Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  Not willing to back down without a fight, I take a step toward Keira. We are standing so close, the gold trim of her clutch digs into my chest. “I saw the devastation on your uncle’s face firsthand when he disclosed the reason he agreed to the investigation into Chains. He thinks they are monsters, Keira.”

  She stares at me, blinking and mute. Her silence confirms my suspicions. She is a part of the BDSM lifestyle but unwilling to admit it. I don’t know if her hesitation stems from shame or because her views on the lifestyle are as negative as Delilah’s.

  "Weeks ago you implored me to look at the BDSM lifestyle from the angle of a person intrigued by it but not guided by society's opinion of it, yet you're doing the exact opposite. You're letting a community you love take the fall for your cowardice. I know it's hard to express yourself, Keira. I fully understand what it's like to crave things society doesn't deem acceptable, but I'd never let those I care about be caught in the crossfire. Be honest with your uncle. Tell him those bruises and marks on your back were put there by your own free will. If you care about Marcus at all, save him from being unjustly vilified."

  “Why? So he can ride off into the sunset on a white horse with you?” Keira’s hackling tone shocks me. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you and Marcus, Cleo, but that doesn’t mean I’ll disgrace my family name just so you can claw your way back into his good graces.”

  “What?” I ask as my eyes dance between her. If she failed to hear the confusion in my tone, the expression on my face is unmissable. I am more confused than ever.

  "We all make mistakes. Mine is keeping my inclusion in the BDSM lifestyle from my family. Yours is believing you can make a man like Master Chains kneel. Dominance is who Marcus is; he doesn't know any different, so the instant you forced vanilla on him, you lost him. Be angry, Cleo. Lash out. But remember the blame for the demise of your relationship lies solely on your shoulders—not mine."

  My lips twitch, dying to rebut her false statement, but not a word spills from my mouth. I don't know why; I just can't get a syllable out no matter how hard I fight. It probably has something to do with the fact Keira knows Marcus and I made love. How could she know that. . .unless.

  My eyes missile to Keira. “When did you last see Marcus?”

  The egotistical gleam in her eyes doubles, enhancing my hesitation as she replies, "We had brunch yesterday." She scans her eyes over our location before she adds on, "In this very restaurant."

  She locks her eyes with mine, ensuring I can't miss the honesty in her reply. "As I said, Cleo, I like you. You’re kind-hearted, eager to please, and you’d make a wonderful submissive; you’re just not the right sub for Master Chains."

  “And let me guess, you are?” I snarl, my words vicious.

  She remains quiet, but the smirk on her face answers all my questions. Her confidence is at an all-time high, and way too smug for my liking.

  Her abhorrent smile is wiped straight off her face when I sneer, “You have until Monday to tell Mr. Carson the truth about your injuries, or I’ll expose your secret.”

  "You wouldn't dare," She mutters under her breath as her hand lifts to clutch the vein throbbing furiously in her delicate neck. "That would not only jeopardize your freedom, it will also undermine any chance you have of winning back Marcus. I know Marcus’s worth, so I know there is no way you’d risk it. I know from experience: one taste of him is never enough.”

  I take a step closer to her. The veins in her neck thrum even more violently when I snarl, “I’ve never been one to back away from a dare, Keira, so please feel free to test me. I dare you.”

  14

  With it being early on a Friday afternoon, the city is thrumming with activity. Taxis clog the streets in a stream of yellow as people cram onto the sidewalk. With winter arriving a week earlier than usual, my love of people watching has been downgraded to designer coat admiring. It's probably for the best. With my mood still edgy from my exchange with Keira, I’m not in the best frame of mind to absorb my sister city in the true glory she deserves.

  I trust Marcus, but Keira’s remark—"one taste of him is never enough"—is an accurate description I'd expect from any woman who has been bedded by him. He is like a drug—so potent one taste makes you an addict.

  My eyes drift from the hotdog vendor serving a lady wearing a five-hundred dollar pair of couture shoes when Lexi asks, “Are we still going?”

  The stitch of her brows deepens when I reply, “Hmm?”

