Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  Before my body registers the pain rocketing through my scalp, my heart is hit with a much worse jab. Marcus arrives out of nowhere, his fist swinging as forcefully as his stern gaze pins me in place.

  The strength of Marcus's unexpected hit is so strong, Dexter stumbles backward, landing on the ground with a sickening thud. Partygoers using the lawn as a dance space squeal while dashing out of the way of a red-faced Marcus. He fists the collar of Dexter’s shirt before planting a second hard knock to his chin, sending his head flying to the side with a sickening amount of force.

  "Marcus, stop!" I scream when his fist rears back to hit Dexter for the third time.

  Thrusting out of Brodie's hold, I scramble closer to them on my hands and knees, only stopping when Dexter uses Marcus’s distraction to lunge forward and head butt him in the nose. The fury lining Marcus’s face matches the blood oozing out of his nose from Dexter’s unexpected attack. The sound of cracking booms into my ears when the two well-built men slam onto the concrete sidewalk like a ton of bricks. They continue brawling like street fighters, going punch for punch, ignoring everyone’s pleas for them to stop—mine included.

  I stare at them, shunted into silence. Marcus’s impressive fighting skills are expected since he is fueled by jealousy, but Dexter’s have completely blindsided me. Most men would have been knocked out after Marcus’s first swing, but Dexter holds his own, issuing several of his own blows to Marcus’s unprotected body.

  Hating that they could get injured because of my stupidity, I drift my eyes to Brodie and demand, “Stop them.”

  After taking a second to register my request, Brodie nudges his head to Jackson, who is standing on the sidelines of the large group watching the fight like they’re at a private MMA match. Brodie drags Marcus off Dexter at the same time Jackson curls his arms around Dexter’s wildly thrusting body. Once they have been pulled apart, Dexter and Marcus stare at each other with nothing but disgust radiating out of their narrowed gazes. It infuses the air with tension so thick I can taste it on the tip of my tongue.

  With Marcus’s composure more controlled than Dexter’s, Brodie relinquishes him from his grip, but with Dexter continually fighting Jackson, Jackson remains holding on to him tightly, showcasing his impressive strength. Tears stream down my face as I stand muted, bouncing my eyes between the two furious men. Dexter’s eye is already swelling so badly, it's nearly sealed shut, and Marcus has blood gushing out of his nose and mouth.

  After running the back of his hand under his nose, Marcus drifts his eyes to me, exposing his recognizable face to the crowd standing behind me. It takes a matter of seconds for their chants for more to turn into murmured hums and excited whispers. The dozen or more camera phones capturing the fight double as the sizeable crowd swarms, hoping to get up close and personal with an idol.

  Sensing he is moments away from being swamped by overzealous fans, Brodie locks his eyes with Marcus and says, “We’ve got to go.” The sound of police sirens wailing in the distance amplifies his suggestion.

  Marcus continues glaring at me, his eyes unforgiving, his fists clenched. Guided by the pleas of my aching heart, I pace to stand in front of him, my legs wobbling with every step I take. When my hands lift to cradle his blemished cheeks, he pulls away from my embrace, adding a brand-new nick to my already faltering heart.

  Dropping my hands to my side, I advise, “You need to go.”

  Marcus stares at me for mere seconds, but it feels like the moon circles the earth a thousand times. His eyes are dark and full of torment, matching the sludge sitting in my chest where my heart used to belong. A tear rolls down my cheek when he pivots on his heels and stalks back to his car. Although the crowd shows their excitement at seeing a famous rock star in the flesh, none approach him, his rueful glare compelling enough to dose their enthusiasm to ask for an autograph.

  When Marcus disappears within the crowd, Jackson releases Dexter from his hold. Mumbling a string of gibberish under his breath, he fixes his crumpled clothing. Once his clothes are sitting right, he lifts and locks his eyes with me, spearing me in place. I’ve never seen him so angry.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, wishing I could offer him more than useless words.

