Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  After wading our way through a contingent of media still hounding me for an exclusive and a handful of teens still hoping to spot Marcus, we arrive at the drugstore Luke owns twenty minutes later. Just locating Luke's truck in the parking lot has my nerves hitting an all-time high.

  “I can’t do this, Lexi. I can’t face Luke, and I also don’t want to confront the truth. If I’m pregnant, nothing will change. I can’t tell Marcus—”

  “Why not?” Lexi interrupts, her tone high in shock.

  “The media would tear me apart—even more than they already are. They will have a field day saying I trapped Marcus and am after his money. That gauntlet we just ran, it will double in size for every month of my pregnancy, then it would turn crazily stupid when the baby was born. I can’t put a baby through that any more than I could do that to you or Marcus. This is my life, Lexi. It's not a circus.”

  Lexi flicks a rogue tear from my cheek before locking her eyes with mine. "What if I get it? I'll tell Luke it's for me."

  "Then what?" I ask, loathing how heavily I'm relying on others to dig me out of the bottomless pit I'm in.

  “Then we’ll put one foot in front of the other until we work out which path you want to take.” Her glistening eyes bounce between mine as she murmurs, “You don’t need a test, do you? You already know.”

  I nod. “Life likes to display just how fucking cruel it can be, so why not throw another curveball into the mix?”

  22

  The pregnancy tests go precisely how I predicted. But instead of being baffled with color charts and a box of instructions, Luke gave Lexi top of the line pregnancy tests—three of them. All I had to do was pee and wait, then I discovered I'm six to eight weeks pregnant. My fucking god.

  I place the third positive test back on the cracked vanity before resuming my frozen stance on the toilet. Lexi's nerves are so evident, Jackson joins our pity party in the bathroom, making the cramped space even more so. When his eyes lower to the positive tests, my first thought is the hide them before he reads the results, but I'm so lost right now, I'll happily accept advice from anyone.

  “Are these tests yours?” Jackson peers at me.

  Although relief crosses his face when I nod, I swear a small dash of disappointment also filters through his eyes.

  “The good news is you’re only six to eight weeks, so you’ve got plenty of time to decide what you want to do,” Jackson says, using his surgeon voice I’ve only heard a handful of times.

  A whizz of air parts his mouth in a rough grunt when Lexi backhands him in the stomach.

  “What?” he asks when she glares at him.

  “Cleo is not having an. . . abortion." She whispers her last word as if it's a curse word.

  "I wasn't suggesting one. I meant for telling Marcus. With miscarriage statistics so high, doctors recommend you wait a minimum of twelve weeks before announcing a pregnancy. This will give you a few weeks to clear the fog from your head."

  “I need a lot more than a few weeks,” I grumble under my breath.

  Jackson smirks, proving he heard my private mumble. “Do you have a preferred obstetrician you’d like to see?”

  I roll my eyes before shaking my head. “I haven’t been to the doctor’s since the mandatory health check Global Ten employees get.”

  “And she wonders how she ends up pregnant,” Lexi snickers.

  She connects her eyes with mine, the angry cloud in them growing with every second that ticks by. “Did Marcus know you weren’t on the pill?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. He never asked, and I honestly forgot to mention it.”

  When the storm in Lexi’s eyes triples, I add on, “I know, I know. Very stupid. But I’ll be okay. From the way his D/s contracts were worded, it’s clear his previous subs had a full medical exam before any contact, so I don’t have to worry about diseases or anything.”

  "No, just one that requires food, shelter, and clothes for at least the first twenty-one years of its life," Lexi retorts.

  “Alright, Lex, I think Cleo’s got enough on her plate without us adding to it.” Jackson’s assurance lessens the severity of Lexi’s glare, but it doesn’t fully douse it. “There is a local obstetrician in Montclair, but I’d rather refer you to a specialist in Queens.” He hands me a tattered card from his wallet. “I’ve worked with her a few times; she comes highly recommended.”

  The rueful glare Lexi is directing at me reverts to Jackson. Her gaze is white-hot, adding to the horrid mugginess of so many people in the small space.