  Lexi swivels her phone around to face me, allowing the email she just received to speak on her behalf. It's an email from my ex-boyfriend Luke, advising that the location of his birthday party tonight has changed to his parents’ sprawling mansion. From the photos attached to his email, it appears as if the party is already in full swing. This is not surprising for Luke.

  “It seems Mr. Popular is still as popular out of high school as he was in,” Lexi murmurs as she returns her phone to face her.

  I nod. Luke was the equivalent of the popular jock. He had the looks, the brains, and was the beloved captain of the basketball team. He was the very epitome of every teen girl’s high school crush. He was a great boyfriend. He was just too. . . sweet for me.

  If I hadn’t met Marcus, I would have never understood why my relationship with Luke didn’t work. I needed more than he could give me. Don't construe my confession the wrong way; I'm not saying I broke up with Luke because he was too perfect. It was because I would have never felt comfortable expressing my true desires to him. And, in all honesty, even if I did suddenly grow a backbone, I don't think Luke would have fulfilled my wishes the way Marcus can. He wouldn't hurt a fly, much less spank my backside until it's red raw.

  Ignoring the chill of duplicity running down my spine, I return my focus to Lexi. “What did you reply?”

  Her eyes dance between mine. “I didn’t reply. It’s not a replying type of email.”

  I glare at her. “You have to reply. It’s the polite thing to do.”

  “Then you do it. You’re CC’d in the email.”

  Fighting hard not to roll my eyes at her snappy mood, I snag my cell phone out of my purse and log in to my email. Although I pretend I didn’t notice the absence of any message or missed calls from Marcus, the stabbing pain maiming my heart foils my endeavors.

  It takes a few moments for my emails to download, but when they do, I freeze, paralyzed by a horrendous attack of jealousy sluicing my veins. It isn't Luke's mass email to the hundred plus recipients that has me sweating like I've run a marathon; it's an email from a private company, informing me of the location of the latest Chains' party being held tonight.

  I didn't realize when I logged in to the server months ago I’d be added to their mailing list for future parties. This is a significant gaffe by Marcus's company. If members aren't paying the extreme annual dues to be a member of Chains, shouldn't emails like this be revoked to ensure privacy is maintained for paying guests?

  I startle, scared out of my mind when my cell phone suddenly buzzes in my hand. I level my breathing before dropping my eyes to my phone. The endeavor of my heaving lungs doubles when I realize who is calling me: Marcus.

  After reminding myself that I trust him—over and over again—I connect his call and push my cell close to my ear.

  “Hello,” I greet, my tone apprehensive.

  “Hey,” Marcus greets, his tone more pleasant than mine. “Sorry I missed your call. My phone was on silent.”

  My heart reprimands my brain for being too quick to judge when he asks, “Are you ready for me to come home tonight? It’s been a long week.”

  "Yes," I reply, smiling. Because my reply is honest, it's echoed in my tone. "What time are you arriving?" Although I'm asking a question, I continue talking, thwarting his chance to reply. "Because I completely forgot I accepted an invitation to attend a friend's birthday party months ago. I was hoping we could attend together? As a couple."

  “Who’s this friend?” Marcus queries, his interest u
ncontained, proving he didn’t miss the dip in my pitch when I said the word “friend.”

  Loathing he didn't have a response to my admission I wanted our relationship to go public, I reply, "Umm. . . he's an ex-boyfriend of mine."

  I cringe as I wait for his reply. Thankfully, he doesn’t keep me waiting long. “How old of a relationship are we talking, Cleo?” He tries to keep jealousy out of his question; his efforts are borderline. There was a slight snip of envy left dangling in the air at the end of his question.

  “A very long time ago,” I answer, happy I’m not the only one who struggles to rein in my jealousy in this bizarre relationship we are endeavoring to get off the ground.

  I hear Marcus scrub his hand over his clipped afro as he mutters, “Okay.”

  “You’ll come?” I query, excitement laced in my words.

  “Yes,” he chuckles, appeasing every nick my confrontation with Keira caused to my heart. “When is it?”

  “Tonight.” My one word fires off my tongue in a hurry, my glee unbridled.

