Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  Just as quickly as my eyes rocket to Marcus’s, the buzz of numerous cell phones sounds through the room. It's a tidal wave of horror, swelling in size and intensity with every beep. The quiet snickers are the first to arrive, closely followed by the hammering of paparazzi questions. Marcus leaps from his chair and lands in front of me as if magic.

  He snatches Aubrey’s cell phone from my hand before dropping his eyes to the screen. The more he scrolls through the dozens of stories on his hidden BDSM lifestyle, the firmer his jawline becomes.

  His eyes missile to mine when he reads the name of the lead reporter of the investigation.

  “I didn’t do this. You know I didn’t do this,” I stammer out, my words choked by devastation.

  “You’re an investigative reporter?” Marcus questions, the roar of his words enough to silence everyone in the conference room.

  "Yes." The brief nod of my head sends tears toppling down my cheeks. "But you know this. I told you I work for Global Ten Media." Unlike Marcus, I keep my voice low, striving to lose the attentive ear of the hundreds of reporters surrounding us.

  “You told me you worked for Global Ten. You never mentioned you were an investigative reporter! You write obituaries for a living for fuck’s sake! I’ve never seen your name in print,” Marcus shouts, his voice so loud, I hear his screamed statement twice since it bounces off the stark walls before echoing back into my ears.

  I stare at him, shocked and confused. I don't understand what he is saying. I never explicitly said I was an investigative journalist, but that was because I didn't need to. He knew about the Chains investigation. He knew I couldn't discuss the particulars of the case for fear of being prosecuted, so I don't understand why he is acting as if he doesn't know. He knows I'm an investigative journalist. Doesn’t he?

  "How many more coals do you want to drag me over, Cleo?" Marcus’s words are as broken as his slit gaze. "First you cheat on me, and now this? Is nothing sacred to you?"

  The crowd sighs in sync, just as stunned by Marcus’s revelation as I am.

  "I didn't cheat. Kissing isn't cheating," I deny, hating that I'm being forced to defend myself in front of hundreds of people watching my every move, much less doing it with the most pitiful excuse I've ever used.

  Marcus takes one step toward me. He stands so close, the furious heat of his body dries the wetness on my cheeks. "Yes, it is," he snarls viciously.

  The hotness of his breath bounces off my lips when he murmurs, “You should have packed an umbrella, as you never know when the next storm is about to brew.”

  As his eyes dance between mine, his hand slides into the pocket of his trousers. Two seconds later, he presents a folded-up piece of paper. My stomach flips when I realize what he is holding. It's the D/s contract I signed last night—the one thing still tethering us together.

  I recoil when Marcus rips the contract in half, not stopping his onslaught until each section crumbles to the floor like rubbish. Once our agreement has been destroyed beyond recognition, Marcus sneers, "We’re done. I never want to see you again. Do you understand?"

  Incapable of speaking for fear of sobbing, I nod.

  “Good. Goodbye, Cleo,” he bids me farewell, his tone flat and without hesitation.

  With that, he spins on his heels and exits the conference room via a back entrance. His stunned bandmates soon follow him, leaving me defenseless against a bunch of ravenous journalists, desperate to unearth any tidbit of information on his recently exposed secret.

  21

  The paparazzi go manic. I'm bombarded within seconds. Cameras and microphones are shoved in my face as an endless stream of questions pummel into me. I raise my hand to shelter my eyes from the blinding camera lights as I endeavor to locate the door I entered mere minutes ago. The swarm of the paparazzi is so strong, for every step I take forward, I'm knocked back three paces. My full name, address, and date of birth are shouted between journalists eager to share their knowledge with the hope it will be returned full-circle when I pick which media company I'll award an exclusive to. That will never happen. Even stunned by what just occurred, I’ll never share my story.

  My endeavors to reach the exit are impaired when my hips are suddenly grabbed by a firm hold. The terror thickening my veins dulls to a slight boil when I recognize the smell of the man clutching me.

  "Keep your head down," Brodie instructs, altering the direction of my course so we head toward the set of doors Marcus and his bandmates entered earlier.

