by Shandi Boyes
“Who is that?” I ask Dexter, my voice quivering with nerves. Even with my vision hazy from a rush of moisture flooding my corneas, my intuition is warning me I’ll not like unearthing the mysterious blonde’s identity.
My eyes rocket from the medical report hidden behind the scattered polaroid photos to Dexter when he says, “By the medical report, she is Jane Doe.”
My hand shoots up to cover my mouth. “She’s dead?”
“No,” Dexter quickly responds, appeasing my dread in an instant. Although I feel horrible about her injuries, I’m sure she would much rather be injured than dead.
“That’s just what the treatment clinic marked her down as when she refused to give them her real name,” Dexter informs me.
My brows join together. “Why would she do that?”
Dexter shrugs his shoulders. “I’m assuming to protect the identity of the man who assaulted her?”
Ignoring the barrage of silent questions my eyes are issuing him, Dexter’s fingers fly wildly over the keyboard of his state-of-the-art laptop. My eyes sneakily scan our surroundings to ensure no one is eyeballing us when Dexter hacks into a government website. He moves through the site with ease, exposing this isn't the first time he's hacked their servers.
When Dexter brings up the screen he is searching for, he nudges me with his elbow, stealing my attention from a man gawking at me from the far corner of the restaurant. Although most of his face is covered by the newspaper he is reading, the top half of his sunglass-covered profile seems familiar.
My suspicion on his familiarity is pushed to the back of my mind when a video begins playing on Dexter’s laptop. It’s from one of those fancy private medical centers in the middle of Manhattan, one someone like me could never afford. If I were to believe the rumors, just getting a simple flu shot in an establishment like that costs thousands of dollars.
The air sucks from my lungs when the quickest flurry of blonde captures my attention. The curve of Dexter’s lips tells me he noticed my breathless response to a blonde scurrying out of the main entrance of the medical center to slide in the back seat of the heavily tinted Escalade.
“That was Keira.” Even though my tone is low, there is no way Dexter could construe my response as a question; it was a declaration.
Dexter swivels in his seat to face me front on. "Did you notice the timeline on the video?"
Unable to speak, I merely nod.
“That was within an hour of these pictures being taken.” He points to the polaroids of the lady with the badly bruised back. “These photos were taken at the same medical center Keira exited,” he discloses, his tone forthright.
My eyes snap to his. “Are you sure?” I ask with panic smeared in my tone.
Dexter nods as he zooms into one of the images on top of a stack of papers. My heart lurches into my throat when in the far right-hand corner of the picture the name of the medical center becomes visible. It matches the business name marked above the entrance Keira dashed out of.
I slouch into my chair, unsure where my loyalties lie. Although I know the injuries Keira sustained can be normal for some subs, there is a sick, twisted feeling in my stomach warning me that isn’t the case. The way she responded to Marcus last night leads me to believe she’s a demure sub, one who would rather please her Dom than suffer the consequences for discipline. Furthermore, the pain etched on her face increased with every step she took in the surveillance video. Opposed to me, Keira seems to balk from pain. I’m the only idiot who relishes it.
My eyes lift from my intertwined fingers when Dexter says, "I ran the license plate of the car that picked her up. It registered to a car service in lower Manhattan."
Dexter’s ruffling through a stack of papers in his bag stops when I ask, “Always On Time Limousine Service?”
“Yeah, how did you know that?” His shock is uncontained.
“That's the limousine service Chains uses for its clients,” I explain.
Although I should feel guilty exposing that, I don't. The limo service Chains uses is a well-known fact to every member of the Daily Express Team investigating Chains, so it would have only been a matter of time before Dexter knew himself. Besides, I kept the most important part of my knowledge concealed, the knowledge that the fleet of Escalades used on a day-to-day basis by Always On Time Limousine Service is reserved solely for the use of Chains' VIP clientele. The fleet of Escalades is what transports Chains’ submissives to hair appointments, shopping expeditions, and spa treatments. It's also their chosen mode of transport when sharing subs with other Doms. But since my extensive knowledge of Chains' protocol was awarded personally, it doesn't feel right to share that information with Dexter.