  “Tonight?” Marcus confirms, his tone high with reservation. “I can’t do tonight, Cleo.” He sounds genuinely remorseful.

  “Why? I thought you said you were coming home tonight?” I can’t help but sound disappointed.

  “I am,” he answers after sighing heavily. “I’m just not arriving until late this evening.”

  I struggle to ignore my brain's repeated pleas for me to grill him for information. It's a waste of time. "Why are you arriving back so late? Can't you bring your flight forward an hour or two? You're the pilot; you can do whatever you want."

  Marcus sighs again, this one more grim than his first. "I haven't got time to discuss this right now; I'm swamped, but I'll see you tonight. Okay?"

  I remain quiet, unsure how to reply. I also don’t want to open my mouth for the fear the sick gloom hammering my stomach will attempt to see daylight.

  “I know you’re disappointed, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. Okay, baby?” Marcus asks, coercing me to bend to his will by calling me a term of endearment, which he rarely does.

  "Okay." I despise that I've become so desperate for his attention, I'm letting my heart win every argument against my intelligent mind. "I'll see you tonight."

  As I’m dragging my cell away from my ear, Marcus calls my name. “Make sure you take Brodie with you.” This time, he doesn’t attempt to hide the jealousy smeared in his low tone.

  After agreeing to his unbendable demand, Marcus disconnects our call. It's a pity his eagerness to end our call wasn't quick enough for me to miss hearing a female voice call his name. I'm not talking about the name on his birth certificate; I'm referring to a name only a handful of people know him by: Master Chains.

  My teeth graze my bottom lip as I lower my cell from my ear. The turmoil making my stomach a horrid mess ramps up when my phone illuminates the email from Chains, notifying the location of tonight’s party.

  “What’s wrong?” Lexi asks, intuiting my forlorn look. “Change of plans?” Her voice sounds as devastated as I’m feeling. She knows I’ve been counting down the hours until Marcus’s return, so seeing me end our call on a sour note has her worry piquing.

  “No, he’s still coming home tonight; he’s just not getting in until late.” I keep my voice upbeat, hoping to lessen the worry lines marring her forehead.

  “So what’s with the pouty lip?” Lexi twangs my bottom lip with her thumb.

  Her playfulness makes me smile. “It’s. . . umm. . .I don’t know. It’s nothing. I’m just being stupid.”

  “Cleo.” She only says one word, but her eyes express so much more.

  “It’s nothing. Truly. I’ve just got a million things running through my head right now.” I huff, portraying my best worrywart impression.

  Lexi rolls her eyes. “You’ll learn to slow down one day.”

  I can tell she wants to say more, but thankfully, after a reassuring bump of her shoulder against mine, she drifts her eyes to the scenery whizzing by the window.

  The remainder of our trip to Marcus’s New York property is made in silence. Quiet is a rare commodity when you're in Lexi’s presence. Even Brodie continually peers at us via the rearview mirror, shocked by our tightlipped composure. Usually, he can’t get a word in between us.

  With our late lunch stretching into the earlier afternoon, it's a little after six PM when Brodie's vehicle rolls to a stop at the platform stairs of Marcus's house. Lexi curls out of the car at a record speed before galloping up the stairs. When she reaches the landing, she cranks her neck back to peer at me. “I’m going to grab a shower before getting ready. Jackson packed all my dresses, so if you need to borrow one, help yourself.”

  My brows stitch. “Why would I need to borrow a dress?”

  Although my poor vision makes Lexi appear as nothing more than a blur, I swear I saw her eyes roll. “Luke’s party. Drrr. Be ready to leave at nine. That way we are fashionably late, but not annoyingly late.”

  Not giving me the opportunity to protest that I don't feel like going out, she charges in the house, stealing my chance to reply.

  I drift my eyes to Brodie, who is peering at me in the rearview mirror when he says, “At least she’s regained her bounce.”

  Smiling, I nod, although I'm still suspicious about what caused her sudden change in temperament. I'm beginning to wonder if I am the only Garcia to have a run-in with Keira today? Lexi is as fiercely protective of me as I am of her, so I don’t doubt if she discovered Keira was dining in the same restaurant as us, nothing would have stopped her from having a quiet word with her. By quiet word, I mean, severe threat.

