by Shandi Boyes
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. I know what he is referring to. And no, it isn’t about the demise of our relationship. Although I incited our break up, our relationship ended on amicable terms. Luke and I were great together; we just weren’t perfect.
I don't know if it's the alcohol warming my veins, or the fact I don't have any girlfriends to talk to, but over the next twenty minutes, I share every detail of my relationship with Marcus with Luke. By everything, I mean everything. BDSM included. The only part I leave out is Marcus’s true identity. Luke listens intensively, only butting in to ask the occasional question.
Once I've spilled my guts, Luke locks his eyes with mine and says, "You need to tell him how you feel, Cleo."
I throw my arms into the air. “Did you not just hear a word I spoke? He’s at a BDSM club.”
"Did you hear a thing you said?" Luke fires straight back. "He owns a BDSM club, Cleo. It’s his business. I’m not sure what your ideas on running a business entail, but I sure as hell don’t run my pharmacy from home. I have to rock up occasionally.” The playfulness in his tone eases some of the sting his brutal honesty caused. "Chains never lied about owning a BDSM club. You knew that about him when you agreed to meet him, so you can't throw it in his face."
“What about all the other stuff? The photos? Collaring other subs? Him pretending he is in Florida when he isn’t?”
"Come on, Cleo. I thought you were the mature one in our group. That's all high school shit. Remember when Stacey Coulter found a love letter in her locker, and she told you it was from me? You didn't talk to me for three days. It was only after asking her for proof did you realize the note wasn't from me."
"Because she spelled your last name wrong," I add on, recalling our first real fight.
Luke’s wet blond hair flopped on his head barely moves when he nods. “Instead of asking me straight-out, you cut all ties with me for days. It fucking killed me, Cleo. I loved you, yet you wouldn’t give me the time of day.” He locks his eyes with the diamond chain pendant I haven’t worked up the courage to remove. “You’re doing the exact same thing to him. I was lucky I knew where you were. I camped under your bedroom window every night during our breakup. Chains isn’t so lucky. He has no clue where you are.”
Moisture wells in my eyes. “When did you get so smart?” I jest, hoping a little bit of playfulness will stop my tears from falling.
I lose any chances of holding back my childish sobs when Luke replies, "When I lost the girl of my dreams because she didn’t feel confident enough to talk to me like she just did."
He plucks two tissues out of a box next to the couch we are sitting on, then hands them to me. After mopping up the handful of tears on my cheeks I was unable to contain, I mumble, “Why aren’t you mad?”
"Why would I be mad? A much-needed lesson was learned when I lost you. Now another lucky schmuck is reaping the benefit of my heartache."
When my bottom lip drops into a pout, Luke adds on, “Just like some lucky schmuck is reaping the reward of me discovering you have no gag reflex.”
I slap my hand over his mouth as my eyes scope the area, wanting to ensure no one overheard his admission. Happy we are void of prying eyes, I slowly remove my hand from his mouth. "That isn't common knowledge," I whisper as if I am sharing guarded secrets. “Besides, it was a banana that ultimately discovered that skill.”
Luke scoffs. "A banana might have started the investigation, but my cock ended it. Also, I guarantee you everyone in this house is aware of the fact you have no gag reflex. I was a teenage boy, Cleo; that was bragging rights.”
He chuckles even more loudly when I smack him on his bare chest. “Go and put some clothes on. I’d hate for people to get the wrong idea.”
“Too late,” he murmurs under his breath as he stands from the couch.
I watch him in silence as he grabs a clean shirt out of a basket of laundry on the ground and slips it over his head. Luke has a fit, athletic body with perfect clumps of muscles to drive women crazy. His hair is a little longer than I remember, and his eyes are wiser, but he is still the same boy I thought of more as a best friend than a lover. I think that's where our relationship went wrong. We had the sexual attraction, but it arrived much later than our friendship did. We probably should have stayed friends instead of seeking an attraction that needed to be sparked. Sexual connection should come naturally and without effort. Shouldn’t it?
