- TDE
15
The note had the same effect as a shotgun barrel shoved between their bodies, and with each hour since she pulled away from Marcus inside of Blake Gallery, her body temperature seems to have dropped another degree. Now she’s shivering in front of the balmy beach scene visible through the great room’s soaring plate glass windows, her only warmth a sense memory; Marcus gripping her trembling hand after he removed The Desire Exchange’s ornate offering from her fingers. But the memory is sure to fade after a while, and then what will she have to comfort herself with until sundown?
The light from the westward-leaning sun silhouettes waves stronger than the ones that were rolling to shore that morning when she woke to the sight of him standing watch, when she realized the hours during which he’d guarded her sleeping form constituted one of the most selfless, generous things a man had ever done for her. Watching over her was his job description, for sure, but not from so close, and not when he was scheduled to sleep. And then there was the blanket and the pillow, and the gentle graze of his fingers along her cheek.
She’d never been one of those people to claim chivalry was dead. But she hadn’t realized until that morning how much chivalry could set her heart to simmer. Most of her relationship history had been defined by a series of what Jonathan had called the Oh, goods.
Oh, good, he’s not late. Oh, good, he didn’t show up drunk. Oh, good, he isn’t still involved with his ex.
With Marcus, the Oh, goods, seemed monumental.
Oh, good, there’s a man of focus and dedication behind that swagger. Oh, good, he’s gorgeous but doesn’t skate through life on his looks…
The slanting sunlight gives definition to every fold in every dune and every footprint in the sand. Finally, she realizes she’s looking for theirs. It’s a silly endeavor, but not impossible. The beach didn’t see that much foot traffic that day, and maybe, after a few hours, it would be possible for her to mark the twin-trails they made that morning as he followed her toward the walkway. But it’s a silly distraction from the unsaid words burning a hole in her throat.
She pulls the earpiece from her pants pocket and slides it into her ear.
“Marcus?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t do this.”
He’s stricken silent. Were her words too ambiguous? Does he think she can’t do whatever’s growing between them, that she’s taking back the gift she just gave him and throwing away their moment of restrained, electrified passion inside of Blake Gallery.
“I want to speak to Arthur,” she says quickly.
“Emily…”
“If it’s not Ryan who shows up tonight, I’ll just give whoever it is the letter and then I’m done. The rest can be in God’s hands. Because, seriously, I just can’t…”
“That’s pretty dangerous at this point, babe.”
“Why is it dangerous?”
Babe. He called me babe. What would it be like to hear him whisper it against my neck as he—
“Because it gives Ryan a chance to vanish into the wind.”
“Even if he knows his father’s dying?”
“He might not care,” Marcus answers.
“Well, then what’s going to make him care when I say it to his face?”
“It ups the odds in our favor a little but…”
“A little?”
“Emily, this is…this is about getting deeper into whatever this place is. Even if you get all the way inside and the letter doesn’t get to Ryan, it won’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ll have gathered all kinds of intell along the way just by being there. Locations, associates, his recent history. That’s more than any private detective Arthur’s ever hired. Arthur could use all of that on a second go around, and he might be able make contact in the time he has left even if we don’t.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to do this,” she whispers.
“God, Emily, I don’t want you to do this. I really, really don’t want you to do this. But you made your promise to Arthur before you ever met me. And I couldn’t live with myself if I asked you to go back on it just because I’m a jealous, possessive bastard who’s moving too fast.”
“You’re not moving too fast,” she says.
“Really?”
“You wouldn’t come to me last night. I’d say that’s pretty slow.”
“I’m the one who woke you up at four in the morning, remember?”
“Well, that’s true, I guess.”
“It is true,” he says.
Emily starts for the kitchen. Suddenly, Marcus is filling her ear with his best sports announcer’s voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, after several hours of staring out the front windows and wishing she had fingernails to chew, Miss Conran finally relents and heads to the kitchen for a small snack. The odds-on favorite for tonight’s tasty treat? The very Wheat Thins and salami she was spotted buying in a grocery store just this afternoon. What a multimillionaire heiress was doing buying her own groceries in a Winn-Dixie is still a matter for tabloid speculation… Oh, oh, oh. Wait just a minute! In a stunning upset, ladies and gents, she pulls out a jar of Nutella and slides some bread in the toaster, both sure signs that she’s experiencing some serious nerves in anticipation of tonight’s just announced visit from The Desire Exchaaaaaange…”
She wants to tell him to shut up, but she’s laughing too hard.
When he runs out of breath for his little routine, a silence falls until the toaster pops.
“Charles,” Emily says.
“Huh?”
“The last guy I was with. I mean, really with, not like—”
“Not like one-night-with-your-gay-friend with.”
“Yes. Thank you for that…specificity, Marcus. The last guy I was boyfriends with. His name was Charles.”
“Okay…”
“I thought it was only fair, you know, since you told me about the last woman you were with.”