  Ignoring the snickered comments murmured by mainly female guests, I weave my way through the hundred or so party invitees camped on the front lawn. Unlike Marcus, the crowd doesn’t part when they see me coming. I get elbowed and barged no matter which direction I take. When each jab into my ribs is made with a bitchy remark, I realize they’re intentionally hitting me.

  Noticing my struggle, Brodie's naturally engrained protective demeanor kicks into gear. He curls his arm around my shoulders before using his other hand to push people out of the way. The crowd grumbles when his rough approach knocks several cameras out of my face. Although I don't want him to damage equipment I can't afford to replace, I keep my mouth shut, grateful to get away from glares so heated they’re burning me alive.

  “Out of all the men in the world, you had to kiss that one,” Brodie murmurs under his breath, nudging his head to Dexter, who is watching my escape from the sidelines. Brodie’s question was quiet enough the people lurking around us didn’t hear, but not soft enough for me to pretend I didn’t. “Marcus is. . . I don’t know, Cleo. Fuck.”

  "It was a stupid thing to do, but I wasn't exactly thinking straight when I noticed he arrived with her," I reply, my plummeting mood not enough to surrender the jealousy blackening my blood. "I might have kissed Dexter, but it was nothing compared to how Marcus deceived me."

  Brodie stops walking when we reach the passenger door of Jackson's truck. I can feel the heat of Lexi's baffled gaze drilling into my temple, but I can't take my eyes off Brodie. He may not be speaking yet, but his forthright gaze is warning me to listen carefully to what he is about to tell me. It gives me this horrid feeling that my entire universe is about to be upended.

  “Are you talking about Keira?” Brodie queries with scrunched brows. “The blonde watching your every move?”

  When I crank my neck in the direction Brodie’s eyes are peering, he pinches my chin and yanks my head back to him. "The first thing you need to learn about recon is don't let your target know you've spotted them." His eyes dance with mine before he glances back over my shoulder. "Is she wearing a satin dress just like the one in the photos you received earlier tonight?"

  When I nod, Brodie’s deep exhalation of air is unable to conceal the string of curse words that follow it. “Marcus didn’t turn up with Keira. He spent the last three hours with me searching every street in Montclair for you. Keira was already here when we arrived. When she recognized his car, she came over to talk to him.”

  “What?” I ask, confident I’ve misheard him. “Marcus was at Chains—with Keira. That’s why she was wearing his marks in the photos. They are together.”

  Brodie shakes his head. “Marcus was at Chains earlier tonight.” My eyes rocket to his as horrid unease twists in my stomach. Spotting my flaming-with-anger face, he quickly adds on, “With investors. He is selling Chains.”

  “What? Why would he do that?” I barely whisper. “Keira was wearing his marks; you saw them, Brodie, you know what they are.”

  My argumentative tone loses steam when Brodie shakes his head.

  "That’s what I was coming to tell you when I busted you sneaking out. The photos sent to you were photoshopped. Those marks on Keira’s back weren't real. They were added recently. That photo was from a fundraising event over a year ago. A five-second Google search told me that."

  I stare at Brodie, wishing he was lying while also incredibly grateful for his admission.

  “For two people who work with words for a living, you're both shit at communicating,” he chastises, his tone forthright.

  “Then why did he pretend he was in Florida when he wasn’t? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Brodie stares me straight in the eyes. “Once again, I’m not the man you should be asking. If you want answers, y
ou have to go in there and get them.” He jerks his chin to Marcus’s car idling two spots up from where we are standing. “If you want to walk away and pretend today never happened, your chariot awaits.” He opens the passenger seat of Jackson’s truck.

  I drift my eyes between Brodie, Lexi, and Marcus for numerous heart-clenching seconds. My first thoughts are to push off my feet, fall to my knees at Marcus's heel, and beg him for forgiveness. The only thing stopping my feet from moving was the way he rejected my touch earlier. Maybe I am too late? Perhaps the choice no longer belongs to me?

  Seemingly reading my inner monologue, Brodie says, “He wouldn’t still be sitting there if he weren’t waiting for you, Cleo.”

  “How will you get home?” I query, mindful Marcus’s car only has two seats.

  “We’ll take him,” Lexi offers, the slur of her tone reminding me she is still intoxicated.

