Unmaking Marchant (Page 35)

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 cle**age. “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 f**king 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 f**k 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 c**k 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 f**king 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, f**k. I f**ked 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 f**k you,” she corrects.