  Shutting down my inner monologue before it causes the contents of my stomach to see daylight, I mimic Brodie's departure from his now stationary vehicle. We trudge up the steps in silence, both our shoulders weighed down by a difficult day. Even the slight sprinkle of rain dotting our hair with glistening drops doesn't increase our pace.

  The slight creak of the front door announces our arrival to Aubrey, who is sitting in the living room watching a Spanish soap opera show. The glee on her face is doused when she spots my downcast head. Switching off the program, she stands from her seat and moseys toward us. I’ve barely yanked my coat halfway off when she arrives to my side with a towel in one hand and a pair of thick socks in another. My brows stitch. Where did she get them from?

  After using the towel to pat sporadic sprouts of curls dry, I kick off my shoes and replace them with the heavenly comfort of the socks Aubrey handed me. My confusion grows when I shift on my feet to face Brodie, preparing to offer him my towel to dry himself. He is nowhere to be seen.

  Acting like it's perfectly reasonable for people to vanish into thin air, Aubrey curls her arm around my shoulders and guides me into the kitchen. Although I ate mere hours ago, my stomach grumbles when an alluring smell of spices and curry lingers into my nostrils. Abel's specialty is breakfast treats; any scrumptious morsel of food you could imagine consuming before midday was sampled by me during my five-day stint in Bronte's Peak. Aubrey's cooking specialty fills in the remainder of the day. It's lucky Marcus's staff members don't follow him to each location, or I'd end up the size of a house.

  Actually, come to think of it, I could really use Abel's advice right now. Although Abel has never said it, I'm reasonably confident he is aware of Marcus's preferred bedroom activities. If he weren't, the sudden arrival of a playroom in the residence he calls home would have been an odd moment for all involved. But Abel took it in his stride, neither expressing condemnation or praise, so it displays he has an open mind—one I need to possess if I want any chance of working through the confusion debilitating me.

  After sitting down on the stool I sat in when Marcus attempted to coerce me into being his sub, I lock my eyes with Aubrey. She is standing in front of the stovetop, serving a large helping of coconut curry chicken onto a bed of jasmine rice. The ladle freezes halfway between the pot and the bowl in her hand when I ask, "How many of M
arcus's subs have you served this dish to?"

  After taking a beat to clear the panic on her face, Aubrey spins on her heels to face me. "None," she says confidently as she paces toward me to set down the bowl of steamy goodness.

  I arch a brow as my eyes silently assess the truth in her eyes. I’m taken aback when nothing but genuine honesty reflects back at me.

  “How can that be true?” I question, more to myself than Aubrey.

  She gathers a fork from the top drawer, wraps it in a napkin like a fancy restaurant, then sets it down next to my bowl. “Can I be honest?” she queries, her pitch hesitant.

  Not trusting my voice not to crack with emotions, I nod.

  "The entire time I've worked with Mr. Everett, he’s had stringent rules. How I could interact with his subs, what they could wear, and what food they ate." She drops her eyes to the bowl of scrumptious chicken calling my name, begging to be consumed. "Any products laced with creamy goodness were not on his list of prepared meals."

  “Prepared?” I query, my tone confused.

  Aubrey nods. “He had a list of meals I was to prepare for each night of the week. I worked Saturday through to Sunday preparing the meals for the following week.”

  “Then what?”

  "Then I worked from home the remainder of the week." She paces to a stack of drawers at the side of the kitchen. After gathering a sheet of paper, she returns to her original position and hands the document to me.

  I breathe out my nerves before dropping my eyes to the sheet of paper. The concern blackening my blood is unwarranted. The list is nothing more than a grocery list with a set of meals made up for each day. Although the meals appear lavish with the inclusion of salmon and poached chicken, they are also bland, with every meal complemented by steamed vegetables or a side salad minus any condiments. There is also not a dessert mentioned in the entire document.

  My spine straightens when reality dawns. Raising my eyes from the paper, I lock them with Aubrey's glistening gaze. "Today is Friday, isn't it?" I scan the kitchen, expecting the date to appear before my eyes magically.