So I say, “Do it.”

He grabs me by my hips and spins me, positioning me on hands and knees so my ass is in the air. He yanks my pants all the way off and slams his finger into me, stroking ruthlessly as his mouth covers my asshole.

I open my mouth to protest, but it’s only a breath before I realize it feels good. So good I’m falling forward with my belly pressed against the mattress. My legs can barely keep me up, and then he’s clutching my ass cheek, pumping my cunt, licking me with broad strokes of his tongue, and I’m gasping like I might pass out.

I might pass out.

He gets me close—so close—before he pulls his fingers out and moves his hot mouth off me. I draw my quivering knees in, and he slides his body underneath me so I’m on top. With a dark grin, he reaches down to find my pussy with his fingers again. It’s tighter now, and I’m curled over, desperate. “Don’t stop…”

I stroke my finger down his chest and lean down so my other hand caresses his head. His eyes harden. “Are you on birth control?”

I open my mouth to say it isn’t necessary, but he cuts me off. “Are you on birth control?”

I nod—to simplify things.

“You take it regularly?”

“Yes,” I lie. “But I also have a condom if you want it.”

He nods and I reach past him for my clutch, the only thing in reach when the fire started. I’ve got some fire-engine red, cherry-flavored condoms in it from that night with Adam at the gala.

I turn back around to find him sitting on his knees. His dick juts out ridiculously, and I’m surprised to find myself gasping with eagerness to feel it inside me. His hands, I’ve noticed, look chapped and painful, so I scoot closer and roll the latex over his plump head.

He closes his eyes as I fit it on him. He’s bigger than Adam, so it’s snug. Below his thickness, his balls look taut and heavy.

I’m trembling as he leans closer. The tip of him brushes my thigh as he takes off my front-clasp bra and leans down to kiss my breasts. I shove him away and move my mouth as fast as I can to his dick. I caress those swollen balls as I stroke a shaft. He comes in half a minute, leaning over me and pulling on my hair.

“Oh God,” he groans.

I smile as he stretches out on his back, staring without blinking at the ceiling.

“Can I?” I gesture to his cock, which is somehow still hard and ready. He nods a little. I tug the condom off and find a garbage can. When I return, already wondering if he wants more, I find him on his side, facing the air conditioning unit, with his broad, heat-chapped back to me. His breathing is shallow and fast.

 I sit down behind him, feeling almost ill with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t that. It’s just a fuck.”

“Okay,” I murmur.

“Is it?” His voice is low. Almost challenging.

“I knew what I was getting into when I came in here with you. I know you’re a drinker and a fighter and—”

“And what?” He turns around to face me, and I swear I think his eyelashes are wet. His face looks hard and angry.

“You’re not always nice.”

“No—I’m not.”

He grabs my wrists and pushes me down on my back, raising my arms above my head and pressing them down into the mattress.

His face twists. “You think you know me?” His eyes are hard—so hard and empty, I find my lips trembling before I whisper, “No.”

“You made a mistake.” His mouth tightens, and he squeezes my wrists harder. Then, for half a second, his eyes soften. He murmurs, “Do you want to go?”

I swallow hard and shake my head.

“If you stay, I’m going to fuck you.” He releases one wrist and runs his fingertips feather lightly down my belly. “Do you want to be fucked, Suri Dalton?”

He spreads my legs and lowers his face over my throbbing cunt.

“Answer me,” he murmurs, tracing a finger down my slit. I’m so wet, he glides between my lips with ease, pausing over my entrance to tease me with his thumb. I press my hips up, desperate to feel his fingers stretching inside of me.

“Answer me!”

“YES!” I half-sob.

He glides his fingertip over my clit, and I try to lift my hips to him. My legs are almost useless. I’m trembling so hard I can barely move.

“Wait here,” he tells me. “Do not move.”

He grabs another condom from my bag and quickly rolls it over himself.

Then he gathers both my arms in his big hand, holding them firmly over my head, and moves his hips so he’s teasing me.

“Come on, Marchant… Please!”

He slams inside me—hard and fast, and I scream.

When he leaves me panting in the shower several hours later, I’m not sure if I feel broken or empowered. All I know for certain is I want more.

