Links

by Shandi Boyes

  When the elevator dings, announcing its arrival to my floor, I step into the car. I immediately suck in a desperate gulp, alarmed by another presence. The panic bristling my scalp eases when I discover whom I’m riding with.

  “Hi, Keira. How are you?” I greet, pacing deeper into the elevator.

  I arch a brow in suspicion when she fails to acknowledge my greeting or exit the elevator. If she rode all the way to the foyer, why isn’t she disembarking?

  Spotting my contemptuous expression, Keira explains, “I boarded on floor fifty-eight not realizing the elevator was going down.” She gestures her dainty hand to the elevator dashboard. “What level?”

  “Seventy-three, please,” I reply, my tone void of the suspicion it was holding earlier.

  After pushing my desired floor, Keira spins on her heels to face me. Her abrupt movements infuse the air with the aroma of vanilla. It’s a refreshing scent that soothes some of the irritation twisting my stomach. Keira is a beautiful young lady in her mid-twenties. She has long, straight blonde hair that hangs halfway down her back and ageless facial features. She has timeless beauty, the type that would suit any generation.

  “How long have you been working at Global Ten?”

  Although we haven't formally met, the news around the water cooler is that Keira is employed as an undergrad in the financial arm of Global Ten. Considering no one outside of the journalism division of Global Ten works weekends, I'm somewhat surprised she is working on a Sunday.

  “A little over two months,” Keira replies, sighing softly.

  “And already working a long weekend? I don’t know whether to applaud you or issue a warning,” I jest, my tone friendly.

  Keira’s laugh quickly fills the space. It's full of poise and elegance, just like its owner. “To be honest, I haven’t worked that out either. I’m not even sure this industry is for me yet.”

  My lips purse. “A career in media not your first choice?”

  Keira shakes her head. “No. My career aspirations never involved prying into people’s lives, nor their trash receptacles,” she discloses, her pitch snarky.

  Ignoring the way her remark dented my ego, I ask, “Then, why do it? If a career in media isn’t your preference, why not find something that is?”

  Keira shrugs. "My family is more receptive to this role than my initial choice."

  My heart squeezes when I hear the disappointment in her low tone. It's an unfortunate world we live in when social acceptance is valued higher than happiness. It doesn’t just happen with career choices either. It's in everyday life. Like every interracial couple, my parents endured a diverse range of obstacles thrown their way. Unfortunately, most of them came from integral members of their family. That was the reason I understood Marcus’s logic of keeping his interest in the BDSM lifestyle hidden from his family. Going against a socially judging world is already challenging, let alone when the most important people in your life don’t support your lifestyle choices. My parents had each other for support. Marcus could have had me if he hadn’t invaded my privacy.

  “What about you? Have you always wanted to be a journalist?” Keira drifts my focus back to the present.

  A faint smile cracks onto my lips. “Yes. I’ve always loved reading. It didn't matter if it was the latest romance novel or the sports pages of my local newspaper, I gobbled up anything in print. But my passion for writing flourished when a small piece I wrote on my high school football team winning state was published by my local paper. I don't know what was more exciting, seeing my name in print or receiving my first paycheck for something I'd written."

  “I bet it was seeing your name in print?” Kiera intuits with her manicured brow arched high.

  “Yeah, it was,” I reply honestly, still smiling. “It was an amazing thing to see.”

  Remembering the proud words my mother said to me that day, I lock my eyes with Keira and say, “That would have never happened if I weren’t doing something I loved. Just like you will never realize your dreams in a position you have no passion for. If your passion isn’t in the media industry, Keira, find what is and strive to achieve it. It’s your life; make the most of it.”

  Keira watches me in silence for several moments, absorbing my suggestion with more thought than I’d perceived. Her attentive stare plunges the elevator car into silence. I wouldn’t necessarily say it's unpleasant, more like she needs a few moments to compile a response. Not wanting her to feel uncomfortable, I float my eyes to the elevator dashboard to watch its ascent.