“But I didn’t tell you her name,” Marcus says.
“Okay. What’s her name?”
“Natalya.”
“Was she Russian?”
“No. Just pretentious.”
“Ugh.”
“I’m kidding,” he responds with a throaty laugh. “Of course she was Russian.”
“But she was pretentious too, I take it.”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe.”
“And a criminal too, apparently.”
“Yep.”
“Was her father a criminal?”
“I don’t work for criminals, Miss Blaine.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“Seriously?”
“You’re in private security now, not law enforcement. A job’s a job as long as you don’t…”
“Kill people?”
“Commit crimes.”
“I’d rather not be an accessory to any either.”
“Probably a healthy boundary. I was just…you know, trying to be accepting of the field you’re in.”
“Natalya’s father was one of the first guys to privatize Russia’s electrical industry after the Soviet Union fell.”
“A Russian oligarch. I’ve heard of them. So he had some cash?”
“Yeah, and you’re gaining on him, Miss Blaine.”
“So why did his daughter need to embezzle from him? A guy that rich, his kids are usually set for life.”
“Unless you’re Ryan Benoit.”
“True, but you’re deflecting…”
“Her father knew what she was and he put her in a cage. She used me to get out of it. So…Charles?”
“Hardly as dramatic.”
“Still….”
“He had a cute smile,” she says, and then she shoves a piece of Nutella-covered toast in her mouth.
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” she says, in between chews. “Just adorable. And dimples.”
“Okay. So…what happened? He lost his dimples?”
“Let’s just say his dimples lost their effect.”
“So after the cute wore off, the guy was a douche.”
“I’m not sure I’d be that harsh.”
“Well, I’ll be. He’s my competition. I’m gonna track him down and vanquish him to the hills.”
“Vanquish him to the hills?” she asks through Nutella-laced laughs. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably something I heard on Game of Thrones.”
“Okay,” Emily says, clearing her throat. “Well, trust me. The guy’s not your competition. By a long shot.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“How would you know?” Marcus asks.
“You mean because we haven’t slept together?”
“Kinda. Yeah.”
“Let’s just say you wouldn’t have to be amazing in the sack to be miles ahead of Charles. In everything.”
“Wow…I’m not sure if I should be flattered or if Charles is just…completely pathetic.”
“Go with both.”
“Fine by me.”
“So why did it end?” Marcus asks.
“Better question is why did it last as long as it did.”
“Sure, but there had to be some kind of death blow.”
Nutella, spoon, toast, mouth. Nutella, spoon, toast, mouth.
“Guess we’re not going there…” Marcus says quietly.
“He asked me a question he didn’t want the answer to.”
“Ouch. Burn. So was it…do you love me?”
“No.”
I can’t, she thinks. I can’t go back to this place. With Charles, it didn’t matter. But with Marcus…
“Want to talk about something else?”
And Emily thinks, No, I don’t want to talk about something else. I’m not putting this part away now so you can discover it later and decide you don’t like the smell of it, of me. I’m not waiting to be Emily Blaine anymore.
“He asked me to share my most secret sexual fantasy.”
“So you guys could act it out?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Maybe. We never got that far.”
“I see. Did he return the favor?”
“He’d already volunteered his by the time he asked for mine.”
“Kind of an I’ll show mine if you show me yours type of thing.”
“Something like that. Yeah.”
She’s shelved the Nutella and now she’s rinsing the spoon in the sink. Her heartbeat has turned into a patter, and her shortness of breath is causing a light tingling in her arms.
“So what was his?” Marcus asks.
Clever guy, Marcus. Take the indirect route and come in from behind.
“Girl Scouts deliver some cookies…it goes from there.”
“Tell me he wasn’t really into little girls.”
“No! It was all about the costume and the fantasy. And you know, the pig tails.”
Don’t ask me if I ever dressed as one for him. Please don’t ask me if I ever…
“I see…”
Her cheeks burn. She rinses her hands under the sink because it gives her an excuse to keep her head bowed and hopefully shield her face from at least one or two of the surrounding cameras.
“And what was yours, Emily?” Marcus asks.
She wants to half-ass this, to give the quick, relatively safe one-line description. But wasn’t she just about to burst into a Gloria Gaynor song about her personhood and how she wasn’t going to wait to be her real self anymore?
Marcus says, “Sorry. Maybe that’s too—”
“Right after we started college, Jonathan and I would go out to the gay clubs in the Quarter and anyway, he started dating this go-go boy, this really hot go-go boy…and anyway, one night they danced up on either side of me and made this little sandwich out of me on the dance floor and I just …”
“You just what, Emily?”
Is there the slightest hint of judgment in his tone? She can’t tell.
“Ever since then I fantasize about what it would be like to be with two guys at the same time. If I’m masturbating in the shower, it’s usually the one thing I need to think about to…you know, have a moment. It’s about being the center of something…like that.”
