by Shandi Boyes
“Damn,” I murmur to myself when the storyline merges into wicked territory. The tension between the two characters is so hot, it would fog up my glasses if I were wearing any.
When my cell phone buzzes again and again, I place my Kindle on the coffee table with disappointment and read the messages. The second helping of hot chocolate I guzzled down with a set of homemade scones gurgles in my stomach when I read the first message.
Unknown Caller: Are we still meeting today? Dexter xxx
The contents of my stomach wind all the way up to my throat when I read his second and third message.
Unknown Caller: Don’t forget the tissues.
Unknown Caller: Actually, bring two boxes just in case.
Riddled with worry, my eyes shoot to the clock hanging in the middle of the blank wall of the living room. It displays it's nearly noon. With traffic, it will take me almost an hour and a half to get to Montclair. That leaves me half an hour to get ready, so I have no excuse not to meet with Dexter. Dammit.
Although Marcus and I worked through a lot of my concerns last night, I still have a lot of unanswered questions. And although I’d donate a kidney to ease the confusion muddling my mind, shouldn’t I seek answers from the man who is the source of them?
After a few moments of deliberation, I fire back a quick message to Dexter, notifying him that our meeting is still on. Worry slows my strides as I weave through Marcus's residence, seeking Brodie. I know he is here, as he was the first person Marcus called when he discovered his trip to Ravenshoe had been moved up a day.
I find Brodie twenty minutes later in the room I couldn't sleep in last night: Marcus's old sub room. His brows are furrowed together, and he has a confused expression etched on his face. When he spots me standing in the doorway, he drifts his eyes to me. "Do I want to know what this room is?"
From the scratchiness of his tone, you’d swear he was standing in the middle of Marcus’s playroom, not his guest bedroom. Although his question is highly warranted, I quirk my lips and shake my head. Brodie’s brows stitch together even more from my blasé response.
While running my sweaty palms down my jeans, I pace deeper into the room. "Will you be ready for a trip to Montclair in twenty minutes? If not, I can take myself, then you can continue unpacking." It's the fight of my life not to roll my eyes over the dimness in my voice. I sound like a child asking a parent for a cookie while dinner is being served.
Brodie stands from the bed before shifting to face me. “Marcus said he wanted us to stay here for the week.”
“We are; I just have plans with a. . . friend for lunch.” I grimace at my poor choice in tone. If Brodie wasn’t already suspicious of my motives, I’m certain his interests are now piqued.
“Who’s your friend?” Brodie’s tone is similar to one you’d expect a detective to use when grilling you for murder charges, not a bodyguard protecting you because your boyfriend is worried about overzealous fans.
“Is your friend a male or female?” Brodie continues to probe when I fail to answer his first question.
I cock my hip and spread my hands across my waist. “Does it matter? A friend is a friend, no matter what their gender is.”
Brodie’s lips curve high enough I can see the pegs of his white teeth. “So it’s a male friend.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest, but don’t negate his claim. Lying has never been my forte.
“Does Marcus know you’re meeting a male friend?”
I squint my eyes at his smug expression. He laughs off my attempt to snarl at him, finding it more humorous than dangerous. His brutish response unleashes my Garcia fighting spirit.
“Does Marcus know you helped remove the nipple clamps from my breasts last night?”
Brodie’s eyes widen to the size of saucers as he takes a step back, shocked by my brazenness. “I didn’t touch you. I might have noticed the clamps on your necklace when you shoved it into my chest, but I sure as hell didn’t remove them for you.”
“Marcus doesn’t know that,” I fire back, my tone relaying I’m not joking.
I stare at Brodie, praying he won’t see the truth in my eyes. My desire to talk to Dexter is strong, but not strong enough to throw Brodie into the deep end without a life jacket.
When his malevolent glare intensifies, the take-no-shit expression on my face grows. It feels like the moon circles the earth three times before Brodie shakes his head. As a sneaky smirk cracks onto his lips, he snags his jacket from the bed he is standing next to.
