Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  My stomach flips, loathing the disturbing images his reply bombarded me with. All were similar to the ones I saw earlier tonight, but this time around, Marcus and Keira weren't elegantly dressed. They weren’t dressed at all.

  “Yeah, I can meet you somewhere. Did you want me to come to you?” I ask through the solid lump in my throat.

  “Nah.” Dexter drags out the one word as if it's an entire sentence. “Isn’t that pizzeria you mentioned a few months ago in Montclair?”

  My brows furrow. “Villa Victoria? Yeah, it’s on Park Street,” I reply, shocked he remembered a restaurant I mentioned months earlier.

  “I’ll meet you there tomorrow. Say around two?”

  I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow at two.”

  “Alright.” I hear his smile through the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye, Cleo.”

  “Bye, Dexter,” I bid him farewell, confusion evident in my tone.

  Just before I disconnect our call, a question pops into my head. “Dexter?”

  “Yeah,” he answers immediately.

  My lips are dry, so I lick them before asking, “Am I going to need anything tomorrow? Like . . . tissues?" My voice is so weak, I won't be surprised if he asks me to repeat my question.

  He doesn’t.

  “Depends,” he replies, honesty in his response.

  Sickness spreads through my gut. “On what?”

  My breathing stills; my heart stills. I swear, time stands still as I await his reply.

  “On if you're in love with Marcus Everett,” Dexter eventually replies, his tone so low I’m certain the devil heard it.

  The wooziness inflicting my head swells when the air is sucked from my lungs. Hearing my unenthusiastic response, Dexter asks, "Are you, Cleo? Do you love him?” His voice sounds confused. He isn’t the only one.

  "No," I mumble, my voice cracking with emotions. I try to shake my head to strengthen my statement, but my body won’t allow it.

  My hand darts up to rub away a tear descending down my cheek when Dexter mutters, “Bring tissues.”

  3

  I’ve barely calmed the erratic beat of my heart when the Jaguar pulls in front of the platform steps of Marcus’s New York residence. My plan to have Lexi pick me up in the minutes following my arrival has been left for dust after my conversation with Dexter. I’ve done nothing the past forty minutes but stare at the pitch black sky, striving to untangle some of the confusion bombarding me. Forty minutes of silence awarded me with forty minutes of additional confusion.

  Pushing aside my bewilderment, I accept the hand the Jaguar driver is holding out for me. With my tight dress holding my thighs hostage, it's a little harder to slip out of the car than it was to enter it.

  “Thank you,” I say graciously when the driver passes me Brodie’s cell I sent hurling across the car earlier.

  The driver dips his chin before jogging around to the driver's side door of the Jaguar and slipping inside. I wait until his taillights disappear in the distance before climbing the platform stairs. The same set of butterflies that take flight in my stomach every time I climb these stairs are still present; they just aren't based on giddy silliness. I genuinely feel ill.

  My shaky steps up the stairs halt halfway when the large glass entranceway door suddenly swings open. With my poor eyesight hampered by tears, it takes me several blinks to recognize the person standing in the doorway. It's the beautiful middle-aged Hispanic lady who disappeared within minutes of my first arrival at this residence: Aubrey, Marcus's personal assistant/housekeeper.

  “Come on, dear, it's cold out there.” She signals with her hand for me to hurry.

  I push off my feet before my brain can cite an objection to her bossy tone. When I stop in front of Aubrey, shivering from the sprinkling of rain mottling my hair, she snatches my purse, Brodie’s jacket, and his cell phone out of my hands.

  “I need that,” I instruct, pointing to my purse when she dumps my belongings on the glass entranceway table.

  Just because I've spent the last forty minutes in a daze doesn't mean my plans have altered. I'm still calling Lexi to pick me up.

  “You are to be fed, showered, and sent to bed. Mr. Everett didn’t state which order, so you can choose whether to eat or shower first. What do you want to do?” Aubrey’s tone indicates she’s not to be messed with.

  I take a step back, bamboozled by her bitchiness. Is every female in Marcus’s life without a heart, or just those who work for him?