Okay. Maybe the shower line was too much information but…
How long has this silence actually gone on? Is it her frayed nerves making it seem like it’s already dragged on for twenty minutes?
Is this it? Is this the moment when she experiences, once again, the real price of honesty, only in this instance, it dooms all possibilities of anything with Marcus in the future?
“Mine’s a mother and a daughter at the same time,” Marcus says.
For a second, she thinks he’s making fun of her, but he doesn’t laugh, and he doesn’t rush to qualify it in any way and there was a shaky edge of embarrassment in his tone. Not embarrassment, she realizes. Vulnerability.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah, and in the fantasy, the mother and I have already been together so she’s instructing the daughter on how best to…tend to my needs.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, see, so yours is kinda tame compared to mine.”
“Yeah, I mean, I guess…there’s no incest in mine.”
“There’s isn’t any in mine either. I’m the focus.”
“I see.”
“Are you?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, in your fantasy do the guys…touch each other.”
“Sometimes. Depending on what mood I’m in.”
“And does…”
“What, Marcus?”
“Does one of the guys have to be Jonathan?”
Her heart is hammering. She feels like she’s standing on the edge of a cliff.
“No,” she answers.
And to her astonishment, she realizes it’s the truth.
“Thank you,” she whispers before she can stop herself.
“For what?”
“I just…the last man I ever talked to about this, he was so busy freaking out that he never got around to asking me what you just did. But now, because you asked, I know the answer.”
“You know that it doesn’t have to be Jonathan.”
“Yeah…”
A silence falls. She pads into the living room and eases down into one of the giant, cushy white sofas. She feels like she’s sinking into a cloud.
“You want to know what’s even hotter than the idea of a mother and a daughter working me over at the same time?” Marcus says, his low, smooth voice as arousing as a gentle breath inside her ear.
“What?”
“The fact that you just shared your fantasy with me, especially given how badly it went for you the last time.”
“Thank you.”
“They’re just fantasies, Emily. No one should judge us for our fantasies. No one who cares about you anyway.”
“You don’t…”
Cushioned by the massive sofa as she stares up through plate glass at passing clouds now streaked with bands of night darkness, Emily feels both the terror and the joy of being weightless and untethered. Who knew she would feel this sense of relief? Did Jonathan have a better sense than her of how deeply the rejection from Charles had wounded her? Had her rush to dismiss and demean her ex ever since been part of her determination to conceal that wound?
“I don’t what, Miss Blaine?” he asks her gently.
“I…”
“Come on, babe,” he whispers. “We’re this far in. There’s no turning back now.”
“You don’t think we have to act them out to be…”
“To be what?”
“I don’t know. Free?”
“No. I think the only thing that matters is that we find someone to share them with.”
“Like this?” she asks.
“Yes. Just like this.”
She feels a drowsy smile take hold of her face.
“I always crash after I eat sugar,” she whispers.
“Uh huh.”
“I’m serious. Sugar makes me sleepy.”
“So does relief, I bet.”
“That too,” she says, giggling in spite of herself.
“You’re cute when you laugh, Emily Blaine.”
“Thank you, Marcus Dylan.”
“No thanks necessary.”
“Marcus…” she says.
“Yes, babe.”
“I like it when you watch over me.”
“Get some rest, beautiful. I’ll be watching over you the whole time.”
“Promise?” she asks, hearing her own voice from a foggy distance.
“Yes, Emily. I promise.”
Sleep claims her, deep and dreamless, until she hears the clear, unmistakable call of a single handbell from just outside the house.
And then Marcus’s voice in her ear.
“Emily, wake up. They’re here.”
16
She feels as if she’s only been asleep for minutes, but it must have been at least an hour given how dark it is outside. The dunes have been reduced to just those fat pools of white sand captured by the two streetlights that line the wooden walkway to the beach, and the waves beyond look like vague bands of froth moving through a sea of ink.
“Don’t talk. There’s four that I can see. They’re watching the house. Look, I know you’re sleepy, but I need you to focus, okay? Because in about a minute, you’re not going to be able to talk to me again until this over. Yawn and run your hands through your hair to let me—”
She does both.
“Okay. Good. The ring. If they make you take it off for any reason, your distress call’s three taps, either with your foot or the side of your fist. Three taps. But only if you want me to bust in there with all the firepower I’ve got and shut the whole thing down. Tap the coffee table three times right now if you read me.”
She follows his instruction.
“Alright, we’re good to go. And Emily—”
Blackout is too simple a word to describe what happens next. It’s as if the electricity is drained from every light source in the house by some invisible, sucking force. The darkness isn’t as frightening as the burst of static in her ear. It cuts Marcus off mid-sentence, bringing sudden silence along with impenetrable black.
The Surrender Gate: A Desire Exchange Novel Page 15