by Shandi Boyes
"We are looking for a dark gray Jaguar," he murmurs as his eyes scan the crammed street hidden behind the hotel.
After wrapping my arms around my torso to ward off the chilly winds prickling my skin with goosebumps, I help Brodie locate our transport. With the gala attended by the wealthiest of the wealthiest, the alley is lined with expensive vehicles. It's like an auto show of the most pristine cars—some vintage, some not even scheduled for production yet. If my heart weren't a twisted mess, I’d be tempted to yank my cell out of my clutch to snap some pictures for Jackson. He has a fondness for restored classics. But since it feels like my heart has shrunk to a quarter of its size, I keep my cell stored away.
When Brodie notices me shivering, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. Before I can express my thanks, a dark gray Jaguar pulls to the curb in front of us. After ducking his chin to peruse the driver’s credentials, Brodie opens the back passenger door and gestures for me to enter. My body slicks with sweat, shocked by the contrasting temperatures between the cab of the Jaguar and outside. It’s like I’ve trekked out of the Antarctic straight into a Syrian desert. It's roasting in here.
My neck cranks to the side so fast my muscles squeal in protest when the passenger door slams shut with Brodie still standing on the sidewalk. The request for an explanation is rammed back into my throat when he cracks open the front door. Phew! I thought he was leaving me here—alone. I’ve always embraced New York’s eclectic lifestyle without a second thought. But with my mind hazy from my exchange with Marcus and unexplained dizziness, I’m not as welcoming of a solo voyage as usual. I love New York—it's my sister city—but navigating my way through the craziness unaccompanied seems daunting tonight.
Panic wells inside me when Brodie fails to slide into the passenger seat. Remaining on the sidewalk, he hands the driver a yellow post-it note with an address hand-scribbled across the front. “Take Cleo to this address. Don’t stop for anything. Do you understand?” he instructs, the authoritativeness of his tone shocking me.
Brodie is a bodyguard, but I've never heard his voice have this much sharpness. When the driver nods, Brodie slaps his hand on the hood of the Jaguar, soundlessly advising the driver to exit.
Anxiety grips my throat as I scoot across the sticky leather seat. Failing to notice my gaped jaw and bugged eyes, Brodie’s stance stiffens. His entire composure screams of a man on watch. His shoulders broaden as his chest puffs out, his feet plant at the width of his shoulders, and one of his hands rests on the concealed gun strapped to his hip. His stature conveys a "do not mess with me" attitude.
Once Brodie's protective stance becomes nothing but a blur in the distance, I shift my confused gaze to a pair of eyes scrutinizing me via the rearview mirror. I frown in confusion as my brain racks why his eyes seem so familiar, although I'm confident we’ve never met.
A tiny shiver moves through me when recollection dawns on why his blue eyes are recognizable. He is the man who drove me to Marcus's residence weeks ago. The one who refused to pull over no matter how much I begged.
Incapable of ignoring the sick feeling brewing in my gut, I lock my stern eyes with the driver before asking, “What address are you taking me to?”
He peers at me, blinking and confused. Recalling that his English is poor, I ask another way: "Montclair? Are we going to Montclair?"
"No." A curt shake of his head amplifies his short reply. "This address," he adds on, tapping the post-it note stuck to his steering wheel. "No Montclair."
“Please. . .” My petition to alter our route is barely hatched when he rolls up the Jaguar’s privacy partition, denying my God-given right to make my own decisions.
Clearly, he remembers me as well as I remember him.
2
Ten minutes contemplating a way out of my predicament equals ten minutes of wasted time. Previous experience told me pleading with the driver to alter the direction of our travels would be pointless, yet I still squandered the last ten minutes begging for him to do precisely that.
Confused and a little worried, I slouch into my seat and shift my eyes to the sea of vehicles clogging the streets of New York. With traffic the densest I've seen, mere seconds pass before an idea I’ve been toying with fully forms in my mind. I'll walk to the closest train station and take public transport home. Although my heels are the tallest I've ever worn, I'd prefer to endure blisters than have my heart undergo another brutal beating it may not withstand. I can’t take the risk—one more crack could permanently disfigure it.