12

MARCHANT

“Right this way, Mr. Radcliffe.”

I follow the nurse down a long, white hall, and force my legs to stay steady as she slides an ID through a card reader beside a stainless steel door. It makes a soft clicking sound, and she pushes it open, revealing a small, white room dominated by a wide hospital bed and several large machines.

“We’ve spoken with your regular psychiatrist.” She motions to the bed, and I climb onto it. I’m so exhausted I can hardly see straight, so it’s an effort to keep the damn gown shut. “She said you’ve experienced a lengthy manic phase that’s likely winding down. Are you sure you want this?”

I shake my head. “I need this. I’m sure.”

I think about the day I flushed my Lithium down the toilet. March 15. I think about March 15, 2007, and I’m sure.

She nods. “Okay. Just try to relax. I’ll be back soon.”

I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. I see a golden casket. I feel the cool leather of the squad car seat behind my back. My memory thrusts me back in time, several hours earlier, that day, and I remember breaking the arms of another man in a white coat.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, you motherfucking murderer!”

I remember, hours before that, the phone call from Marissa. Telling me what had happened. Telling me what she’d done. Sobbing.

“You told me to! You told me to do it Marchant!”

I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut, and I try to remember the words I said that changed the course of both our lives. But I never can. Because I was manic. Because I was possessed.

I’m tired of being manic.

I’m tired of being me.

I’m tired.

When the nurse returns, she’s got a couple of other nurses, and two doctors, with her. The doctor in charge hands me the paperwork, and I skim over the risks and side-effects.

Memory loss. I pray for that. I pray for that as I sign consent and they begin to prep me.

“You’ll do several treatments. We’ll decide on an exact number based on how you respond to this first one.”

I nod.

One of the nurses grabs my arm, and I have to struggle to keep breathing regularly.

“I’ll make the injection fast, okay?”

I nod again. Then I shut my eyes, relax my arm. Force myself to look straight ahead, rather than into the nurse’s face.

The needle sinks into my arm, and darkness claims me. The last thing I imagine before the curtain falls on everything is Suri Dalton.

* * *

“You should have told me sooner.”

I nod. I want to say, “I know,” but I can’t get my mouth to work. I guess this is how it is, getting back on my meds. I’m also taking something new they gave me at the hospital.

I lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Somewhere far away, I’m aware that Rachelle has walked into the kitchen. I’m alone in my room, for the first time since I ran from my garden house toward the fire.

I still kind of want to die, but it’s not as bad anymore.

Probably because I just don’t have the energy.

Sometime later, I hear Rachelle say something to me and I turn my head toward her. She’s standing by my bed, holding a tray bearing a bowl of soup and a sleeve of Ritz crackers. I blink a few times at her. Make enough circuits fire to say, “Thank you.”

I’m hoping she will go now, but she doesn’t. She lies on the bed beside me and shares my pillow. I can smell her perfume: Stella. Her head nudges my shoulder, and I feel her eyes on me. “You okay, M? Really?”

I nod.

“I’ve got your pills, okay? Libby will be back in two days. She told me in the meantime, we can cut way back on Diazepam. You seem pretty out of it.”

I nod. It’s for the best that I’m sedated.

“I’m going to fourth it tonight, okay? You’ll be left with just your Lithium. I think you’ll be fine. There’s nothing in this house that should bother you. I took care of it.”

She means the knives and guns. And tempt me, not bother me. “I’m sorry, Rachelle.” My voice sounds thick. Not like mine.

Good. I don’t want to be me anymore.

“This isn’t your fault, Marchant. None of it is. Maria has OCD, remember? I understand how these things work.” Maria is Rachelle’s partner.

I nod again.

“Do you remember what happened with Jesus Cientos?”

I shake my head. I know I shot him, but I don’t really remember it.

“You did a lot of people a service.”

I blink a few times. I don’t have the energy to think of that.

“Good,” I say. And then, “I want to start rebuilding.”

Rachelle, who’s lying on her side now with her head propped on her palm, is frowning at me. “You already found a contractor. Before you left the hospital. You offered to pay them double if they finished fast.”