  We climb twelve floors before Keira finally breaks the silence. “Mr. Carson chose well when he selected you as the lead investigator for the story on Chains.”

  Masking my surprise she is aware of the investigation into Chains, I reply, “Thanks.” My tone is low as I struggle to accept her praise. “But I’m fairly certain it wasn’t my journalism skills that got me the job.”

  I roll my shoulders and jiggle my chest to enhance my statement. After numerous juvenile comments from Delilah the past two months, I'm convinced my placement on the New York Daily Express team was solely based on some areas of my body, not my high distinction from NYU.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Cleo,” Keira implores, glancing straight into my eyes, her gaze forthright. “Although your assets are very impressive, I don’t believe that's the sole reason Mr. Carson hired you. I’ve heard rumors the head of media was pushing for this story the past twelve months. It was only after seeing the way you handled Richard did Mr. Carson agree to the investigation.”

  I grimace when the entirety of her statement is absorbed by my spent brain. I'd been wondering the past two months if Mr. Carson's interest in me began after my altercation with Richard—clearly, my assumptions were correct. There is just one thing unclear.

  "Why would physically harming someone lead to career advancement?" My high tone is smeared with disbelief.

  Keira shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe Mr. Carson wanted someone strong enough to endure the BDSM lifestyle in its full light?” Her face void of the disdain most people carry when discussing BDSM lifestyle choices.

  I tilt my head to the side and bow my brow. “What do you mean ‘in its full light?’”

  Hearing the snip of panic in my tone, the brightness of Keira’s blue eyes grows. “To see both sides of the spectrum. You’re a feminist with submissive traits. It's a brilliant choice by Mr. Carson. I’m quite impressed. He chose someone with enough guts to deeply emerge herself into the lifestyle without being overwhelmed by it.”

  “I’m not in the BDSM lifestyle, Kiera,” I reply, my tone high as panic surges through me.

  Keira screws up her nose as if she isn't buying my reply. "Maybe not yet, but you have the qualities of a submissive. It will only be a matter of time before a Dom changes your mindset, or you'll stop judging yourself on the sane, safe and consensual desires your body craves."

  Misreading the alarm tainting my face as disgust, Keira adds on, “Being dominated doesn’t make you weak, Cleo. It just means you think outside the box of what society deems as normal. People from all walks of life enjoy kink, just not many are willing to admit it.”

  “Do you like being dominated?” I question, my words barely a whisper since they were coerced through the guilt curled around my throat. I’ve always been an inquisitive person, but it’s never had this edge of prying attached to it.

  Keira taps her manicured index finger on the side of her nose. "Discretion is a highly valued commodity in any walk of life, Cleo," she tsks me with a jeering tone. "That's why I am imploring you to write the story on Chains the way in which you see it."

  “And how am I supposedly seeing it?” After an emotionally tiring weekend, I’m physically exhausted, which means, unfortunately, I’m taking my anger out on the wrong person.

  My snarkiness doesn’t faze Keira in the slightest. “From a person intrigued by the BDSM lifestyle, but not guided by society’s opinion of it. I’m not asking you to act on your desires, Cleo. I’m ju
st encouraging you to push aside your misconceptions and write what you see.” Her last sentence comes out in a hurry since the elevator has arrived at my floor.

  Pacing out of the elevator, I stand at the side of a large white pillar to conceal myself from prying eyes. “What makes you so sure my stigma about the BDSM lifestyle doesn’t match those deemed acceptable by society?”

  Keira’s manicured brow arches into the air, but not a word spills from her lips. Just like I’ve been told time and time again, she read the truth from my eyes.

  Swallowing down the unease creeping up my esophagus that I’m about to expose my most lethal hand, I say, “Global Ten Media doesn’t want a story on the consenting exchange of power between a Dom and his sub. They want to exploit the men and women who value Chains’ confidentiality clause, not only making a mockery out of these ‘people from all walks of life’ you are referring to—” I use air quotes to enhance her quoted statement. “—they will destroy the lives of hundreds of people, some who are completely unaware they are associated with such an industry.”