“He has no fucking clue what he’s dealing with,” he murmurs under his breath as he curls his arm around my shoulders.
When he drags me into the corridor, I mumble, “I was planning on taking a shower and getting changed before we leave.”
“I was planning on masturbating on a floral bedspread while watching porn, but I guess plans change.”
My eyes rocket to Brodie. Disbelief—and if I am being honest—a little bit of impishness is lining my face. As I said to Marcus earlier, there is no spark of attraction between Brodie and me, but even a blind woman couldn’t deny Brodie is a handsome man. Not as attractive as Marcus, but that would be a hard feat for any man to conquer, so just the thought of him getting a little handsy with himself has my pulse rising.
Spotting my slack-jawed expression, Brodie assures me, “I was joking, Cleo.”
I stare at him, my suspicion uncontainable. His eyes aren't expressing mischievousness. Actually, they aren't revealing anything.
My disbelief is proven on point when Brodie mumbles, “I wasn’t planning on watching porn.”
7
“I’ve been to this pizzeria many times before. There’s no back exit. All clientele must walk in and out that door.” I point to the glass door of Villa Victoria. Brodie and I are parked just a few spaces up from here.
When Brodie continues to protest about my request for privacy, I add on, "You’re a bodyguard, Brodie, not a watchdog. This will be a very long week if you don't occasionally learn to heel." My spine straightens over my poor choice of words, but the sternness on my face remains firm.
Brodie studies me, drinking in my determined resolution. “Jesus, and here I was thinking Lexi was the bossy one in your dynamic.” Although his tone is a little snarky, the laughter in his voice dampens the snappiness of his reply.
“Who do you think she learned her bitchiness from?” I query with a bowed brow.
Brodie doesn’t answer my question. It's a smart decision on his behalf. Clearly, he isn’t just a handsome man, he is a shrewd one as well.
“Give me your phone.” A stranger may construe his statement as a request, but I didn’t. It was a demand.
After handing him my cracked cell, he unlocks the screen without requesting my access code, then scrolls to my contacts to add a number to my frequently called list. If he had slapped my face he couldn’t have shocked me more.
Snubbing my disapproving glare, Brodie advises, "This is my cell number. If you so much as sniff an ounce of trouble, call me. I'll be in that pizzeria faster than a crack dealer running from the police.”
He tilts my cell toward me, not relinquishing it from his tight grip until I give him my wholehearted agreement that I’ll call him at the first sign of trouble. Storing my cell in my purse, I slide out of Brodie's car and head into the pizzeria. Although my insides are bristling with annoyance, I realize Brodie is just doing the job Marcus pays him to do. So, if anyone is going to cop the wrath of my anger for my privacy being invaded, it should be the man leading the helm: Mr. Marcus Everett.
Inane butterflies take flight in my stomach when I swing open the thick glass door of the pizzeria and enter. The smell of garlic and melted cheese smacks into me, forcing a rampant grumble to gurgle in my hungry tummy. With it being late in the afternoon, the crowd isn't as heavy as the ones I've come to expect during evening rush hour, but there are still a good number of people mingling in the space.
My head slings to the side when a distinctive
voice calling my name rings through my ears. Dexter is sitting at a table on my right, just in front of a large painted mural. He is dressed down today compared to last night, wearing a pair of well-fitted jeans and a light blue long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows.
After placing my jacket on the coatrack on my left, I pace over to greet Dexter, taking in a set of tattoos on his arms I didn't know he had.
“Hey, Cleo,” he greets, rising from his chair to place a kiss on my cheek. “No tissues?”
I force a smile on my face, vainly portraying his playful comment didn't cause a stabbing sensation to my heart.
After returning his greeting in a similar manner, I take a seat across from him. A flustered waitress arrives at our side not even two seconds later. She informs us of the specials, then takes our drinks order. Wanting to get our festivities over sooner rather than later, I order my main meal at the same time as my drink. Thankfully, Dexter follows suit. It isn't that I don't want to spend time with Dexter; I just don't want Brodie left sitting in his car longer than needed. It may not be snowing, but with the temperature beyond freezing, I'd say there is only a matter of days before Montclair is covered by a blanket of white.
