI

  “So she’s still not confessing to it?” Merri asks.

  She bumps me with her elbow as she holds the two sides of Lizzy’s dress together. We’re in a small room in the building to the right of the main house, practicing lacing up Lizzy’s wedding dress.

  Liz is sucking in so much I think she’s turning blue.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I interrupt our talk about Marissa, stepping around to see the front of Liz.

  She’s not blue; she’s flushed.

  “Yeah,” she gasps. “It’s not the baby belly, it’s my boobs. The dress is…pulling on them.”

  “Here,” Merri says. She shifts something on the dress’s other side, and Lizzy inhales. “That’s much better.”

  “So what was their history?” Merri says, looking at me.

  “Marchant dated Marissa in college. Non-seriously, but some serious things fell within the time-period of their relationship.” I’m not sure how else to say it, and I don’t want to risk betraying Marchant’s confidence.

  “So she’s an old flame who never got over him?” Merri asks.

  “She’s a crazy stalker,” Lizzy says.

  “Yeah, pretty much. And no, Merri,” I say, as I start to tighten the dress’s long, sliky tie, “she hasn’t confessed to what she did. Not officially. She keeps saying it wasn’t her. Even though the person who broke in and went after me had long hair, just like hers, and was thin, like her, and left footprints in a size eight, and Marissa had been calling and hanging up, and one time, even talking to me. It was totally her. She just has issues. Obviously.”

  “Forget her, Suri,” Liz says. “She’s in rehab, and you’re the new Mrs. Love Inc.”

  And, shit! I have to blink back tears, because she says Mrs.

  Merri notices—I can tell; her eyes flick over me—but keeps quiet. We’re friends, but we don’t know each other super well. Lizzy, on the other hand, can tell something is off even though she’s got her back to me.

  “How are your treatments, Suri?”

  Liz knows that Merri knows about my infertility issues, so it’s okay for her to ask me.

  “Fine,” I say tightly.

  “You’re feeling good?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Lizzy whirls around, jerking the silk tie from my hands as she spins, and shrieks, “Suri Dalton! How could you keep this from me?!”

  “What?” My stomach lurches, and my hand goes automatically over my belly.

  Lizzy’s eyes fly to Merri, who’s also pinned me with a look. “Your pregnancy!” Liz says.

  My throat is so tight, I can hardly get words out. “I’m not…”

  “Yes, you are! You think I didn’t notice! Drinking more water than an elephant, or a fish, or whatever drinks a lot of water! Look at your hands.” She grabs my hand. “Where are the rings, Suri,?”

  “I’m simpli—”

  She tugs a strand of my hair. “Look at this hair! Freshly highlighted, but where’s the blonde? The bleach?”

  “I wanted to go—”

  “And your clothes!”

  “They’re baggy,” Merri says.

  “Because I didn’t pack—”

  “Oh no,” Lizzy interrupts. “Baggy clothes are for bag ladies. That’s a Suri Dalton quote of the month. Remember that?”

  My cheeks feel warm, and my eyes start to sting a little.

  Merri wraps her arms around me. She cuts her eyes at Lizzy, who is still raving in the grip of more aggressive, second trimester pregnancy hormones, and then she steps between the two of us.

  She smooths her hand down my hair. “Dark is a great color on you,” Merri tells me. “You look stunning.”

  Lizzy throws her arms around us both. “Congratulations, Sur. I didn’t mean to come on so strong but Suri, you’re pregnant!” She squees, and I start to cry.

  “Oh no,” Merri murmurs. “Don’t cry, honey.”

  “What’s wrong?” Lizzy asks.

  I take a step back from both of them and sit down on a bench in the little sewing room, on the end of the building where Marchant’s therapist works, to the right of the main house if you’re looking from the front drive. It’s been patched up and is fully functional again, even re-decorated.

  I put my hands over my face, which I know is blotchy and swollen and more broken-out than it ever even thought about being during hormone treatments.