  When I ask Aubrey that, her brows stitch. She looks as bewildered by my response as I am to her affirmation she was given instructions on how to handle me. The longer she stares at me, the weaker her evil glare becomes. Apparently, the anger activating every nerve in my body is potent enough she can feel it shuddering the ground as well.

  The twinkle in her eyes grows as she mumbles, “You’re different than the others.”

  "That's because I am not one of them," I reply, hating that I’m once again defending my title in Marcus’s life. “I am not Marcus's sub.”

  Aubrey runs her hands down the crease of her skirt, seemingly unsure of a reply. I wouldn't necessarily say she doesn't believe me. She just seems unaware of how to act in this predicament. Obviously, she is more well-equipped to handle Marcus's subs than she is his girlfriends. Ex-girlfriend, I mentally correct.

  Wanting to switch off the washing machine in my stomach, I mutter, "Do you have any reservations about me eating in my room?"

  She peers up at me with her dark eyes blinking. “No. I’ll arrange for your meal to be brought there.”

  Smiling to issue her my thanks, I gather my purse off the entranceway table and make a beeline for the stairs. Aubrey’s eyes burn with concern, tracking me the entire time. Once I hit the landing of the spiral staircase, I dig my cell out of my clutch. My hand is slicked with so much sweat, I nearly drop it while nervously fumbling for Lexi’s number. She answers not even two seconds later.

  “Cleo. . .Hi.” The scrumptious laughter accompanying her greeting dulls the ache in my chest. Her girly giggle is full of vibrancy and love—a stark contradiction to the emotions pummeling me into a blubbering mess.

  “Have I interrupted something?” I ask when the sound of sheets shuffling jingles down the line.

  "No. . . Jackson, stop it," Lexi chastises him, her words muffled as she cups her phone. "You know I'm here whenever you need me, Cleo; what's up?" Her last sentence comes out in a hurry since a girly laugh quickly followed it. “Jackson. . .don’t; it’s Cleo.”

  “Oh, hey, Cleo,” Jackson mutters down the line, his words as high as my arched brow.

  I pace into the main suite of Marcus’s residence. “Hi, Jackson. Is everything okay?” I ask, my tone laced with suspicion.

  “Perfectly A-OK.” Jackson draws out his words.

  I stop frozen at the side of Marcus’s bed when Lexi’s faint moan is barely covered by Jackson’s throaty laugh. My confusion grows when a loud yelp barrels through my phone’s speaker moments later, closely followed by a manly growl. What the hell are they up to?

  I hold my phone to my ear with my shoulder so I can gather my overnight bag from the footlocker at the end of Marcus's bed. As I enter the expansive walk-in closet, Lexi and Jackson's playful banter continues as if I’m not eavesdropping on every murmured statement. I am. I listen like a real creep, adoring the utter bliss radiating out of my baby sister’s voice. She sounds so incredibly happy, tears spring in my eyes. And for the first time tonight, they are tears of happiness.

  I stop stuffing clothes into my bag sprawled open on the pristinely clean floor when I catch the quickest snippet of a request Jackson makes between a peppering of smooching kisses. He was quiet, but not soft enough for my snooping ears to miss. "Say it again?"

  “No.” Lexi’s one word is drenched with heavy sentiment. “I’m talking to my sister,” she continues, revealing she is aware I’m listening in like a weirdo.

  I push the phone in
close to my ear, displaying the title “Cleo the Creep” Lexi gave me four years ago is still going strong when Jackson demands, "Say it again, then I'll leave you alone.”

  Standing frozen in the middle of the dead quiet closet, I can hear Lexi’s heart thrashing against her ribcage before the faintest whisper of, “I love you,” spills from her lips.

  I gasp in a shocked breath as a rush of moisture floods my eyes. The satin material of my dress does a terrible job mopping up my tears when Jackson replies, "Not as much as I love you."

  Not trusting my legs to keep me upright, I move to sit on the chaise Marcus spanked me on the morning following our first session in his playroom. Although devastated by the circumstances of events that has happened thus far tonight, hearing my baby sister express her love to the man of her dreams has fulfilled one of my greatest wishes.

  Just like me, Lexi closed herself off after our parents and Tate died. In the beginning, I thought her reasons were the same as mine—she was afraid of people leaving her. It was only after watching her wade through breakup after breakup the past three years did I realize our logic for keeping people at arm’s length was entirely different. I kept people away because I was afraid they would leave me. Lexi kept them away because she was afraid of leaving them.