  I step on numerous black dress shoes and expensive high heels as Brodie guides me out of the hair-raising situation I find myself in. Although the shouted questions continue when we enter a thin corridor of the hotel, the brutal elbows and shoves end.

  As I gulp in deep breaths to quell the anxiety making me a clammy mess, Brodie pushes his finger to his ear and says, “Yeah, I’ve got her.”

  “Marcus?”

  Brodie begrudgingly shakes his head. “It’s Lexi. She’s waiting for you outside.”

  I've barely recovered from my first brutal blow when I'm hit with another. Marcus is standing at the end of the corridor with his blazing-with-anger eyes firmly locked on me. When I take a step toward him, the curt shake of his head pins me in place, freezing me with both fear and remorse.

  His eyes dance between Brodie and me for several heart-thrashing seconds before he angrily mutters, “Brodie, let’s go.”

  Brodie's lips twitch, preparing to issue a reply, but his words stay entombed in his throat when Marcus adds on, "Now."

  Brodie lowers his eyes to me, the remorse in them uncontainable. “Lexi is just outside those doors.”

  I swing my head in the direction he is facing. It looks like an emergency fire exit you'd expect celebrities to use when avoiding the paparazzi. When I return my moisture-filled gaze to Brodie, the tears ramp up a gear. Marcus is nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m really sorry about all of this, Cleo,” Brodie murmurs before he pushes off his feet and heads in the direction Marcus was standing.

  Nursing my bruised ego the best I can, I make my way to the emergency exit door. I’ve barely merged onto the cracked sidewalk when the smell of rotten tomatoes streams through my nose. Lifting my eyes, I catch sight of a flurry of red charging toward me.

  I dodge the soaring tomato, forcing it to land on my shoulder instead of my chest where it was aimed.

  “Skank. Whore. Cheater.” Numerous teenage girls scream from the other side of the alley as they continue pegging rotten food products at me. “You don’t deserve a man like Marcus Everett. You're nothing but trash.”

  They throw hurtful words as if they are grenades as I race down the street to my baby poo Buick parked halfway down the alley. Hearing their taunts, Lexi emerges from our car, her face as red as the tomatoes being thrown at my head. When one lands on her stomach, she bends down and picks it up before pegging it back at the jeering teens.

  “You better run,” Lexi yells when her thrown tomato smacks one of my tormentors right across the face.

  While she retaliates to their childish taunts with equal maturity, I slide into the passenger seat of my car and use my shirt to clear smears of egg yolk from my hair.

  I’ve scarcely removed the eggshells from my hair when Lexi returns. She grumbles angrily under her breath as she snags her seatbelt and yanks it across her chest. Because she is tugging on the latch so hard, the seatbelt mechanism locks into place, foiling her endeavors.

  “Goddamn motherfucker shit-box cock-sucking piece of crap!” Lexi yells, saying every curse word she was forced to hold back this week.

  I don’t know how I muster the strength, but a hearty giggle spills from my lips before I can stop it. It's another one of those cry or laugh moments. Considering I cried so much last night that I’m fresh out of tears, I must laugh.

  Upon hearing my laughter, Lexi cranks her neck and peers at me. She stares at me like I am insane, which only makes me laugh even more. My laughter must be contagious, as Lexi soon follows
suit. We laugh so much our car vibrates as if her rusted engine has been cranked. We laugh until our bellies ache, and our eyes fill with happy tears, then we laugh some more.

  When my laughter loosens up my devastation, I slump into my seat. The deep sigh I release ruffles a strand of hair that has fallen in my face. "I royally fucked up," I murmur, more to myself than Lexi.

  “No.” The shake of her head amplifies her short reply. “We fucked up.”

  I peer at her, confused by her statement. What does she have to do with any of this? She might have encouraged me to sneak out last night, but I’m an adult who could have said no at any stage. She also didn’t kiss Dexter; the blame for that idiocy solely belongs to me. As much as this kills me to admit, Delilah was right. She knew my insecurities would get the best of me. By doing that, I not only exposed Marcus’s involvement in the BDSM community, I also sacrificed our relationship.