  “It’s Marchant’s baby,” I sob. “Marchant doesn’t know.”

  “Why not?” Lizzy asks.

  Merri gently pulls me down onto the bench, and Lizzy kneels in front of me, her wedding dress poofing out around her.

  “Marchant doesn’t know because…he doesn’t want me! He doesn’t want to have a baby with me!”

  Lizzy blinks up at me. “Why not?”

  “He’s got too much on his plate already!”

  “Do you like each other?” Merri asks me.

  I look at her, solemn beside me. “I like him,” I sob. “I can’t seem to go home! He bought me a bathroom chair!”

  “What?” Lizzy says, frownin.

  “A vanity chair! He wants me to stay, but not with a baby. It’ll freak him out.” I cradle my slightly swollen belly, the baby I have wanted my entire life. I start to sob harder. “But I am pregnant! I just…want the Dad to want it.”

  “Oh, he’ll want it,” Merri says.

  “Take it from me, it’s hard to tell them, but he’ll be just like Hunter. Hunter can make him feel better, if that’s even needed. And it won’t be.” Lizzy’s eyes widen. “You’re sure it’s his, right?”

  I gape are her. “Do I look THAT pregnant?” I haven’t slept with Adam in forever.

  “No, just making sure.” She hugs my knees. “I’m so excited for you! Suri, you’re a mom now! Our kids will be sisters.”

  “Do you know the gender?” Merri asks Liz.

  “Do you?” I echo.

  “No. But they’ll be sisters, just like us. It’s my prediction.”

  I wipe my eyes. Support from my girls is nice, but I long to have Marchant’s arms around me.

  “I want to tell him, but I’m not sure how,” I whisper.

  “Just sit him down and tell him,” Merri says.

  I look at her sympathetic face. “Have you told Cross you love him?”

  She shrugs. “I guess so.”

  “Do you love him?”

  She nods. “I just don’t know if I should.”

  “He’s been telling me all about you,” Lizzy says. “You’re it for him.”

  “I know. And I love that. It’s just weird. I ju
st…don’t want to mess things up with him. I’m not a virginal girl.”

  “So what?” I say. “He loves you, Merri. He doesn’t care about the past.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t either. Or maybe I should.” She rubs her eyes. “I’ve got a lot of feelings about it, and…” She shakes her head.

  “Block out the bad stuff,” I say. “Try to forget about it. So you can be happy.”

  “You, too. You need to tell him, Suri.”

  I know I do. I’m just worried he’ll feel trapped.

  Chapter Four

  SURI

  Today, after I practice lacing up Lizzy’s dress two more times, and Merri practices helping me lace it, I walk through the buildings. Everything is perfect: carpet, paint, wall hangings. The Love Inc. Ranch is re-opening soon, which means it’s only logical that I should leave.

  Except that I don’t want to.

  I’ve come to really care about Marchant, and he acts like he cares about me. So it will be okay. I’ve been talked up by Merri and Liz, who have, together, convinced me I can do this.

  I go to the cottage, and find Marchant in the kitchen, wearing an apron and cooking omelets.

  He stops what he’s doing, and comes over and kisses me on the cheek, then pulls out a bar stool for me. “Sit down. You look tired.”

  “I am,” I tell him.

  “What’d you do today?”

  I tell him, and he sits beside me as we eat, and he tells me he told Cross about him being bipolar.

  “What was that like?” I ask.

  “Better than people thinking I’m an addict.”

  “Good.” I wrap my arm around him. “I thought maybe it would be, once you got used to it.”

  “He didn’t act weird about it. Not really.”

  “Cross isn’t judgmental or anything. I think he likes you.”

  “Yeah?”

  I smile gently, and with our gazes all hung up on each other, we lean slowly together for a kiss. It’s like Lady and the Tramp, Omelet Edition. And it ends with Marchant swooping me up and carrying me to our room, where he strips my clothes off, pushes my legs apart, and uses his mouth to show me how he feels about me.