“Call him. Text him. Email him,” Luke suggests, nudging his head to a desk covered with paperwork. “If you don’t want to be with him, tell him. But put him out of his misery, Cleo, as you know as well as anyone what it feels like being left in the dark.”
I pick at a ball of lint on my dress as I nod, too ashamed to look Luke in the eyes. Those three hours between expecting my parents to arrive home, and the police arriving on my doorstep to inform me of their accident were the longest three hours of my life. I called my parents on repeat, leaving message after message. It was pure torture. Luke understands it as I called him in a state of panic numerous times in those three hours.
Luke’s warm breath flutters my hair when he leans down and places a quick kiss on my temple. “I’ll wait for you outside with a bottle of tequila and a tub of ice-cream. You just tell me which one you need the most.”
I wait until I hear the door latch click into place before raising my downcast head. My legs shake when I stand from the couch and pace to the desk Luke nudged to. I first consider calling Marcus, but remembering how one-sided our conversations have always been, I decide to write to him instead. That way I can express everything I want to say in one fell swoop. It will be out there, exposed for the entire world to see.
When I sit behind the desk, the desires of my answer-seeking brain overrule my lust-driven heart. Instead of logging into my email account as predicted, my fingers type a web address I haven’t used in weeks. Although I haven’t used the Chains’ chat forum in months, my login details remain active. I type a name into the search engine before removing my hands from the keyboard, needing a few moments to ensure I’ll be strong enough to face the possible outcome my snooping may unearth.
Realizing no amount of time will lessen my devastation, I tap the enter key. I inwardly curse when my search returns a match. Master Chains’ account is once again active. Even my too-forgiving heart releases a few choice curse words as I click on his account and open a messenger box.
Over the next ten minutes, I type every thought passing through my mind. My disappointment that he wasn't man enough to tell me I was no longer what he wanted. My anger at being betrayed. My annoyance at the constant lies I've been told. But most importantly, I express how angry I am that he wooed me so intensely, I couldn't help but fall in love with him.
* * *
I hate that you're so easy to love.
I hate that I fell in love with you even when my brain begged me not to.
I hate that you’ll never love me back.
But more than anything, I hate that I can’t hate you because I love you too much.
* * *
After signing the bottom of my message, from the one who wants the best of both worlds, I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
The room spins around me when three eclipses trickle across the screen not even a second later, advising that Master Chains is in the process of typing a reply. With how quickly his message is delivered, it's evident he didn’t read my entire message.
Master Chains: Stay where you are; I’m coming to get you.
17
Panic wells when I spot a flashing red light blinking in the middle of the laptop screen. I snap down the screen, mortified I'm being watched. My eyes swing around the space, seeking any identifiable markers Marcus could use to unearth my location. My breathing halts when reality dawns. He doesn't need to find recognizable pinpoints. He'd just have someone track Luke’s IP address. Shit. This isn’t going to end well.
I push back from the desk with so much force, the la
rge leather office chair I’m sitting in sails backward, only stopping when it crashes in the bathroom door Luke exited nearly an hour ago. Bopping down, I gather my heels I kicked off during our heartfelt chat. I hop across the room on one foot as I slip my feet into the tight confines of my shoes. Either my feet are swelling, or my shoes shrunk, as it takes more effort than it should to slip them on.
A frigid breeze prickles my arms with goosebumps when I swing open the glass door of the pool house and step onto the paved footpath. My eyes frantically search the area, seeking Lexi and Jackson amongst the scantily clad pool crowd that has swelled in size the past hour. I spot them huddled together under a cabana on my right. They are clothed—barely.
"We need to go," I notify Lexi, hurling Jackson's jeans I gathered off the AstroTurf during my travels into their smooching faces. "Marcus is on his way here."
Luke’s high school parties were famous for the number of attendees he could cram into one space; tonight is no different. The entire residence is jam-packed with partygoers; I’d easily say the figure is in the mid to high hundreds, so the chances of someone recognizing Marcus is immense. We had enough trouble evading the dozen paparazzi at his grandmother’s residence weeks ago, so I don’t like his chances of escaping the clutches of drunken fans by the dozen.