  Not reading the questions my eyes are relaying, Lexi picks a chunk of eggshell from my hair, dumps it into the cracked vinyl console between us, then fires up the ignition. When the radio begins broadcasting breaking news, she leans over and switches it off. Hating the silence as much as I do, she commences whistling.

  When she hears my disgruntled moan, she murmurs, “It’s either face the music or listen to my whistling. Pick your team, Cleo?”

  She whistles the entire hour journey home.

  When Lexi pulls our rusted old Buick into the driveway of our family home, my eyes go crazy, frantically searching the hands of the dozen or so teens camped out on the sidewalk of our house. Thankfully, they are void of any molded fruit and vegetables.

  “I know gossip on social media spreads like wildfire, but how did they discover my involvement so quickly?” I query, stunned.

  Lexi unlatches her seatbelt before gathering my hands in hers. “The press conference was recorded live.”

  My pupils dilate. “They broadcasted my fight with Marcus.” Although I appear to be asking a question, I’m not. I’m summarizing. “That’s why they called me a whore. They heard what he said to me?”

  Lexi's brows furrow before she nods. "They've also seen the video of Chains and Dexter fighting last night. They know the real reason his hand is broken," she discloses, her voice low with worry about how I am going to take her news.

  “I’ll be eaten alive. You know how crazy the Rise Up fans are,” I mumble under my breath.

  Lexi nods in agreement. “I also know how quickly things like this blow over. You’ve just got to keep your head down for a few days and weather out the storm.”

  “What’s with all the storm metaphors lately?”

  Lexi shrugs. “You’ve got to ride out a storm to see the rainbow at the end?”

  Stealing my chance to reply, she cranks open her driver’s side door and exits our Buick. Mercifully, the angrily snarls of Montclair locals aren’t as vociferous as those in New York City. Things dampened down considerably celebrity-wise after Justin Bieber moved into town a few years ago. Hopefully, the fanatic teen fans continue camping out on his doorstep. It's the smart thing to do considering the chances of Marcus arriving at my property are slim to none.

  As per Lexi's request, I spend the remainder of my week hiding away from the world. With her final exams ending Tuesday afternoon, we've spent a majority of our time watching Netflix and splurging on the occasional Passionflix movie. I haven't heard from Marcus at all the past six days. Honestly, I didn't think I would. He made it extremely clear during the press conference that he doesn't want to see me. And if that wasn't evident enough, the arrival of my packed suitcase via a courier company within the hour of me arriving home Saturday afternoon was a sure-fire indication.

  Unsurprisingly, the news of Marcus's involvement in the BDSM community hasn't dampened the band's appeal in the slightest. If anything, it has made their fans more rampant. The press is going crazy, vying for exclusive interviews with anyone in the industry associated with Marcus, and the band's popularity has soared to a level no one expected. My social media accounts were always filled with Tweets and Facebook posts about teens idolizing the members of Rise Up; now, it’s not just teen girls posting those declarations. If I had a dollar for every time I read a post from a grown woman begging for Master Chains to spank her, I'd be a very wealthy lady.

  The media and the public’s reaction to Marcus’s scandal proves I’ll never understand this bizarre thing we call life. His secret may be exposed, but public awareness of the BDSM lifestyle has grown tenfold. Unlike Delilah, most reports have conveyed both sides of the coin. It truly is a win-win for Marcus. The band’s albums from years ago are once again at the top of the charts, and the dialog about individuals having the right to choose their own sexual prerogatives has been established. I'd give anything to go back and alter the decision I made last Friday, but since I can't, I'll take comfort in the fact the heartache I've endured the past six days has made it easier for women who are battling between their desires to be both feminist and submissive. Maybe now they'll realize they can have both.

  I shut the screen of Lexi's laptop, hiding my umpteenth rejection letter for the week. Before Marcus's scandal broke, I was struggling to keep up with the number of stories my freelance journalism career had offered me. Now I am getting rejection letter after rejection letter. Although every rejection arrives with a letter of offer for me to do an exclusive interview about my relationship with Marcus, none have accepted the stories I penned in the hope of moving my name away from Marcus's.