  I peer at Brodie, gauging his reaction to Lexi’s offer. He nods before requesting for Lexi to scoot.

  I wait for Jackson to climb into the driver’s seat before shifting on my feet to face Marcus. I fiddle with the hem of my dress before plucking at a ball of lint, doing anything to delay the inevitable. Once I’ve worked up the courage to survive his dismissal, I push off my feet and pad to his car.

  His car remains stationary until I slide into the passenger seat, then all hell breaks loose.

  18

  My fingernails bend harshly when I secure a tight grip on the leather seat of Marcus's sports car. His speed is so furious, when we hit a small dip in the driveway, his tires lose traction on the asphalt, and we go airborne. He whizzes out of Luke's parents’ property so fast, Jackson's truck no longer tails us within a matter of seconds. An oncoming motorist honks his horn, unappreciative of Marcus's frantic swerve between cars when he illegally overtakes a sedan driving the designated limit.

  “Please slow down,” I request, fearful his anger will lead to a wreck. “You’re scaring me.” My voice displays my sheer horror. I’m not worried about me being injured as much as Marcus getting hurt.

  Marcus's grip on the steering wheel turns deadly before his pressure on the gas pedal eases. Although his speed is still well above the limits marked on the side of the road we're careening down, it's a hell of a lot slower than it was initially.

  Because he is gripping the steering wheel so tightly, the unnatural coloring of his hand is even more prominent. “Are you hurt?” I scoot to the edge of my seat to inspect his hand more diligently.

  When my fingertips brush the bruised skin angrily stretched over his swollen knuckles, he yanks his hand away as if he was burned by my touch. "Don’t.”

  I stare at him, my stomach churning with both fear and regret. He keeps his gaze on the road, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and lifeless. I want to express my sorrows nearly as much as I want to seek answers to my questions, but I do nothing. I just sit, gawking at him, willing him to speak, to say something. He says nothing. Not a thing. He just stares into the black abyss of a stormy night, unblinking and unspeaking.

  I balk twenty minutes later when the sudden shrill of a cell phone rings through my ears. Marcus answers his call before the second ring.

  “They increased the offer, but not to the amount you’re requesting,” says a thick, husky voice with a hint of maturity to it. “I’ll continue squeezing them. They say they have reached their limit, but I know they have a few more millions up their sleeves.”

  When recognition dawns on what their negotiation is for, I close my eyes and count to ten, doing anything to ward off the tears threatening to spill at any moment. He is selling Chains just like Brodie said. Oh my god, I’m a terrible person.

  My eyes pop back open when the gentleman on the phone says, “Mr. Everett, are you there?”

  Air snags halfway down my throat when I comprehend the reason for Marcus’s delay. He is watching me, his gaze intense and heated with an equal amount of anger and lust. The pain in his eyes triple when he drops them to my kiss-swollen lips. With his gaze white-hot, my tongue instinctively darts out to soothe the burn of his glare. A brutal pain stabs the middle of my chest when I taste the beer Dexter was drinking on my lips.

  Ashamed, I twist my neck to the side and peer out the window, successfully hiding the handful of tears toppling from my eyes.

  Even more tears glide down my cheeks when Marcus says, “Let them have it.”

  “That's not wise, Mr. Everett. They’re still ten million away from your reserve. If you give me a few more hours, I can get them to the figure you're seeking—”

  “I don’t care about the money. Accept the terms,” Marcus interrupts, his tone ensuring his caller is aware his decision is not negotiable.

  I hear his caller gulp loudly before he mutters, “Okay, if you're sure?”

  Ignoring his sneaky question, Marcus asks, “How long until handover can be finalized? I want this wrapped up as soon as possible.”

  His caller “ums” a few times as the noise of papers ruffling sounds down the line. “I’ve never sold a business of this manner before, so there isn’t a specific time frame recommended. If the buyers are happy to move forward quickly, handover could be as early as Monday morning.”

  I peer at Marcus over my shoulder, my eyes expressing that I don’t want him to do this. Chains is a part of who he is; if he sells it, he will lose a part of himself.