Even with her dramatic moves dampened by her inebriated state, Lexi jumps into action. She thrusts her legs into her skin-tight mini skirt before wiggling it up her goosebump-riddled thighs. Although I’m overcome with panic, a dash of gratitude pumps into me when Jackson shelters Lexi’s half-dressed frame with the large beach towel they were snuggled under. His stern gaze is enough to retain most of Lexi’s modesty, but an additional finger point is required to warn some lurkers to look away.
After pulling her shirt over her head, Jackson commences getting dressed. His jeans are barely covering his drenching wet boxer shorts when Lexi curls her arm around his elbow and drags him toward the house. Music blares into our ears when we enter. It doesn’t take me long to realize my initial guess about Luke’s guest count was way off. There would be a minimum of a thousand people taking up every inch of his family home.
Our efforts to leave are hindered by a large group of people lining the front porch, waiting to enter. You'd swear we were at the latest nightclub hotspot by the eagerness spread across their face.
I've just dodged a lady losing her biscuits in a hedge when I hear someone calling my name. Spinning around, I spot Luke standing at the foot of his front porch. Just as he promised, he has a tub of ice cream in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I shout, aiming to project my voice over the deafening roar of partygoers.
Luke holds the bottle of tequila to his ear, soundlessly acknowledging he can’t hear me.
“I’ll call you,” I mouth as I mimic making a call with my thumb and pinkie against my ear.
Luke holds his finger in the air, requesting a minute. I nod before turning my panicked gaze to Lexi. Although my intuition is screaming blue murder at me, the kindness Luke bestowed on me tonight deserves more than a minute of my time, so at the very least I should bid him a proper farewell.
“I’ll meet you guys in Jackson’s truck,” I advise Lexi, whose eyes are bouncing between me and Luke’s rapidly approaching frame.
“Tread carefully, Cleo,” Lexi warns, her tone surprisingly smooth for how dilated her eyes are. “You’re only supposed to aim for additional game time, not be sidelined for the rest of your career.”
Stealing my chance to reply, she dashes to Jackson's truck, giggling the entire trip. I wait for Jackson to have her safely latched in the passenger seat before swinging my eyes back to Luke. Our long strides have us meeting in the middle of the sidewalk in two heart-thrashing seconds.
His eyes drift over my face as he stops to stand in front of me. “Hey, I thought we had plans?” he says, waving the scrumptious goodies in the air.
My nose scrunches up as guilt burrows into the black crevice in my heart. “I’m sorry, I need to take a raincheck. Maybe next week?”
Luke nods, graciously accepting my guarantee I’m not once again going to become a stranger, even though we’ve been out of touch for so long.
His heart-cranking eyes dance between mine for several moments before he asks, “It’s him, isn’t it? That’s why you’re fleeing?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, embarrassed I’m acting like a coward. “He knows I’m here.”
Luke’s brows scrunch for the quickest second before recognition dawns. “He tracked you?”
When I nod, he adds on, “You did say he was possessive. I didn’t realize it extended this far, though.” His last sentence is hampered by a dash of worry. “You’re not running as you’re afraid of him, are you, Cleo?” Now there is no doubting his concern. His words were drenched with worry.
I shake my head. “Not at all. Marcus would never hurt me. Not physically, anyway.” I stiffen the instant I realize I said Marcus’s real name.
Luke stares at me, unmoved by my disclosure. I shouldn’t be surprised by his nonchalant reaction. I’m sure there are millions of men in the world named Marcus.
After promising I am in no way in fear for my safety, I say goodbye to Luke with a brief kiss on his cheek and a rub of his arm. “I’ll call you. We’ll do lunch next week,” I assure him.
Luke smiles. “Great. Then I’ll have the perfect opportunity to tell you about Rachel.”
My heart swells to double its size when I see the twinkle of admiration in his eyes. If I still know Luke as well as I used to, it's the twinkle of love. "Rachel Dion? That has a nice ring to it." I run my hand down his forearm before walking back down the sidewalk. "Thanks for tonight. I can't wait to hear all about Rachel."