  I snap my mouth shut, subjugated and mute. Overwhelmed by the catalyst of emotions pumping into me, my usual astuteness is vanquished, leaving nothing but a lecturing idiot debating the rights of members in a community I claim to have no association with.

  Keira's determination isn’t deterred by my malicious tirade. If anything, it appears to have strengthened it. "That fighting spirit is the exact reason I'm imploring you to write the truth, Cleo. You have the courage to write a story based on facts, not the misguided opinions of others. Any journalist can write a gossip piece crammed with half-truths and glossy pictures. A true journalist knows there is no cream without first churning the milk."

  I stand frozen for a beat, unsure of how to reply. I'm shocked and somewhat confused. Although I agree with what Keira is saying, I don't appreciate being bombarded like this. I am also ill-prepared. I brushed Keira off as nothing more than a pretty face. Little did I know there was the heart of a warrior hidden behind her saintly features.

  Sensing my inability to issue a comeback, Keira continues to wow me with her grit. "There are two sides to every story, Cleo: the truth and what the public are told. The only thing left to decide is if you're a reporter who writes inspiring pieces, or a pop-culture writer who sugarcoats the facts to meet societal norms."

  With that, she spins on her heels and ambles down the corridor, stealing my chance to reply.

  3

  Pretending I’ve failed to catch Delilah’s furious wrath, I glide into the conference room on the top floor of Global Ten Media and take a seat at the end of the oak table. With my run-in with Keira buying into precious time I didn't have, I've arrived nearly ten minutes late. Plopping my oversized handbag onto the floor beside me, I secure one of the many manila folders sitting in the middle of the large table. My heart rate kicks into overdrive when my quick head count of the employees attending the impromptu meeting sits at thirteen. Mr. Carson is leading the meeting, and there are at least half a dozen faces I recognize from his hand-selected investigative team of the New York Daily Express.

  My stomach gurgles. With such a heavy presence of big hitters in the Global Ten conglomerate, my fears that the story on Chains is about to break reaches fever pitch. Although my emotions are still on edge, even my ethically motivated brain agrees something about this case doesn't feel right. Call it intuition or a severe case of idiocrasy, but this entire investigation seems more than just an inclination to keep the public informed of the happenings within their community. It feels personal.

  Don't get me wrong; even if I hadn't experienced a small taste of the BDSM lifestyle this weekend, my opinions would remain the same. What Marcus said weeks ago in Chains is true. Just because people choose to express themselves in a way society is unaccustomed to doesn't make them weird or different. So why should their personal choices place a target on their backs? It shouldn’t.

  My attention shifts to the meeting when Delilah pushes back from the table and saunters to the front of the room. From the impish gleam in her eyes, her beady black gaze looks fiercer than normal. When she clicks a button on a small remote in her hand, a projector screen drops down from the ceiling, shading the room from the natural sunlight beaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  "As many of you are aware, Chains has been on the radar of the New York Daily Express for the past year," Delilah says as a copy of the invitation I used to gain access to Chains flashes up on the screen. "With its state of the art security and ability to change its location for each hosted party, it has been a hard scene to infiltrate. Locations are not disclosed until an hour before the party commences, and guests are well rehearsed on keeping their identities private. It was virtually impossible to get in.”

  Glaring into my eyes with an evil smirk etched on her abhorrent face, Delilah clicks on the remote, bringing up a photo of Marcus in the back seat of the Bentley. “New York Daily Express was the first media company to successfully infiltrate the super-secret society known only as Chains.”

  My stomach lurches into my throat when her next click on the remote switches the image to one displaying my reflection in the Bentley's heavily tinted windows. Although my face is covered by a black sequined mask, I am clearly identifiable; there is no denying my Garcia genes.

  The murmured hum of chatter filtering in the conference room fades to silence when recognition dawns on my colleague's faces. One by one, I gain the inquisitive stares of every pair of eyes in the room. Half peer at me in wonderment, whereas the other half have a vast array of emotions pumping from their eyes. Disgust. Intrigue. Curiosity. That's a small selection of the glares inundating me.