My hand rattles when I secure a glass of water off the table to take a sip. My mouth is so parched, I down half the glass before my scorching throat feels any relief. Once I set my water back down, Dexter advises, "It took me a few hours, but I tracked the Escalade through the city."
My lips quiver when I begin to speak, “Where did it go?”
Even though Marcus guaranteed me last night that Keira has never been his sub, I pray he doesn’t mention Marcus’s New York residence.
When Dexter’s silence becomes too unbearable for me to ignore, I plead, “Please, Dexter.”
“I’m just making sure you’re ready for this, Cleo,” he murmurs, amplifying the giddiness twisting my stomach.
“I’m ready,” I reply, even though I am anything but.
My silent prayers are answered when Dexter says, “It went to an abandoned warehouse on the corner of Coulson and 42nd street.”
He brings up Google maps and zooms in to the address he mentioned. It shows a similar landscape you’d come to expect from the commercial industry in New York. Although most old warehouses have been converted into trendy apartments, some have been abandoned as investors wait for the prime opportunity to either convert their project or sell it on to another investor.
“I ran the address through the database, and it led me to a foreign investor company from Nepal,” Dexter informs me, his voice confident but with a smidge of hesitation. “I followed the company’s legal paper trail the past three days. I’ve got nothing. I’m guessing whoever is operating their security is the same person who doctored the surveillance image from the hotel.”
My eyes snap to Dexter. “You think the warehouse is owned by the same entity as Chains?”
“I’d put money on it.” Dexter nods. “That’s why Keira went there. The bruises on her body weren’t from being assaulted; they were placed there during a party at Chains.”
He shuffles through the small stack of papers in his satchel. His eyes grow wider when he finds the article he is looking for. My heart leaps in my chest when my eyes drop to the elegant calligraphy on the paper. It's a replica of the invitation Mr. Carson handed me months ago when he put me undercover at a Chains party.
“A Chains party was held the night before Keira sought assistance for her injuries.” Dexter hands the invitation to me, proving what he is saying is true. “That party is reported to have been held only two blocks from the medical center Keira was taken to. Although medical reports state she arrived alone, surveillance images do not corroborate that. She was dropped off by this gentleman.”
The miniscule portion of my lunch threatens to resurface when Dexter hands me a photo. Although the image appears to be nothing more than a man sitting in a flashy dark gray sports car, it's the make, model, and license plate causing the fierce response from my body. It's Marcus’s car. The exact car he drove me to Global Ten Media in earlier this week, and the exact car he drove away from me in mere hours ago.
Spotting my ghastly expression, Dexter says, “Now you can see why I’m worried about you, Cleo. I don’t want anything like that to happen to you.”
“Just because Marcus helped Keira doesn’t mean he hurt her,” I mumble through my sob, my voice half-confused, half-devastated.
I don’t know what warrants more devastation:
the fact someone hurt Keira when she clearly displays she isn’t into that type of play, or the fact Marcus failed to inform me of the real connection he has with Keira. If he helped her through this, that's clearly more than just a simple friend-helping-friend situation. When people go through a crisis together, it either gives them an unbreakable bond or tears them apart. There is no middle ground.
Dexter gives me a moment to settle some of the confusion pumping into me before he hits me with even more bewilderment. “Mr. Carson approved the investigation into Chains the Monday morning following the incident. Keira started working at Global Ten that same day.”
“Woah. . . what?” I know I sound like an imbecile, but his admission just blindsided me. “Are you saying there is a connection between Keira being assaulted and Mr. Carson approving the investigation into Chains?”
“Look at the evidence, Cleo. Would you see it any other way? Someone at Chains hurt Keira.”
He doesn’t need to say Marcus’s name for me to know who he is accusing when he sneers “someone.”
