Links

by Shandi Boyes

  After clearing the panic from my eyes, I swing them to Marcus. A shiver rockets through me when our eyes connect and hold. The jolt is so forceful, I take a stumbling step backward and gasp in an exaggerated breath. I never understood my dad’s logic about eye contact causing your soul to catch on fire. I do now. Because that's all it took. One glance into Marcus’s eyes told me he would be worth any sacrifice just to see that look one more time. But can I do this? Can I place my faith in a man who invaded my privacy so I can I save him from a woman set to destroy him?

  While returning Marcus’s empathy-filled glance, the same answer rings on repeat in my ears: Yes, I can. I just need to do it right. I need to be the smart, independent woman my parents raised me to be, and I need to do it now before I lose the courage.

  More determined than ever, I lock my eyes with Marcus and say, “I have somewhere very important I need to go.”

  “Okay,” he says, not bothering to check my eyes for deceit. The truth was heard in my strong-willed statement. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No,” I reply, nearly shouting. “This is something I should have done a long time ago. It's also something I need to do alone.”

  Marcus’s brows scrunch as a concerned cloud filters over his eyes. He takes a few moments pondering a response before suggesting, “Alright. Can we meet later?” I can tell by his eyes he wants to say more, but, thankfully, he is striving to rein in his need for control.

  Grateful he isn’t pushing me, I exhale the breath I’m holding in while nodding. “Can you come to my place around eight?” I ask. My words come out rickety, uneasy about inviting someone as wealthy as Marcus into my humble home.

  Like he can sense my apprehension, Marcus lifts his hand to the shell of my ear. His soft touch calms the uncertainty swirling my stomach.

  “The value of a home isn’t determined by the possessions inside it, Cleo. It's the memories created there,” he mutters, intuiting the reason for my nervous tone.

  Shock gnaws at my stomach as I stand mute. How the hell can he read me so easily?

  He fingers the silver stud in my ear as his eyes dance between mine. “Should I pack an overnight bag? Or just. . .” His words taper into silence, leaving me to fill in the gaps.

  Even hearing the playful jeering in his tone doesn’t stop lust raging through me. My palms grow as damp as the heated core between my legs. When I spot an impish gleam in his eyes flaring from my slack-jawed expression, I jab my fingers into his ribs.

  “We are only talking, Marcus,” I inform him, my tone laced with surprising bitchiness. “We have a lot to discuss before anything like that will be happening. If it ever happens again.”

  My tone isn’t any less bitchy the second time around. I’m not angry at Marcus; I’m fuming at myself. The instant my body registered the sexual innuendo in his jovial tone, it wanted to forgo any prompts of my astute brain and skip straight to the heavy stuff: the obligatory make up sex.

  Marcus’s smile grows, arousing my libido once more. “I know. Conversing with you is my third favorite thing to do with you.”

  “Third?” I blubber out before I can stop my words, shock in my tone. “I can gather number one.” My eyes roll skyward, the rigidity in the air unable to stifle my need to goad him. “But what’s number two?”

  Glancing into my eyes to ensure I can’t miss the truth in his statement, Marcus replies, “Making you smile.”

  "Which in turn makes you horny. A win-win for us both." I snap my mouth shut, mortified I said my private thoughts out loud.

  Heat creeps across my cheeks like a tidal wave of embarrassment, leaving me breathless and flushed. My hands itch to cover my inflamed face, but I keep them balled at my side, not wanting to give Marcus another weapon in his already overflowing arsenal to use against me.

  My stern stature buckles the instant Marcus flutters his fingers down the throb in my throat. His touch is so tantalizing it sends a zap of lust straight to my core. While his enticing eyes soundlessly coerce me, his fingers dip into the collar of my blouse.

  “Are you sure you need to leave, Cleo? There is only one situation where I appreciate delayed gratification.”

  My knees become weak from his self-assurance. He is cocky and confident, but not in an egotistical, pompous type of way. When his finger traces the curve of my top lip, my brain begs for me not to get lured into his trap, but the pull is more than I can bear.