  “Although the attendees are masked, we secured a sizeable number of images from the last Chains gathering,” Delilah snarls, shifting the attention of the room back to her.

  Collective “Ah’s” fill the space when Delilah plays a slideshow of the images illegally obtained two months ago. Due to my failure to remove my coat until after I left the premises, every picture features Marcus in some light. Although my memories of that night will never fade, it's uncanny to see them through the lens of a third party.

  I felt a connection to Marcus the instant my eyes locked with his in the back seat of the Bentley. These images verify our compelling union. They showcase the way he peered down at me as we weaved through the throng of fetish-wearing patrons, the little groove peeking out of his mask when the bartender riled him up, and the flare of regret sparking his alluring gaze in the seconds leading to our separation in the foyer. Even a person with their eyes as thinly slit as Delilah’s wouldn’t be able to miss the undeniable connection between us.

  My heart twists painfully. Now, more than ever, I need to keep my cards close to my chest. Global Ten Media already has me over a barrel with their knowledge of my love for my sister. Imagine how bad it will be if they discover the feelings I am harboring for the man they are investigating?

  My heart twists again—more catastrophic this time. How stupid am I? Marcus grossly invaded my privacy, yet I'm more concerned about protecting him than vindicating him. He should be grateful my parents raised me with integrity because that's the only thing stopping me from disclosing his identity. That, and a small hope not everything between us is lost.

  Setting aside my heart versus brain quarrel for a more appropriate time, I return my eyes to the projector screen. The slideshow Delilah is presenting gives an intriguing look into the BDSM lifestyle, but it's a one-sided glimpse into a world you could never fully comprehend until you have experienced it. Nothing compares to seeing something in the flesh, much less immersing yourself in it. Although my time in the BDSM world was short, it left a lasting impression. Don’t ask me if it's a good or bad impression as I wouldn’t be able to answer you.

  When the tediously long slideshow comes to an end, the projector screen rises back into place, once again illuminating the room with natural light. The view from the conference room is just as i
mpressive as the one in Mr. Carson's office, but with my mood precariously sitting on the edge of a steep cliff, it doesn't wow me as it did months ago.

  After placing the remote onto the conference room table, Delilah intertwines her fingers. She rocks on her heels, her face smug and lacking a single wrinkle. "With our undercover reporter not making the impression we were hoping for, any headway we made in identifying the man in the pictures was squandered as quickly as Mr. Carson’s bank balance when he spends a day at the race track.”

  The room breaks into rapturous laughter, my colleagues seemingly catching onto Delilah’s joke. I laugh too, but it's more to hide my gratefulness that Delilah is still unaware of Marcus’s identity than being amused at a joke I’m not privileged to understand.

  My smile is wiped straight off my face not even two seconds later when Delilah shrieks, “That all changed last night. We not only captured a portion of the man’s uncovered face, but we know the location of one of his regular haunts in New York.” She projects her voice, ensuring she’s heard over the boisterous laughter filling the room.

  I swallow several times in a row, attempting to soothe the bile burning the back of my throat. This can’t be true. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not after everything I’ve endured this weekend. Marcus’s clients don’t deserve to have their privacy invaded like this. Even more so because of how much they donate to charity organizations. Does Delilah realize that? Does she know she isn't just going to destroy the lives of the members of Chains by exposing their secret, she will hurt hundreds of victims of domestic violence who rely on Chains' profits to fund the shelter they so desperately need?

  The panic boiling my veins dulls to a simmer when Delilah instructs us to open our manila folders. Although the image presented on the front page of the dossier is no doubt Marcus, a stranger wouldn’t immediately reach the same conclusion. With a shadow sheltering his alluring eyes, nothing but the sharp cut of his jaw and plump lips are on display. Although Global Ten Media has contacts in high places, I doubt even the world's best facial recognition software would get a decisive match on this grainy and badly pixelated image.