11. Marla
MARLA
I'm halfway through my second glass of wine when my laptop screen blurs in front of me for the third time in ten minutes.
My brain refuses to focus on anything except the humiliating memory of seeing Alex and Russ standing outside Nick's building Friday night. They talked about me.
Of course they did.
Three powerful men who apparently know each other well enough to have late-night business meetings in penthouses, and I managed to sleep with all of them within the span of three weeks.
The cottage is quiet around me, just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors settling.
Tonight, the isolation feels less like safety and more like vulnerability.
I'm five miles outside of town with no neighbors in sight, and the only person who knows I'm here is Sharon, who's been texting me worried messages all day that I've been ignoring.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Sharon's name flashes across the screen, and I consider letting it go to voicemail before guilt wins out.
"Hey," I answer, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.
"Marla." Sharon's voice comes through tight and nervous. "I need to tell you something, and please don't freak out."
My stomach drops. "What happened?"
"Russ was at the club tonight." She says it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "He was asking questions about you. About where you live, what you do for work, and how we know each other. I didn't tell him anything specific, I swear, but Marla, he was really intense about it."
The wine glass trembles in my hand, and I set it down carefully as she continues.
"He wanted to know if you're seeing anyone, if you come to the club often, and if you've mentioned him.
" Sharon's voice drops lower. "I tried to brush him off, but he's not the kind of guy you can just brush off, you know?
And then Alex showed up right after. The way they looked at each other, it was like they were communicating without saying anything. "
I close my eyes, pressing my free hand against my forehead. This is worse than I thought. "What did you tell them?"
"Nothing! I mean, I told them you work from home and you keep to yourself, but that's it. I didn't give them your address or anything." She pauses.
"Sharon, I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"Wait, are you sure you're—"
I disconnect before she can finish, my hands shaking. Russ was asking about me.
Alex was asking about me.
They were both at the club tonight, both trying to find out more information.
This is bad. This is really, really bad.
I stand up from the couch, pacing across the small living room. Maybe I should leave town for a few days.
Maybe I should just lock all the doors and windows and pretend none of this ever happened.
The beam of headlights flash through my window. I freeze, then slowly walk toward the window.
The headlights cut through the trees at the end of my long driveway, two bright beams moving slowly through the darkness.
My breath catches in my throat.
It's probably nothing.
It's probably just someone who took a wrong turn.
But then I see the second set of headlights behind the first. And then a third. My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy.
Three vehicles, all moving in a slow procession up my isolated driveway on a Saturday night. This isn't a coincidence.
My heart hammering, I watch as three black cars pull into my driveway one after another.
They park in a neat line, their engines cutting off simultaneously, and for a moment there's nothing but silence and the sound of my own panicked breathing.
The driver's door of the first SUV opens, and Russ steps out.
Even in the dim light from my porch, I can see the irritation on his face as he looks back at the other two vehicles.
The second door opens, and Alex emerges looking far too calm.
There's something almost amused in his expression as he leans against his vehicle.
The third door opens, and Nick steps out.
His face is completely unreadable, his green eyes scanning the cottage and the surrounding woods.
They're here. All three of them. At my cottage.
I should lock the door. I should call the police.
But before I can move, Russ is already walking toward the door. Alex follows a few steps behind, and Nick brings up the rear.
The knock on the door is firm and authoritative, and I jump despite expecting it. My hands are shaking as I cross the living room.
"Marla." Nick's voice comes through the door, low and commanding. "Open the door. We need to talk."
I close my eyes, my hand resting on the doorknob. There's no point in pretending I'm not home.
They saw me in the window.
I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open. All three of them are standing on my porch, tall and broad-shouldered and radiating a controlled danger that makes my survival instincts scream at me to run.
"Can I help you?" I ask, and I'm proud that my voice only shakes a little.
"We need to talk," Russ says, and he's already moving past me into the cottage before I can respond. Alex follows with that same amused expression, and Nick is the last one in, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that sounds far too final.
They're in my space now, in my safe place.
The cottage suddenly feels too small with all three of them in it, their presence filling the room and making the air feel thick and hard to breathe.
"You can't just barge into my house," I say, trying to sound firm. "I didn't invite you in."
"No, you didn't," Alex agrees, looking around the cottage with obvious interest. His gaze lingers on my laptop, on the wine glass, and the stack of notebooks on the coffee table. "Nice place. Very isolated. Good for privacy."
The way he says it makes it sound like an accusation, and I feel my cheeks flush. "What do you want?"
"Answers," Nick says flatly. He's standing near the door with his arms crossed, blocking my only exit. "Starting with why you targeted all three of us."
"Targeted?" I repeat, my voice going up an octave. "I didn't target anyone. I went to a club, I met some guys, and I made some really stupid decisions. That's it."
"That's it," Russ echoes, something dangerous in his tone now. "You just happened to sleep with three businessmen who are in the middle of sensitive merger negotiations. You just happened to pick the three of us out of everyone at that club. That's one hell of a coincidence, Marla."
"I didn't know," I say. My voice sounds small even to my own ears. "I swear to God, I had no idea who any of you were. Sharon just said you were regulars at the club, and I thought—"
"You thought what?" Alex interrupts, his tone sharp now. "That you could use us for whatever game you're playing? That we wouldn't figure it out?"
"I'm not playing any game!" The words come out louder than I intended. "I didn't even know you knew each other until I saw Russ at Alex's building, and then I saw Alex outside Nick's place, and I realized I'd made a huge mistake, but by then it was too late!"
"How much does Sharon know?" Nick asks. The question makes my blood run cold. There's something in his tone that suggests Sharon's knowledge might be a problem.
"Sharon doesn't know anything," I snap. "She's just a bartender who thought she was helping her friend meet some nice guys. You need to leave her out of this."
"Nice guys," Russ repeats, and there's something bitter in his laugh. "Is that what you thought we were?"
"I thought you were rich businessmen who liked to have a good time," I say.
I can hear the defensive edge in my voice.
"I thought you were exactly what I was looking for, which was someone who wouldn't want anything serious or complicated.
I didn't know you were—" I gesture helplessly at all three of them. "Whatever this is."
"And what were you looking for, exactly?" Alex asks, moving closer. He's studying me with that same intense focus from our night together. "What was the point of sleeping with three different men in three weeks? What were you trying to accomplish?"
The question hangs in the air, and I can feel all three of them watching me, waiting for an answer. My face is burning now, humiliation mixing with anger and fear. They think I'm some kind of spy or plant or threat. They think I deliberately targeted them for some nefarious purpose.
"Answer the question, Marla," Nick says, his voice dropping lower. "Why did you sleep with all three of us?"
"Because I'm a fucking idiot," I burst out, my voice shaking with emotion.
"Because I thought I could just have some casual sex and get some experience and it wouldn't matter, and I didn't think about the consequences or the complications or the fact that maybe, just maybe, I should have asked more questions before slept with three strangers! "
"Experience for what?" Russ asks. There's something different in his tone now. Less accusatory, more confused.
I can feel tears burning behind my eyes, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I'm about to cry in front of these men, hate that they've invaded my space and made me feel small and scared and humiliated.
"For what, Marla?" Nick presses, and there's no mercy in his voice.
The words burst out of me before I can stop them, propelled by fury and humiliation and the desperate need to make them understand that I'm not a threat. I'm just an idiot who made some really bad decisions.
"I was doing research for a romance book I'm writing!"