  Every time Lexi started a new relationship, she began immediately plotting its demise. She has often quoted she didn’t want love, marriage, and a family. Where in reality, she didn’t want them to suffer the heartache of losing her. I don’t know if her change in mindset is based on how well the Kayldeco program is working for her, or if she just needed a man like Jackson to prove loving her will be worth the heartache of losing her. Maybe it's a bit of both?

  Telling Jackson she loves him is a massive step for Lexi—one so significant, I'm not going to ruin it by being melodramatic.

  “Lexi,” I breathe heavily down the line, drawing her attention away from Jackson, who I can hear schmoozing her neck.

  “Yes.” Lexi voice sounds elsewhere. A faint slap bellows down the line before Jackson's hearty chuckle. "Sorry, Cleo. You now have my undivided attention."

  A smile stretches across my face when Jackson warns, “You have five minutes, Cleo. Use it wisely.” The last half of his sentence is barely audible, overtaken by the thud of feet padding against a hard floor. If my assumptions are right, it sounds like Lexi is chasing him down our hallway.

  I jump, startled when a door suddenly slams moments before Lexi’s breathless pants wheeze down the line. “Sorry, he’s truly gone this time. I used our new reinforced door to lock him outside.”

  “Lexi. . .” I drawl out with a laugh.

  “What?” I can imagine her shrugging. “He needs a moment to cool down. Hell, I need to cool down.” She dramatically huffs. “Our week of solidarity is nearly up, so we’re getting in as much alone time as possible, but, my god, my body is feeling it.”

  My theatrical gag ends when I hear Jackson pounding on our front door. “Lex, let me in. Mrs. Rachet is taking my picture.”

  “Smile, Jax,” Lexi squeals, her voice so high she sounds more like a teen than a grown woman. “She will post that on the Montclair Neighborhood Watch website, so you better look good. Once an image is released to the world, there is no chance of removing it.”

  My childish giggles nearly have me missing Jackson’s shouted demand, “Goddamn it, Lex. Let me in! I don’t have any pants on.”

  When Lexi ignores Jackson’s continued requests for entry, I say, “Lexi.” I drag out her name in a long, warning purr. “You can’t tell a man you love him, then throw him outside without any pants.”

  I hear Lexi’s throat work hard to swallow. “You heard that?” Her voice is not as chirpy as it was.

  “Yep. Every word,” I confess, not the slightest bit hesitant to admit I am a creep.

  Lexi huffs. I can just imagine her rolling her eyes. "Stop acting like I won valedictorian. It was only three little words, Cleo.”

  “Three very important little words.”

  “Whatever,” Lexi grumbles under her breath.

  She doesn’t fool me. I heard her heart skip a beat. After a short stint of silence, the clunk of our front door lock booms into my ears, closely followed by the creek of the warped floorboards in our entranceway.

  “He’s in. Are you happy?”

  “Very much so,” I reply, smiling.

  My eyes lift from my heel-covered feet when I detect another presence in the room. I don’t want it to, but a dash of disappointment thickens my blood when I spot Aubrey entering the master suite. She has a white napkin curled over her forearm, and she is balancing a silver tray on her hands. With a contrite smile, she places the serving tray onto a stack of drawers on her right. My stomach grumbles when the smell of curry filters into the air. Its desolate response reminds me I haven’t eaten since lunch.

  Spotting that I’m on a call, Aubrey dips her chin, then exits the room, leaving the door open in her wake. My attention reverts to my cell when Lexi’s soft giggle jingles down the line. It appears a few moments in the blistering cold winds Montclair is famous for didn’t dampen Jackson’s interest in the slightest. I don’t know why, but that awards me an immense amount of pleasure. At least one of the Garcia women is feeling the love tonight.

  “I love you, Lexi. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I say down the line.

  Lexi shushes Jackson before saying, “Hold on one minute, young lady. You didn’t just call to tell me you love me.”

  Warmth blooms across my chest, cherishing the fact she knows me so well she can intuit what my call is about.