  "She is also fifty-eight," Jackson adds on, understanding the meaning of Lexi's suddenly cold demeanor. "If I didn't love your jealousy, Lex, I'd be pissed about your mistrust."

  “I’m not the one who slept with half the interns during residency,” Lexi fires back, shadowing Jackson out of the bathroom. “How am I to know if she is one on a long list of many?”

  “Lexi, if we start this conversation, I’ll mention my run-in with not one, but two of your ex-boyfriends at Luke’s birthday party last week.”

  Their jealous bickering continues until they enter Lexi’s bedroom. Their argument doesn’t last long. I’ve barely hidden the pregnancy tests in the top drawer of my desk when the sound of shouted words is replaced with needy moans.

  Not wanting another dash to the toilet, I snag my old cell phone off my desk and trudge to my bed. My phone is over four years old, but it's in perfect working order. Its extensive playlist has been a godsend the past six days. Although seeing Lexi deliriously happy with Jackson has made my heartache stronger, I'm also glad my foolish decision hasn’t impacted them too significantly.

  Another benefit of my outdated iPhone is its iCloud capabilities. All the sneaky photos of Marcus I took during our brief fling are stored on my phone. Although seeing what I’ve lost adds to the endless pit in my chest, I’ve perused our photos numerous times the past six days. I always start my trip down memory lane from the beginning of our relationship—at the snaps I took of Marcus with his bandmates the very first night we met. Tonight is no different.

  The slideshow of photos goes from our first night together until the morning Marcus left for his supposed trip to Ravenshoe. They display that our time together was brief, but jam-packed with memories.

  I still haven't worked out the reason for Marcus's deception on his location. The only person who can answer my questions is the same man who is avoiding me like I have the plague. Even Lexi has been unsuccessful in reaching him. If his face weren't splashed across every news program and article in the world, I'd assume he vanished.

  When the montage of our brief relationship ends on a sneaky video I took of Marcus singing in his recording booth, I scroll back to the only photo I have of us together. It's a corny selfie I made him take in the minutes leading up to our dinner on the patio being disrupted by a sprinkling of rain, but it's a perfect representation of our relationship—fire-sparking and intense.

  As I stare at our contrasting skin tones and eye coloring, I daydream about what features our baby could get from each of us. I wonder if he or she will have Marcus's alluring eyes—part of me hopes they will, whereas the other half wants the brown-eyed Garcia gene to reign supreme—then I can keep a part of my family history continuing even years after I'm gone.

  When the creak of my bedroom door breaks through my pulse shrilling in my ears, I scrub away a rogue tear the curve of my lips is caressing. The pain crippling me dampens when Lexi slips into the bed and curls her body around mine, like she has done the past six days. I don't know if my quiet sobs aren't as silent as I aimed for, or if she just knows me well enough to know when I’m having a low, but she arrives at precisely the right time every single night.

  “Shh. I’ve got you, Cleo,” she guarantees when the shivers racking my body become too great to ignore.

  The following morning, Lexi prances into the kitchen, her steps as upbeat as my mood. “Is that waffles I’m smelling?” she asks as she paces to the fridge to snag one of the many v
itamin waters Jackson stacked in the fridge last night.

  “Uh huh,” I reply, accepting the bottle of vitamin water from her hand. “Jackson knows these are a waste of money, right?”

  Lexi shrugs. “He thinks they’ll help with your nausea. He also wrote down a list of vitamins he wants us to pick up for you today.”

  “Are you going out?”

  Lexi waits for me to check on the waffles before answering, “Yeah. I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Spencer. He wants to see my results firsthand.”

  Ignoring my heartstrings painfully tugging, I smile. Dr. Spencer has been Lexi's CF specialist since the day my parents discovered she had CF. Dr. Spencer fought for years to get Lexi included in the Kalydeco program when the drug was first discovered, but his requests went unanswered. I’m certain if he didn't have four sons he was putting through medical school, he would have personally funded Lexi's inclusion in the program.