  “Another rejection?” Lexi paces into the living room.

  I curl my feet under my bottom while nodding. Accepting the mug of hot chocolate she is holding out for me, I gently blow on the steamy goodness. "They increased their offer on an exclusive, though. If the rates keep climbing like they have the past six days, I'll reach seven figures soon."

  Lexi timidly shakes her head. “If only you were interested in Chains solely for his money.”

  "Would you be tempted?" I ask Lexi, curious of her reply.

  She considers my question while sipping on a glass of tea. "I don't know. Maybe?" She places her tea on the coffee table before swiveling her torso to face me. "If it were Chains, yes, I'd sell his story."

  I peer at her, shocked by her admission. She’s never been money-hungry before.

  "But if it were Jackson, no, I wouldn't," she explains to my bewildered expression. "That's why you don't have to defend your decision not to make a profit out of this, Cleo. I may not have as many brains as you, but I get why you're remaining quiet. You loved him, so you'll protect him no matter what."

  “I love him,” I correct before I can stop my words.

  Moisture looms in my eyes as my hand darts up to the pendant wrapped around my neck. Although I could use the chain’s light weight as a reason for my constant checking, I know that isn’t the case. Just like Cartier, I’ve resorted to seeking courage from a piece of jewelry instead of the man who gave it to me.

  My stomach churns as I am plagued by another severe bout of nausea. The past six days have followed along a similar tune. I pretend the world doesn't exist until something shoves me back into reality. When the pain of my existence becomes too much for me to bear, the contents of my stomach reenter the world in the ghastliest way.

  “Not again,” Lexi mutters when I springboard from the sofa and race into the bathroom.

  I've barely skidded to my knees in front of the toilet when the sweet brown goodness I enjoyed earlier resurfaces. Just like every time I've vomited the past week, its return isn't as pleasant as its consumption.

  Once my stomach is void of any nutrients, I stand from my kneeled position, then move to the sink to wash my hands. While splashing fresh water on my face, I catch sight of Lexi's worried expression. The concern on her face stretches to mine when I notice she has my tattered old coat in her hand and a set of keys. "Are you going somewhere?"

  “No. We are.”

  When I peer at her, blinking and confused, she paces into the
bathroom to assist me into my coat. “A broken heart doesn’t make you nauseated,” Lexi informs me while pulling my hair out of the neckline of my coat. “But babies do.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not pregnant.” I murmur my last word, fearful speaking it out loud will cause it to come true.

  “Then you’ll have no reason to deny my request for you to pee on a stick,” Lexi fires back, her tone dead serious.

  A trickle of doubt entered my mind earlier this week when I recalled my period didn't arrive on my return from Ravenshoe. But with Richard's death and the stress of the investigation, I pushed it aside as an effect of the strenuous strain placed on my body. The week following our return was a rollercoaster ride of emotions that plagued both my mind and my body. I never figured my soaring moods had anything to do with being pregnant until the bouts of vomiting arrived.

  When I fail to shadow Lexi out of the bathroom, she cranks her neck back to peer at me. Her eyes convey that her suggestion of purchasing a pregnancy test isn’t up for negotiation.

  “We shouldn’t spend our money willy-nilly,” I mumble, using any excuse I can not to face the truth. “After my disclosure on national television that I breached my contract with Global Ten, I can’t be guaranteed Mr. Carson will pay the remainder of my salary as we negotiated. He might hold over that monetary amount until his legal team advises their next move.”

  “It’s six bucks, Cleo. Stop being so cheap,” Lexi replies, grumbling.

  “It’s not six dollars,” I continue to argue, my Garcia stubbornness not allowing me to back down without a fight.

  "It's when you know the pharmacist, and he gives you a we used to fuck discount.”

  My eyes bulge as the rest of my argument lodges in my throat. Using my frozen stature to her advantage, Lexi seizes my wrist and yanks me out of the bathroom.