When the driver stops at a red light, I curl my hand around the door handle and yank it back roughly. My teeth grit when my ploy to escape is thwarted. The Jaguar's lock mechanisms are firmly in place, leaving me trapped in the car with a man who is watching me like a hawk from the rearview mirror. His gaze is mocking, goading me without a syllable oozing from his hard-lined lips.
Unable to leash my Garcia stubbornness, my overworked brain seeks a viable alternative. It smacks into me like a ton of bricks not even ten seconds later: Lexi. I drop my eyes to my watch to calculate the time left on our journey. If I message her now, she should arrive at Marcus's residence within minutes of my arrival. The short delay will give me enough time to pack my belongings and meet her out front. As much as it would be nice to be heedless right now, my budget isn’t flexible. Every penny I have must go towards mine and Lexi’s living expenses, so replacing the clothes I have stored in Marcus's expansive walk-in-closet is out of the question.
Pretending I can’t feel my heart sinking into my stomach, I lean over to snag my purse from the seat next to me. My brows furl when the faintest buzz gains my attention. Assuming it's the rattle of my hands shuddering up my arms, I snatch my purse off the seat and rummage inside for my cell. My hunt for my phone halts when I feel a second vibrating sensation moments later. Although its buzz is faint, I’m certain it isn’t from my shaky composure.
I run my hands down my body, only stopping when I reach the pocket of Brodie's coat curled around my shuddering frame. With my brain in a tizzy, I completely forgot he lent me his jacket. I jump in fright when an unexpected shudder courses through me again. Since my hand is resting in the pocket of Brodie's jacket, it amplifies the strength of its vibration.
My hand slips into the right-side pocket of Brodie's jacket. My pace is so slow, you'd swear there was a nuclear weapon crammed into the small opening. Blood roars to my ears when a brisk coolness graces my fingertips. Quicker than I can snap my fingers, horrid unease thickens my blood. Please, for the love of god, don’t let it be the vibrating butt plug Marcus slipped into his pocket before we left his residence.
I slump in my chair, eternally grateful when my hand wraps around a sleek metal material that can only represent one thing: Brodie's cell phone. With my heart thrashing against my ribs, I yank Brodie's phone out of the pocket. I'm not planning on snooping; I just want to advise his caller that he is away from his phone. I know how much I panic when Lexi doesn't answer my calls, so I'd hate to put his family through the same thing.
My heart stops beating when my eyes drop to the screen of Brodie’s phone and the name of his caller displayed. Marcus. I stare at the phone, unmoving and confused, until his call is forwarded to Brodie’s voicemail. Just as quickly as the cell stops vibrating, it commences ringing all over again. With chaotic heartache thrusting me into idiocy, I slide my finger across the screen and press the cell to my ear.
"Jesus, Brodie, what took you so long? Do you have her? Is she safe? Where are you?" Marcus's voice is so panicked, his words fire off his tongue before they’re properly developed. "Did you give the driver clear instructions on where to take her?"
I don’t speak. I can’t. I can barely breathe, let alone advise Marcus I’m not Brodie. It isn’t his molten lava voice that has me tranced into stupidity, it's the absolute panic tainting his usually calm tone.
"Brodie?!" Marcus roars through the cell so brutally, I startle. "Do you have her. . .?" Before the entire sentence l
eaves his mouth, he inhales a sharp breath. "Cleo?"
My eyes frantically search the area, certain he can see me, as there is no way he’d know it's me on the other end of the line. I’m not even breathing for the fear he would recognize my wheezy pants.
“Cleo.” This time his tone doesn’t come out sounding like a question. It's a confirmation.
Tears prick my eyes when he mumbles, "Are you okay, baby?" I hear a commotion sound down the line like he has muffled the phone to talk to someone before. "Where's Brodie? Is he with you?"
“No,” I reply, timidly shaking my head.
He exhales harshly as if he was sucker-punched. “Do you know where he is?”
“Umm. . . yes. He’s at the hotel.”