Dexter waits for the waitress to gather our menus and leave before locking his eyes with mine. The light blue color of his shirt makes his icy blue eyes more prominent than usual, and the scruff on his chin adds a manly edge to his usually boyish looks. He is already the rightfully-titled resident hottie at Global Ten, but if the women from Accounting could see him now, I doubt they'd continue running their yearly poll. He'd be the hands-down winner time and time again.
“Did everything work out okay last night? You sounded pretty rattled when I talked to you on the phone,” Dexter queries, genuine concern echoed in his tone.
I smile when inappropriate images of my rendezvous with Marcus this morning flash before my eyes. “Yeah, everything is fine. I was just overreacting,” I assure him, waving my hand through the air like it's no big deal. “You know us girls, dramatic and all.”
I cringe, loathing that I used the weakest excuse known to mankind for my pitiful behavior. I also shouldn't be lying; Dexter saved my hide more times than I can count last night. And how does he get awarded for his gallantry? By me lying to his face.
“What about you? How did your date with Delilah end?” Although I’m chomping at the bit for Dexter to disclose the real reason behind our sudden lunch date, it's more polite to ease us towards that conversation than hammer him with the big questions straight up.
Dexter waits for our waitress to finish serving us our drinks before answering, “Not quite how she was hoping.”
The churning of my stomach ramps up a gear. Delilah is attractive—if you can look past her narrowed eyes and near-constant abhorrent facial expressions. Even if Dexter wasn’t accustomed to her taxing personality, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes for a stranger to discern that Delilah is as satanic as her nearly pitch-black eyes.
Dexter dips a corn chip the waitress left on the table into a spicy salsa mix while saying, “If I were interested in financial gain, the circumstances of my night would have altered significantly. But since I’ve never had an interest in money, her proposal didn’t tickle my fancy in the slightest.”
If I push aside his odd choice of words, his reply doesn’t shock me. If he were money-hungry, he could have pocketed millions by exposing Marcus’s secret. Considering that idea never crossed his mind assures me he isn’t meeting with me for financial incentive.
With my interest piqued on Delilah’s motives last night, I lock my eyes with Dexter and ask, “Delilah propositioned you?”
A faint grin stretches across his face before he nods. I can’t tell if it's an expression of mortification or satisfaction.
“For sex or something else?” My low tone reveals my embarrassment at asking such an insensitive question. After everything he has done for me, I’m definitely starting to consider Dexter more of a friend than a work colleague, but I’d have a hard time questioning Lexi in this manner, much less an attractive male.
Thankfully, Dexter doesn’t seem the least bit worried about my imposing question. He just pops a corn chip into his mouth before muttering, “Honestly, sex was never mentioned, but I had a feeling she believed it was part of our negotiations.”
“Negotiations?” I ask, my interest unmissable.
My eyes lift when a plate of steamy, aromatic food is set down in front of me. Even though I gorged on scones mere hours ago, the delicious scent lingering into my nostrils has my stomach grumbling like it’s never been fed.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the pretty waitress serving me.
After placing Dexter’s meal in front of him, she skedaddles away from our table. Her eagerness to leave has me wondering if she caught wind of our conversation, or if she is hoping Dexter won’t see how flustered her cheeks got when he thanked her for her hospitality with a flirty wink. When she continually glances over at us while serving the patrons sitting behind us, I realize it's the latter.
“You have a fan,” I say to Dexter, nudging my head to the waitress.
When Dexter cranks his neck to peer at her, the heat on her cheeks grows. “She’s cute. But I don’t do blondes.”
“You don’t do blondes?” My voice is snarled with a hint of bitchiness. “Does that refer to dating or. . .” I leave my question open for Dexter to answer how he sees fit.