  Getting caught up in the moment, I snap my eyes closed and sway towards him. The rollercoaster of emotions I’m riding kicks into high gear when his manly, refreshing smell graces my senses. His scent makes me giddy, and it has my shrewdness severely faltering.

  With how potently lust is firing in the air, I’m stunned my body hasn’t demanded I fall to my knees and beg Marcus for forgiveness. It doesn’t care about the past. It wants to live in the here and now—which happens to include the man standing in front of me. But if I want any chance of accepting the promises his eyes issue me every time he peers at me, I need to make this right.

  Swallowing down my disappointment, I take a step to my right, moving away from Marcus’s warm, tempting body. My lungs saw in and out, wondering if Marcus will follow the usual steps we dance in these types of situations.

  He surprises me when he remains still, watching me cautiously.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” I mumble before making a beeline for the door, stumbling out of the washroom with an undignified clumsiness.

  After taking a few moments leaning against the wall in the foyer of Links to gather my composure, I push through the frosted glass doors and wave down a passing taxi. Butterflies cause mayhem in my stomach when the flash of numerous paparazzi lights blind my vision. Clearly, Marcus’s incognito disguise has been thwarted.

  Seconds later, I slide into the back seat of a cab that stops in front of me and hand the driver the remaining crumpled up bills in my purse.

  “Global Ten Media,” I request to the dark eyes peering at me in the rearview mirror.

  Nodding, the cab driver pulls into the dense flow of traffic. A horn beeps, and I jump, making me realize I am even more nervous than I thought. Even pumped knowing what I am about to do is best for everyone involved doesn’t make it any less challenging.

  I have no doubt my next meeting will be even more explosive than Marcus’s kisses.

  10

  My steps down the hall of Global Ten Media are shaky and long. I’m clutching freshly printed sheets of paper in my hand so tightly, they have crinkles creased down the middle. Before my parents and Tate passed away, challenging situations never bothered me. I wouldn’t say I was an overly confrontational type of person, but if I felt something was unjust, I voiced my opinion on the matter.

  That all changed the instant I answered the call that upended my life.

  There is no greater loss to a person's confidence than losing someone they love. Everything about me changed the day my parents and Tate were involved in their accident. In more ways than I'd care to admit, I changed. I didn’t just lose my family that day. I lost a part of myself.

  Books have been my therapy the past four years. Before meeting Marcus, fictional worlds were the only thing that could sweep me away from reality. It was the one place I got caught up in without a single thought passing my mind. In a weird, kinky type of way, Marcus became my fairytale. When I am with him, I get swept away from reality. It's an invigorating and carefree time.

  I didn't know how much weight I was carrying on my shoulders until I let it all go in his playroom last weekend. That’s one side of the BDSM lifestyle that intrigues me the most. You don't imagine how great it can feel to be relieved of all responsibilities when you're juggling so many, it will only be a matter of time before everything comes tumbling down.

  Rolling my shoulders to shake off my anxiety, I raise my fist to Mr. Carson’s office door and knock three times. My loud bangs drown out my pulse shrilling in my ears. I suck in a deep breath, ignoring the stuttering of my heart.
My brow is beaded with sweat, and my whole body is overheated with nerves. I've spent the last twenty minutes hiding out in my office, building up the courage to do this. I am not just about to risk my reputation as a journalist by confessing my sins to Mr. Carson; I'm also risking my sister's health and our entire livelihood. But even with panic so strong it's making it difficult for me to breathe, I need to do this. It's time to come clean on my relationship with Marcus.

  Don't construe my confession the wrong way, I have no intention of outing Marcus's secret. I just need to step away from the investigation into Chains before the lines between morally unethical and illegal become so blurred I can't tell the difference. Although I am nervous about what Mr. Carson's reaction will be, I am confident my ramifications will be minor.

  My relationship with Marcus may have stepped over what society deems as appropriate for a journalist and her target, but there is no clause in my contract that states I cannot have a relationship with Marcus. It may hint at it not being in my best interest, but there is no way our interactions thus far will put me in breach of my employment contract with Global Ten Media.