I don’t understand what the hell is going on. The man talking to me on the phone is not the same man I was arguing with twenty minutes ago. I know I said previously I can tell the difference between Marcus and Master Chains, but this is ridiculous. Surely his contrasting personalities don’t extend past the bedroom. Do they?
“What?” I ask when Marcus’s deep voice calling my name draws me back to the present.
“Where are you, baby?” His voice is a soft, nurturing purr. “Who are you with?”
My brows stitch. He has only called me a term of endearment a handful of times. The first few times was before we met in person. It was when he was wooing me to be his sub. It was more a playful tease than a term of endearment. The second time was following my attack in the alleyway. So, for him to say it to me twice in under a minute has my confusion intensifying to a point I'm not comfortable with.
“What’s going on, Marcus?” Dread echoes in my tone.
“I can’t update you right now, Cleo. I just need you to tell me where you are.”
Even with my spikes hackled from his crass tone, I breathe out, "I'm in your Jaguar."
Marcus releases a massive exhalation of air. It's so robust, my face grimaces when it shreds my eardrums. “She’s in my Jag,” I hear him tell someone in the background.
I sit up straight in my seat when a mix of male and female voices react to his revelation. “Who are you with? Are you with Keira?” Keira’s name is barely whispered since it took every morsel of my soul to articulate it.
I press Brodie's phone close to my ear when muffled voices reverberate down the line. The multiple accents are so jumbled, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover Marcus is cupping the speaker of his phone.
Although it's only faint, I overhear Marcus say, “I want this wrapped up. I need to go.”
My jaw tightens when a female voice replies to his request. Although I can’t one hundred percent testify it was Keira, the green sludge lacing my veins doesn’t hear logic. As far as my jealousy is concerned, that female voice belongs to Keira.
My heart rate races as my stomach churns. “That was Keira, wasn’t it?”
There is a scrape of a chair across the ground before the thud of shoe-covered feet padding on a tiled floor booms through the cell's speaker.
“Answer me, Marcus. Was that Keira?”
“Cleo. Stop.”
Angered by his continued deflection, I hit the end call button on Brodie’s phone, switch it off, then send it sailing across the interior of Marcus's Jaguar. A tinge of hesitation courses through me when Brodie’s phone smacks into the polished wooden trim on the back driver's side door before dropping to the floor. Neither Brodie or his cell phone deserves the wrath of my anger. That right solely belongs to the man who confuses me as much as he irritates me.
Feeling guilty that I’ve damaged property that doesn’t belong to me, I lean over to collect Brodie’s phone from the floor. I stop halfway, hindered by the buzz of my cell phone in my purse. Even knowing who is calling doesn't prevent me from yanking my phone out of my bag and peering down at the screen. Although the display screen states my caller's identity is unknown, I know who it is. Other than my sister, nobody calls my phone.
Feeling spiteful, I send Marcus's call to voicemail. Pretending I can't hear my cell phone ringing again, I fish the twenty dollar bill out of my wallet I attempted to give Andy for my bottle of water and slam it against the privacy partition. The driver slides down the window, noticing the crumpled-up note.
"We go to this address," he maintains, jamming his index finger into his steering wheel.
Although his words are firm, they also expose his wavering constraint. If I had more than small change in my purse, I’m confident I could use it to my advantage, but considering this twenty is all I have, I stick with my initial plan.
“Yes, we go to that address, but faster.” I inwardly sigh, grateful when my voice comes out smooth and confident, meaning he will have more chance of understanding me.
“Fast?” the driver confirms, peering at me in the rearview mirror after lowering the partition all the way down. His face is flushed with anger, but his bright eyes expose his interest.
When I nod, he adds on, “This address?” The horn of the Jaguar beeps when he taps the post-it note firmly.
“Yes,” I verify, leaning over the partition to hand him my note.
He smiles, exposing his slightly crooked teeth. “Okay. Thank you.”
He puts my twenty in the top pocket of his short-sleeve dress shirt before increasing the pressure on the gas pedal. Happy the first stage of my plan has successfully launched, I slip back into my seat, refasten my seatbelt, then drop my eyes to my phone. If I weren’t already aware of my mystery caller’s identity, the four calls I’ve missed the past two minutes guarantees I can’t be mistaken. No one I’ve ever met is as impatient as Master Chains.