“Mr. Carson took offense, and now he’s determined to ruin whoever did it.”
I remain quiet as my brain processes all the information Dexter has handed me thus far. When I add it to seeing Mr. Carson comfort Keira in his office, the evidence is damning. Mr. Carson’s fierce reaction Monday morning reiterates that the Chains investigation is personal to him, much like Keira did when she bombarded me in the elevator weeks ago. The only thing that baffles me is why are two opponents associating with each other? If Mr. Carson cares enough about Keira he wants the blood of the person who hurt her, why would he hunt a community she is clearly a part of and respects? It truly doesn’t make any sense. Unless. . .
My eyes rocket to Dexter. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”
Not waiting for him to reply, I stand from my chair and gather my purse from the tabletop. Dexter mumbles out an excuse for me to wait. His words trap in his throat when I lean over to place an impromptu kiss on the edge of his cheek. When he suddenly moves, my lips brush the edge of his mouth. The smell of garlic and tomatoes lingers into my nostrils when I pull back, panicked strangers will construe my friendly peck as more than friendly.
“Thank you,” I graciously praise, peering straight into Dexter’s wide blue eyes. “I owe you big time.”
“You still owe me lunch!” is the last thing I hear Dexter shout as I race across the restaurant, secure my jacket, then stumble onto the sidewalk outside.
With my focus devoted to deciphering the information bombarding me, I accidentally bump into a gentleman exiting at the same time as me.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I sidestep the man wearing a dark drench coat, black cap, and a pair of sunglasses, so I can hotfoot it to Brodie’s car. My eagerness is so apparent, I’m practically sprinting.
“That’s okay, Cleo,” replies the stranger.
My steps halt midstride when the deepness of his voice registers as familiar. After taking a moment to clear the confusion from my face, I spin on my heels to face the person I bumped into. My eyes dart in all directions, seeking his dark coat. He is nowhere to be found.
8
Lexi’s head lifts from the newspaper sprawled across her and Jackson’s intertwined legs when our front door’s creak announces my arrival. The confusion etched on her face grows when she spots me entering the main entrance of our home. Her shock switches to happiness when she spots Brodie trailing closely behind me. Her response startles me. Although Lexi’s temperament is friendly most days, it's unusual for a person to compel such a response from her, much less a man who usually hackles her spikes more than he soothes them.
After hanging mine and Brodie’s coats, I pace into the living room. The apprehension twisting my stomach eases when I spot a brand new entranceway table sitting in the position our old table used to be. Although its super shiny lacquer doesn’t match the rest of the outdated furniture, it's a beautiful piece that adds a touch of class our house has been missing the past four years.
“You like?” Lexi stands from the couch and paces toward me.
“It’s very nice,” I greet her with a hug and a peck on the cheek.
My brows stitch when she holds on to me a little longer than normal.
“Did you miss me?” My melting heart echoes in my tone.
Lexi scoffs before drawing back. “Not exactly.” She rolls her eyes at my waggling brows. “Alright. Fine. I missed you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I reply with an equal amount of sassiness. “I’ve missed you too.”
After checking that Jackson is occupied talking with Brodie, Lexi returns her eyes to me. The worry in them has my nerves sitting on edge. Anxiety has never been a problem for Lexi; she has confidence by the bucket loads, so I’m somewhat surprised by the concern her eyes are holding.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” She nudges her head to our kitchen.
I nod before pacing into the funky-smelling space. Lexi shadows closely behind me, acting like she can’t smell her disastrous culinary skills. Some of the nerves making me a jittering mess dull Lexi secures a saucepan from the drawer under the oven and fills it with milk before placing it onto the stovetop. She adds all the ingredients for her famous hot chocolate before spinning around to face me.
“What did you do?” I accuse. She doesn’t usually make me hot chocolate unless she is sucking up. Actually, come to think of it, the last time she made me hot chocolate was when she drew a gun on Marcus.