  My eyes stray from the ground when a creak of a door sounds through my ears. The width of my pupils grows when my eyes zoom in on the person greeting me. I was expecting Mr. Carson's sable gaze, not a set of eyes belonging to the devil herself.

  “Umm. . . Hi, Delilah,” I greet her, my voice exposing my suspicion of why she is in Mr. Carson’s office so late on a Saturday afternoon.

  My eyes snap to the name plaque on the door, suddenly frantic my baffled mind has me arriving at the wrong office. It doesn’t. The plaque clearly states Mr. Jack Carson – CEO of Global Ten Media.

  Smirking at my skittish response, Delilah glides her hand across the front of her body, soundlessly inviting me in. Her composure is entirely too smug for my liking, which makes my anxiety swell. Swiping at the moisture beading on my brow, I step into the vast space. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so nervous.

  After closing Mr. Carson’s door, Delilah crosses the room in six long strides, her steps as rigid as the Botox-treated skin stretched across her forehead. She props her backside on the edge of Mr. Carson’s desk, giving the indication she is comfortable making herself at home in his domain, before locking her evil eyes with mine. The arrogance pumping out of her is oppressive, fueling the air with ghastly humidity.

  Ignoring the fluttering of nerves in my stomach, I hold her gaze, trying to display I am not intimidated by her. She crosses her arms over her chest, a defiant pose that agitates me more.

  Only once the air becomes thick with tension does she sneer, “I was beginning to wonder if you were avoiding me since you failed to return any my calls.”

  “Ah. . . umm . . .” I roll my eyes, loathing my lack of self-worth around this woman. I am stronger than this. I still, then force my nerves to settle. “It’s the weekend, Delilah. I’m entitled to take days off. It’s written in my employment contract.” I inwardly sigh, grateful my voice comes out sounding as I envisioned: firm, yet professional.

  “Many things are cited in an employment contract, Cleo. The most stringent is your agreement to be contactable in the event of a life-altering story,” Delilah snaps, her composure as bitchy as ever.

  “Unearthing the identities of patrons at a BDSM club isn’t a life-altering story, Delilah,” I rebut, sneering her name the same way she sneered mine. “They are people, no different than me and you.”

  “Ha!” Delilah’s bitchy tone shrills off the walls before booming into my ears. “And how did you reach that conclusion?” Even though she is asking a question, she continues speaking, not waiting for me to answer her. “Even someone as dimwitted as you wouldn’t be stupid enough to believe a single word preached by those sick fucks.”

  I balk, flabbergasted and stunned. "Sick fucks?" I quote, my words spitting off my tongue like venom. "You don't know a single thing about the BDSM community, yet you feel you have the right to judge the people involved in it?" My words are strong and confident, encouraged by the impressive accomplishments I witnessed time and time again at Links today.

  Delilah pushes off the desk and moseys towards me. Her steps are arrogant and dramatic. “They made their bed, sweetheart; now they are about to sleep in the roach-infested bedding,” she sneers.

  “I’d rather sleep in their infested bedding than with a narcissist like you,” I grumble under my breath.

  When Delilah’s eyes slit, it dawns on me that I said my statement a little louder than I was aiming for. I know it's unwise to react to Delilah's taunts, but I can’t help but respond. She grates my nerves more sharply than anyone before her.

  “If they don’t want society deeming them as disturbing, they should seek better ways to curb their desires,” Delilah barks, air quoting when she snarls the word “desires.”

  I wait a beat to reply, giving myself a few moments to calm down. It's clearly a waste of time when I say, “Judging someone’s choices without knowing their reasons doesn't define them, Delilah; it defines you. And from what I'm seeing, it isn't a pretty sight."

  Deciding I am better than this conversation, I pivot on my heels and pace to the door. The last thing I need added to my already overbalanced plate is a shouting match with a woman who doesn’t have a moral bone in her entire body.