After sending Marcus’s fifth call to voicemail, I begin dialing a number I know by heart. I’ve only dialed two digits when the screen announces another call. Hitting the end button, I continue with my mission.
My attempts to call Lexi are impaired over and over again by Marcus's constant calling. Annoyed beyond belief, I swipe my finger across the screen and press my cell to my ear. “What!?” I scream down the phone. My voice is so loud the driver of the Jaguar raises the partition once more.
“Cleo?” queries a hesitant voice—a voice that doesn’t match Marcus’s.
Swamped by guilt, I sink into my seat. “Hey, Dexter. Sorry. I’ve just had a . . .” My words trail off when I can’t find an appropriate word to describe my night. It went from an awe-inspiring high to a devastating low so quickly, my head is still spinning.
"Shitty night?" Dexter fills in.
I feebly laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” I lick my parched lips before saying, “I’m sorry about what happened earlier. I didn’t ditch you for Brodie—”
“I know,” Dexter interrupts. “Look, I’m not going to lie, Cleo; he is a damn good actor. I was truly worried at the start, but then I realized you’re not that type of girl.”
“That type of girl?” I mimic.
Although I’m sure he was being playful, the feminist side of me I buried two months ago is rearing her head, ready to defend the rights for any woman to do as she sees fit with her body.
Dexter’s husky laugh douses my agitation—slightly. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Cleo. I just meant you deserve more than a five-minute romp in a storage closet. But, hey, if that’s what turns you on, so be it. Any man would be crazy to miss an opportunity to be with you.”
It could just be my woozy head, but his last sentence sounded like it was laced with sexual innuendo.
"Thanks?" My tone makes my praise sound like a question more than a declaration. I'm not used to getting unexpected compliments, so they always thrust me into a state of idiocy when I do.
Dexter’s breathless laughter switches to a belly-clutching chuckle. “I’ve made you embarrassed,” he snickers between laugher.
"No, you haven’t.” I wave my hand through the air like it's no big deal, eternally grateful he can't see me, otherwise he would have noticed my inflamed cheeks and wide eyes.
Dexter’s laugh tells me he doesn’t belie
ve a word I said. Rolling my eyes at the cockiness beaming down the line, I ask, “Was there a purpose to your call? Or did you just set out to make me uncomfortable?”
“So you're embarrassed?”
"Fine! I'm embarrassed. Happy?" That isn’t entirely true. I'm more confused than anything. I've got too many thoughts passing through my mind to add a flirty comment into the mix.
“Very much so.” His throaty purr causes the hairs on my arms to bristle. Which, in turn, adds to my confusion. “Anyway. . .” he breathes out heavily, like he is snapping himself out of a trance. “I have a very valid reason for my call.”
Noticing the snip of unease in his voice, I straighten my slumped form. My intuition is proven dead on point when Dexter mutters, “How well do you know Keira Herrington?”
"Not very well. Why?" The swishing of my stomach resonates in my low tone.
I hear Dexter rub his hand over the scruff on his chin before he answers, “Being Delilah’s date gave me more than just cooties.”
I try to shut it down, but a small smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. My grin is brief, but obviously long enough for Dexter to hear. Clearly, when he says, “Ah, that’s better,” as if he heard my cheeks incline over the phone.
My smile enlarges more. “I suggest a disinfectant bath with a steel sponge,” I chide, hoping a bit of playfulness will settle the nerves wreaking havoc with my stomach.
My efforts have the effect I was aiming for when Dexter’s boyish laughter barrels down the line. “Don’t worry, I have an entire recon planned to rid me of her germs.”
His reply increases the bow of my brow. How close did he and Delilah get if he is required to don a hazmat suit after their date?
After settling his vigorous chuckles, Dexter asks, “Do you have any plans tomorrow, Cleo? I’d rather share the information I have in person than over the phone.”
I frown, panicked. “It’s that important?”
“As important as breathing,” Dexter fires back in an instant.