Luke rolls his eyes at the exaggerated waggle of my brows. When I reach the end of the sidewalk, I spin on my heels to face Jackson's truck. Luke waits for me to disappear behind a large bush before he returns to his house overrun by rowdy partygoers.
My quick strides to Jackson's truck slow when a sense of awareness washes over me. I curl my arms around my torso to ward off the icy chill running down my spine as my wide gaze floats around the space. Even though drunken guests have spilled out of the house and onto the front lawn, there is a weird, spooky feeling enveloping me. It reminds me of the times I've allowed silence to overwhelm me, but I'm surrounded by noise this time, and it's still spine-chillingly creepy.
The reason for my body’s odd response comes to light when I return my eyes front and center. Even my poor vision can't encumber my recognition of the dark sports car parked two spots behind Jackson's truck. It isn't spotting Marcus's vehicle that has my heart slipping into my queasy stomach, it's detecting a flurry of blonde walking away from his passenger side door that makes me sick.
Keira is wearing a dress matching the one in the photos sent to me earlier tonight. The grin on her face is mocking and contrite, and her eyes are blazing with lust. Believing I'm stuck in a jealous trance, I tilt to the right, wanting to ensure I have correctly identified Marcus’s car. I have. Not only does the license plate leave no doubt in my mind, the stern green eyes glaring at me from the driver's seat corroborate my findings.
Returning my body to its original position, I lock my eyes with Keira. Realizing I've spotted her advancing frame, her cheekbones incline before the most pig-headed smirk I've ever seen stretches across her face. She looks like a woman who not only baked the cake, but she also got to eat it too. Her arrogance is at an all-time high, sending my anger skyrocketing to a point I can no longer ignore.
Gritting my teeth, I spin on my heels and head it the opposite direction. I don't know where I’m going, but it's anywhere but here. The fact Marcus arrived to collect me with Keira in tow has my anger reaching fever pitch. I've never been so furious.
In the process of racing down the red cup-lined sidewalk, I spot Brodie approaching me from my left. His gaze is as stern as Marcus’s. I change the direction
of my course, hoping the throng of drunken guests bouncing on the lawn like they are at cheerleader tryouts will conceal me long enough to derive an appropriate action plan. I can barely breathe through the anger curled around my throat, much less think straight.
With my vision blurred with tears, I bump into more people than I skirt. I apologize on repeat as I continue for Luke’s poolroom I can see on the horizon. My frantic steps stop when my forearms are suddenly clutched in a vice-like grip. My back molars grind together as I fight to be released from the person’s firm grasp.
My wailing stops when a distinctly male voice says, "Hey, Cleo, I didn't realize you knew the Dions?"
Although the man’s voice comes out with a slur of someone who has a few drinks under their belt, I still recognize who it is. Dexter.
“Damn, Cleo. Look at you. Always beautiful, no matter what the century.” If I weren’t so enraged, I could kiss him for his compliment. My ego is so battered I’d even accept a wolf-whistle from a bunch of dirty construction workers.
As Dexter bobs down to plant a greeting on my cheek, my eyes frantically dart between his hazy gaze and Brodie’s rapidly approaching frame. I don't know why I do it. It could be a state of panic or a last-ditch effort to maim Marcus as painfully as his deceit gutted me, but before I can stop myself, I curl my shaking hands around Dexter's bristly jaw, tilt my head to the side to better align our lips, then seal my mouth over his.
The instant my lips brush Dexter’s, I know I've made a stupid mistake, but there’s no turning back when Dexter drops the bottle of beer in his hand so he can weave his fingers through my wild mane. He slides his tongue along my gaped lips before plunging it into my mouth. His hand holds me hostage as his tongue explores every inch of my mouth.
I don't return his kiss, but the patrons surrounding us can’t tell. They call out and wolf-whistle, encouraging Dexter to deepen our kiss even more. His exploration of my mouth only comes to an end when an arm wraps around my waist, and I'm forcefully dragged back. Dexter's hold on my head is so firm, the roots of my hair pull from my scalp when Brodie yanks me away from him.