  Not noticing the silent pleas of my eyes, Marcus's gaze remains locked on mine as he says, "Email me the contracts; I'll have them authorized and returned by 6 AM."

  He disconnects his call, foiling his caller’s ability to reply.

  “Why would you sell Chains? It's a part of you, Marcus. It's also a part of Links,” I blurt out before I can stop my words.

  Marcus acts like he didn’t hear a word I spoke, but I know he heard me, as the veins in his neck thrummed the instant I mentioned Links. Although I don’t know the entire story behind Links, I know Marcus well enough to know how important it is to him. Chains’ profits fund Links and many other worthy charity projects. Marcus’s band is wealthy, but I doubt any rock group could amass the wealth Chains has the past three years. It's a sad but true notion—privacy is the most valuable commodity you own—only second to love.

  "I'm sorry, Marcus. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry for everything I said—did—will do, but I don't want you to sell Chains. I'll do anything you want. I'll sign our contract. I'll publicly expose Global Tens' unwarranted investigation into Chains. I'll do anything you want if you'll reconsider your decision to sell Chains. I do not want you to sell Chains.”

  I angrily swipe at a tear rolling down my cheek when Marcus snarls, "That's no longer your decision to make." His eyes drift from the roadside to me before he viciously sneers, "Any of them."

  His confession ends our conversation in an instant.

  Marcus’s speed slows while he fields numerous calls from his lawyer, allowing Jackson, Lexi and Brodie to catch up to us twenty minutes later. They pull into Marcus’s property not long after us. Detaching his cell from Bluetooth, Marcus clambers out of the driver’s seat and climbs the stairs of his residence without so much as a glance in my direction. His conversation with his lawyer continues without pause as Aubrey assists him out of his coat.

  I remain sitting in his car, sickened with grief. I may not have acted like it tonight, but I am an adult who can accept the consequences of her actions, but the people who rely on Links aren't as lucky as me. Most of Links’ patrons are children stuck in a debilitating world of domestic violence. They don't deserve for my stupidity to ruin their chance of a normal upbringing.

  I run my hands over my cheeks, collecting my tears when a brief tap sounds on my driver’s side door. The outside temperature is so cold, white air puffs out of Jackson, Lexi and Brodie’s mouth as they stand by the passenger side door of Marcus’s car waiting for me to exit.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Lexi asks when I peel out of the car to stand next to her.

  The worry in her
eyes grows immensely when I shake my head. “No. I created this mess, now I must fix it.” I lock my eyes with Jackson. “Can I ask a favor before you leave?”

  When Jackson nods, I add on, “Can you check Marcus’s hand? I think the fight may have done some damage to the ligaments in his hand. It could be nothing, but he has a world tour scheduled next month, so I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “Yeah, no worries. I have my bag in my truck,” Jackson replies, nudging his head to his vehicle.

  Lexi, Brodie, and I wait in the living room of Marcus’s residence for nearly an hour before Jackson merges from Marcus’s office. My chest grows heavy from the gaunt expression on his face. If he wants to become the world-renowned surgeon he is striving to be, he needs to alter his facial expression. If he confronts his patients’ families to update them on their condition after surgery like he is approaching me now, I have no doubt they would fall to their knees and howl. He has the same look on his face the surgeon did when he advised us Tate didn’t survive surgery.

  "He damaged his hand?" I ask, even though the truth is projected by his direct gaze.

  Jackson nods. “I’m fairly sure he has broken the capitate and scaphoid bones in his hand. He has also done extensive ligament damage. I won’t know the full picture until he has a set of x-rays done in the morning.”

  “Will he need surgery?” Lexi’s words are as low as I’m feeling.

  Jackson shrugs. “I won’t know until I get the x-rays, but at a guess, I’d say no.”

  “Can he play guitar?”

  Jackson’s remorseful eyes peer into mine before he shakes his head.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath. “Like this night could get any worse. His band will cancel their tour.”

  Although I’m murmuring to myself, Lexi says, “Don’t panic until you know the actual results, Cleo. His hand might not be broken. It could just be swollen.”