  "Thank you." Lexi's eyes blaze with excitement when I carefully pluck two waffles out of the waffle maker and pop them onto the plate she is holding out. "I haven't had your waffles in years, Cleo. I'm dying to discover if they still taste as yummy as they used to."

  She wasn’t lying. She doesn’t even add any condiments before taking a sizeable bite of the still steaming waffle. “Sooo good,” she mumbles through a moan.

  Happy the first part of "Operation Get Cleo Back" has been hatched, I pour another batch of mixture onto the waffle machine. I've had an entire week to mourn Marcus, and as much as I wish I could continue hiding away from the world, it's time for me to get my wheels back in motion. I'd like to say discovering I am pregnant is the catalyst for my new and improved attitude. Unfortunately, that would be a lie. It was waking up to find my bank account void of the salary I was expecting to be wired in there overnight.

  If my accounting skills are correct, I have approximately fourteen days to find employment or I’ll be homeless. With not just having Lexi’s health to factor into my dilemma, any mourning must be pushed aside until I’ve dug myself out of the massive, ceaseless pit I’m sitting in.

  My eyes swing to the side when Lexi asks, “Are you alright, Cleo?” Her words are mumbled by a syrup-slathered waffle.

  "Yep" I reply, enunciating the P to add extra emphasis to my false statement.

  Lexi’s brows inch together as her eyes dart between mine. For the first time in a week, my weary gaze must portray the screamed prompts of my brain, as Lexi smiles before returning her focus to tackling her breakfast.

  I place the final plate in the kitchen cupboard when the distinct noise of knocking sounds from my front door. Snagging a tea towel off the drying rack, I apprehensively pace out of the kitchen. Although the brazen attempts of reporters have dulled down the past three days, I still receive the occasional cold calls from eager media companies vying for an exclusive interview.

  “I’ll get it,” Jackson says, coming out of Lexi’s room.

  He throws a shirt over his shaggy hair as he bypasses me standing mute in the hallway. Jackson has been a godsend the past week. Even with his mother facing a terminal illness, he has been by my and Lexi’s side during this entire ordeal. The tumor in the base of Janice’s skull hasn’t shrunk, but the optimism of her family has increased tenfold the past two months, as it hasn’t grown either. Their family is proof that a positive attitude can sometimes be the only drug you need.

  As much as I’m grateful for Jackson’s assistance, I’m also worried he will burn out. His residency requirements at the hospital are already crazy, let alone handling creepy stalkers obsessing over how a plain-Jane member of society snagged a rock star and journalists who are inept at taking no for an answer.

  I never thought I’d say this, but I’m really missing Brodie. He may pee with the bathroom door hanging wide open and tell crude jokes as if he is Kevin Hart performing on stage, but he is a great guy. I guess Brodie’s disappearing act should have been my first clue that things were truly over between Marcus and me. For weeks, Brodie shadowed my every move. Then, suddenly, poof, he was gone. What Lexi said last week was true. Knowing Marcus had Brodie tailing me meant he still cared. Just like withdrawing his contact implies the opposite.

  I snap my thoughts back to the present before they put a dampener on my recently formed go-get-‘em attitude in just enough time to see Jackson open the door. My brows stitch when our expected caller’s frame is covered by a large hamper of goodies. It's only when I hear the unique rumble of a recognizable male voice do I push off my feet and head into the foyer.

  “Hey, Dexter,” I greet, my tone apprehensive.

  I haven’t seen Dexter since our kiss last week. I did send him a quick text earlier in the week to apologize for my appalling behavior. When he replied saying I had nothing to apologize for, I ended our conversation. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for him loosening the guilt wrapped around my throat, I just had too much going on to factor in another person’s feelings. My priority was nursing Marcus through his scandal—albeit unnecessary, but I didn’t know that at the time.

  When Jackson’s wide eyes shift to me, asking if I’m okay to be left alone with Dexter, I nod. Dexter is harmless. Although my scalp still tingles from his rough hold.

  Dexter waits for Jackson to enter Lexi’s room before drifting his dazzling eyes to me. “I wanted to get you flowers, but I’ve always thought they were pointless. They cost a fortune; they last a matter of days, then they end up as compost.” He hands me the massive basket filled to the brim with food. “I thought this was more practical.”