“This isn’t about me.” Lexi’s tone is apprehensive. “This is about you and Chains.”
Not trusting my legs to keep me upright, I take a seat in one of the chairs at our small eating nook. I truly don’t know if my brain can handle any more information than it's currently tackling. The ten-minute trip from the pizzeria to my house was a complete blur, not just wasted trying to work out the connection between Marcus, Mr. Carson, and Keira, but also struggling to identify the stranger I bumped into. Although years ago, I was regularly confronted by Montclair locals wishing to express their condolences for my loss, the stranger’s voice didn’t seem to be the right age for that. His voice was smooth and alluring—like a man in his mid to late twenties.
My attention drifts back to the present when Lexi places a large mug of hot chocolate in front of me. Horrid unease twists up my throat when I notice two marshmallows floating in the rich, sweet goodness. Lexi doesn’t believe hot chocolate needs any more sweetness, so her Garcia stubbornness means she usually serves mine without the puffs of sugar.
“Spit it out, Lexi. I’m dying here.”
She sits on the chair across from me. After tucking her feet under her bottom, her big brown eyes stray to mine. For the quickest second, all I see is our mom reflecting back at me. God, I miss her.
“Hit you straight up?” Lexi queries, wanting to ensure I know she isn’t going to hold back.
“Straight up,” I confirm, nodding.
She takes a sip of her hot chocolate before placing it on the tabletop. I’m tempted to follow suit, but chose to wait, unsure if I can trust my churning stomach with liquid.
“I thought the whole idea of your week with Marcus was for him to have time to convince you to go with him to Ravenshoe?” she asks, her tone low and without judgment.
“It was,” I verify, recalling Marcus saying that during our negotiations in our room last week.
I pick up my mug, feeling that I’ve overreacted to the worry on her face. Maybe it's more exhaustion than apprehension?
“Then why are you here?” Her tone is so forthright; if I didn’t know her better, I’d swear she was annoyed by my visit.
My mug freezes halfway to my lips as my brows stitch in confusion. I was too busy battling through disappointment that Marcus had to leave earlier than expected, I haven’t stopped to consider what altered his prior arrangement.
My eyes lift to Lexi when she squeezes my hand. “Did something happen that changed his plans? Or. . .” She leaves her question open
for me to fill in.
“Nothing really happened. . . Well, we did get in an argument last night. But that was resolved before he left this morning,” I answer, my words as unconvincing as my facial expression.
Lexi’s eyes dance between mine. “Are you sure? As he was adamant last week he wanted you to return to Ravenshoe with him. That’s why he kept begging for you to hand in your notice at Global Ten. He wanted to make things official between you.”
I nod. It isn’t a confident nod. “He said he’d see me soon. He did seem a little edgy before he left, but that’s just the way he is.” My voice softens at the end of my statement as worry makes itself known. “What do you think it means?”
Lexi shrugs as the concern in her eyes doubles. “I don’t know what to think. When I first saw you walk in the door, I was worried. Then I saw Brodie, so I figured I had nothing to worry about. Why would he keep protection on you if he didn’t care about you?” She grazes her teeth over her bottom lip before she quickly mumbles, “Then I got close enough to see the worry in your eyes, and it had me doubting everything.” She locks her eyes with mine, the mayhem in them unmissable. “I’m so fucking confused.”
I laugh. It isn’t my usual full-hearted laughter, but you work with what you have. “Welcome to the club. I’ve been like this for months.”
Lexi smiles. It isn’t as bright as her usual smile either. “Alright, I hit you with straight up honesty. Now you need to do the same.”
Lexi giggles, gags, and grimaces during my recount of the events that occurred from the time Marcus and I negotiated a week of solitude until I walked through the front door. She also threatened Marcus’s life on more than two occasions when I reached the parts that included Keira. The only thing that kept her backside planted on her seat and not rummaging through the safe bolted in my parents’ closet, was when I disclosed Mr. Carson’s involvement in the bizarre circumstances I find myself in.