Dexter smiles a shit-eating grin before shaking his head. “I don’t date. So. . .” He leaves me hanging, much to my dismay.
Disgusted by his nonchalant avoidance of women of a particular hair color, I grab a handful of the corn chips he’s been munching on and peg them at his head. His smile enlarges to a full-toothed grin as he snags a rogue chip clinging to his shirt to consume it. Its loud crunch is barely audible over his concealed laughter. I shake my head in disbelief before tackling the scrumptious meal in front of me.
After settling down his boyish chuckle, Dexter locks his eyes with me. He only stares at me for a minute, but the heat of his gaze is as blistering as standing on the sun. When his stare becomes too great to ignore, I arch a brow, requesting a reason for his prolonged gaze.
“You do realize Delilah won’t quit hounding you until you give her the identity of the man at the helm of Chains, don’t you?” he responds to my silent interrogation.
“Yeah, I’m aware of that, but it doesn’t change anything. The people she is hounding don’t deserve to be harassed, so until that stops, I’ll continue deflecting her ruses,” I reply, my tone indicating to my shock at our quick change in subject.
“You speak like you’re one of them, Cleo.” Dexter peers into my eyes, his concern unmissable. “Are you?”
I forcefully swallow a chunk of chicken in my mouth. Its greasy goodness now feels as dry as a rock. “Would it bother you if I were?”
Dexter leans back in his chair as his dark brows incline. He takes his time configuring a response. I can’t help but stare at him, wondering if he is weirded out by my question. His face is void of the disgust I expect people to hold when I voice an interest in BDSM, but it isn’t pleasant either. He looks genuinely confused.
By the time he replies, the hot meal he was served has turned stone cold. "It's not my place to judge. I just didn't realize you were in so deep, Cleo."
"I'm not." Well, not in the way he is suspecting. I'm in deep as I am in love with Marcus, but I'm not a submissive as Dexter is assuming.
I place my fork on my plate, my earlier hunger vanished. "When you asked me to meet you here, you mentioned Keira. What does she have to do with any of this?"
My stomach gurgles when Dexter replies, “I’m beginning to suspect a lot more than you realize.”
He scrubs a napkin over the stubble on his chin before snagging his dowdy satchel off the floor. With a nudge of his head, he summons me to his side of the table. Swallowing down the concern his worried eyes have instigated, I move to sit in the chair next to h
im instead of across from him.
“Do you remember when Keira joined Global Ten? The ruckus about her getting a senior position when she wasn’t qualified for it?” Dexter queries as he fires up his laptop.
I nod, recalling the snarky comments circulating the water coolers the days following her arrival.
“Do you remember when that was?” Dexter adds on when he spots my agreeing gesture.
My lips quirk. “Around four months ago?” I answer, my interest highly notable.
Dexter nods in agreement. "Before that, her time was shared between a vast number of volunteer organizations. She’d never actually worked for payment before Global Ten."
With two clicks of his mouse, he brings up photos of Keira in front of numerous reputable charity organizations. Some I recognize from articles in prominent newspapers, others are more personal. The most notable photo shows Marcus to her far left.
“So you spotted suspect number one and two,” Dexter remarks as he watches my throat work hard to swallow. “What about number three?”
My confused eyes dance between Dexter's for several moments before I return them to the photos on the screen. It takes me scanning the images an additional four times before I locate the face of the person Dexter is mentioning.
“Mr. Carson?” I question, my tone unsure even though I’m certain it's him. Although his face is barely distinguishable since it's the size of a tack head, there is no doubt that's his handsome profile. I recall faces; his is one I recall with ease.
When Dexter nods, my stomach flips. I've hardly had the chance to settle my twisting stomach when Dexter brings up another set of photos. These are more stomach-churning than his first two. They appear to be a part of a police file, and the polaroids are dated June thirteenth—exactly two days before Keira joined Global Ten. The set of eight polaroid photos display injuries to a female victim’s back, thighs, and chest. The extent of her injuries range from small scratches to bruises the size of an orange.