  “It's great. Thank you, Dexter.” My high tone relays the sentiment in my voice. After my calculations this morning, this food basket means way more than I can express.

  I mosey into the kitchen. Dexter follows behind me, indiscreetly taking in my home on the way. “Your home is nice, Cleo. It has a real family vibe to it.”

  I set down the basket on the kitchen table before spinning around to face him. “Thank you. It has a lot of my mom and dad embedded in its bones.”

  “They bought this when they got married, didn’t they?” Dexter removes his coat and slings it over the chair I am sitting next to.

  I smile. “Yeah, they did. I can’t believe I mentioned that to you.” I’m usually more reserved with sharing information about my personal life.

  I step into the hallway so I can see the heart of the home. “It was rundown, but while my mom sampled cakes and organized the seating chart, my dad spent his hours bringing her back to her glory days. My dad carried my mom over the threshold the night of their wedding.”

  My small smile increases when I recall how beautiful the molded-wood features look after a coat of paint. That's the first thing I’ll do once I get settled. I’m going to return my home to a state my parents would be proud of. One I’ll be proud to raise my family in.

  “How come you’re not at work?” I query, praying Dexter won’t see the stupid sentimental tears looming in my eyes.

  He chews on the corner of his lip. “I’m on leave.” He rocks back and forth on his heels, his nerves clearly evident. “Didn’t feel like explaining my black eye and chipped tooth to my supervisor.”

  My pupils grow as guilt engulfs me. I don’t know how I missed it earlier, but now that he pointed it out, his right eye is still wearing the effects of his fight with Marcus.

  “You chipped your tooth?”

  Dexter runs his tongue along his teeth before saying, “Yeah. Not that you can tell now. My dentist is a genius.”

  I cringe, loathing what his bill to have a chipped tooth repaired was.

  “I don’t have much, but if you’re willing to accept installments, I’ll pay your dentist bill.”

  My steps to gather my checkbook halt midstride when Dexter says, “I didn’t come here to hand you my medical bills, Cleo.”

  I spin around to face him. He has his arms crossed in front of his broad chest and an amused smirk etched on his face.

  “You didn’t?”

  W
hen Dexter shakes his head, I stammer, “Then why are you here?”

  “To see if you're okay. I thought we were friends?” He shrugs his shoulders as if it's no big deal. “I wanted to come last week, but decided to wait for the craziness to die down.” His neck cranks to peer at the kitchen wall facing the front of my house. “But from what I saw out there, things are still pretty hectic.”

  Some of the heaviness on my chest lifts from him calling us friends. I was worried my stupidity last week damaged our recently formed friendship. “I’d like to say I’m surprised by the media’s tactics, but we both know all too well the tactics reporters stoop to for a story.”

  “Hey,” Dexter says, holding his hands out in front of his body. “Don’t shove me into that cesspool. I might work for Global Ten Media, but I sure as hell ain’t one of them.” He nudges his head to the wall he was looking at earlier.

  “Thanks for the sneaky stab at my career, Dexter,” I grumble under my breath.

  He barges me with his hip. “You might be a reporter, but I don’t see you pitching a tent on someone’s front lawn so you can harass them day and night.”

  I remain quiet, unsure how to reply. What he is saying is true, but if my career didn’t nose-dive after the false story I approved on Noah in rehab, would I be one of them? Morally, I’d like to say I was raised better than that, but I can’t one hundred percent certify that. My career was my life until it came tumbling down, so who’s to say what I would have done for the story of the century?

  The fact I attended an underground BDSM nightclub wearing nothing but a satin slip proves the lengths I will go to for a story. The only reason that ruse is more acceptable is because I continually told myself it was for my sister’s well-being. Although part of me wonders now how true that was. Maybe I’m not as saintly as I like to portray. Perhaps I am just like Keira, displaying one façade to the world while poorly hiding another.

  “Talking about jobs, have you decided what you’re going to do yet?” Dexter questions, guiding me away from my negative thoughts.