  My fast pace to the door stops midstride when Delilah threatens, “You walk out that door, Chloe, you keep walking until you reach the unemployment line.” Her voice is vicious, matching the wilted black heart sitting in her chest.

  Gritting my teeth, I spin around to face her. Delilah glares at me, the expression on her abhorrent face displaying she is stationed for battle. Since this is the umpteenth time she has threatened me with unemployment the past two months, her desolate stare doesn’t have the effect she is aiming for. If anything, it makes her even more pathetic.

  “You need to come up with a new threat, Delilah, as that one is as luckless as your out-of-date hairstyle."

  Delilah’s eyes slit in disdain as she hisses in a breath. “Don’t underestimate me, little girl. Just because we aren’t standing in a dungeon, doesn’t mean your stupidity will go unpunished. I don’t need a whip to have you kneeling before me,” she spits out, her tone menacing.

  “Enough, Delilah!” I roar so loud it bellows off the sharp walls of Mr. Carson’s office. “I’m sick to death of being ridiculed by you. You're nothing but a degenerate old cow who wouldn’t know grace and empathy if they slapped you in the face.”

  I can see Delilah’s anger winding up from her stomach to her throat, but I don’t back down. I’m too far gone serving justice to stop and consider the repercussions of my actions. I am at my absolute wit’s end with this woman.

  “If you had done a single ounce of research on the BDSM community, your ignorance on the matter wouldn’t be so high. But instead of doing the job Mr. Carson pays you to do, you act like you’re some sort of god, glaring down at the people you believe are below you. Newsflash, Delilah: leadership is based on inspiration, not intimidation. And respect is earned, not taken.”

  Even if I hadn't spent the past two months discussing with Marcus the rights of an individual to choose their own sexual proclivities, my opinion on this matter wouldn't alter. My mom was right: a wise woman makes her own decision. An ignorant woman follows the public opinion.

  “Just because something is unknown to you, Delilah, doesn’t mean you should fear it.”

  Delilah scoffs, brushing off my remark with nothing but an evil glare. “I don’t fear anything,” she snarls, her words spit fired out of her mouth like venom, “let alone sick, vile, bilious men and women who—”

  “Save hundreds of lives every year; teach students history, math, and science; and make sandwiches and pump gas. They also breathe the same air as you and bleed the same color blood.”

  "Blood that's been beaten out of them," Delilah roars, her stern pitch loud enough to rattle my bones.

  I take a step back;
shock is smeared all over my face. “Only the people interested in that type of play,” I defend.

  “Play?” Delilah mocks with a malicious smirk etched on her face. “Exactly how far did your research go in the lifestyle, Cleo?”

  Panic rises within me. I was so caught up defending the BDSM community’s integrity, I blurted out more than I meant to.

  Smirking at my stunned expression, Delilah questions, “How deeply undercover did you go, Cleo? A spank with a paddle? A fuck in a dirty alleyway? Or did you fall to your knees like you have every day of your life the past twenty-six years?”

  When I remain, quite a victorious gleam brightens her dark eyes. She knows she has me over a barrel.

  Pretending her scornful tirade didn’t knock my ego, I continue to plead my case, my Garcia stubbornness not allowing me to back down without a fight. “Over the past two months, I’ve spoken to lawyers, doctors, at home moms, kindergarten teachers, and grandmothers in the BDSM community. I researched the lifestyle, talked to the community, and opened my mind to the possibility people can have preferences different than the ones society deems acceptable. That doesn’t make them sick, Delilah. It makes them real.”

  Delilah laughs a wicked, witch-like cackle that makes my stomach churn. “Real? The only thing real here is the fact you are in over your head, little girl,” she mocks, pacing to stand in front of me. She stands so close, her coffee-scented breath bounces off my hard-lined lips.

  “I know your mother has passed, Cleo, but that was after you reached adulthood, so it's no excuse for your ignorance.” She continues speaking, stealing my chance to absorb her first below-the-belt hit before she smacks me with another. “Mothers are supposed to raise their children with morals and integrity. Clearly, your mother was as dimwitted as you.”