  “Your voice is doing that weird skittish thing it only does when you're excited or nervous. So, spill the beans, Cleo, or I’ll torture it out of you.”

  “All the way from Montclair?” I jest.

  “I’ll find a way,” she assures me, her tone confident.

  I wait a beat, giving my body a chance to rid itself of nerves before saying, “No, you’re right. I didn’t just call to tell you I love you. I called to ask you something.”

  I hear Lexi’s pulse raging through her veins as she waits for me to continue. Her thudding heart is drowned out by a fit of laughter when I ask, “Did you know pineapple makes guys’ cum taste sweeter?”

  4

  Shame wallops me as I stand on the landing in the second story of Marcus's residence, swinging my eyes up and down his opulent home. I have my bags packed and sitting at my side, but I'm at a loss as to where I’m going. I can't go home as I don't want to interrupt what should be an uninterruptable moment between Lexi and Jackson, but I can't stay here either. Just the thought of facing Marcus head on has my stomach twisted up in knots. God—I wish I had a bundle of cash sitting in my bank account, begging to be squandered. Then I'd simply call a taxi and spend the remainder of my weekend holed up in a two-star motel on the outskirts of town. But, unfortunately, there are no hotel rooms in New York city available for three hundred dollars a night—yes, I checked. Furthermore, I can’t afford the cab fare to drive me there.

  This is one of those sporadic moments where I wish I didn't love my sister as much as I did, then I wouldn't have hesitated to ask her to come pick me up. Considering it's been over three hours since I left the gala, even with my forty-minute delay in calling her, we would have been long gone before Marcus arrived home.

  I don't know if I’ll survive seeing him again. I wasn't being dishonest when I said if this turned out to be nothing but a crazy, lust-fueled fling it would kill me. It isn't just killing me. It's gutting me alive. I haven’t even left his residence yet and I already feel hollow. Imagine how much worse it will be when I build up the courage to walk out his front door?

  I repeat a mantra my dad always quoted as I stoop down to gather my overnight bag from the floor. "It's time to pull up your big girl panties and show how strong you truly are."

  Although he was originally talking about dealing with schoolyard bullies or clients disgruntled by the scathing article printed about
them by Global Ten, it’s still suitable for this occasion. Not facing Marcus would be a cowardly way of ending things. Even with my heart being held together by a thin thread, it knows confronting him in person is the right thing to do. My parents raised me to be a strong, independent woman, so I can’t just push that aside when the circumstances don’t fall in my favor.

  My steps down the glamorous hallway are shaky and long. With Aubrey advising she was heading to bed hours ago, the entire house is plunged into eerie darkness. My heart slithers into my stomach when I open the door of a room I’d give anything not to see again: Marcus’s old sub room. If it’s old.

  Careful not to impact the heavenly thick wool carpet, I place my dowdy overnight bag on the ground next to the closed bedroom door, then trudge to the bathroom. Although I’ve already showered once tonight, I still feel dirty. It’s probably more to do with this room than anything.

  I take my time in the shower, ignoring how starkly contradicting it is to the grandness of Marcus’s bathroom. Don’t misconstrue my statement, this bathroom is a thousand times better than the one in my home, but compared to Marcus’s four vanity sinks, egg-shaped tub, and large double shower, this one just looks shabby.

  I huff incredulously. I’ve clearly allowed the opulence of Marcus’s properties to spoil me. Maybe that's why I’m finding it so hard to leave? It isn’t because of my confusion; it's because I don’t want to give this up. God—no wonder everyone assumes I am Marcus’s sub. I’m acting just like one.

  Annoyed at myself, I dress in a pair of stretchy yoga pants and a long-sleeve shirt. I'm so peeved, I don't bother putting on panties or a bra. I don't even dry my hair. I'll deal with the aftermath of my decision tomorrow. For now, I just want to crawl into bed and forget the world exists.

  That would be a whole heap easier to do if I weren't doing it in the bed Marcus's previous subs used. I've been tossing and turning non-stop the past forty minutes. I've never seen photos of Marcus’s former subs, or been given any indication of how they look, but I’m imagining a flurry of beautiful blondes with ocean blue eyes and perfect facial features. They are gorgeous women, but their faces are horrid enough to instigate nightmares.