by Shandi Boyes
24
With traffic at its absolute worst, my request to alter the direction of our course is never relinquished by my tongue. We’ve been sitting in standstill traffic for nearly an hour. It's probably best Dexter hired a limousine company to transport us to the function, or I’m confident his patience would be wearing thin. Driving in New York is already a challenge, much less on Christmas Eve.
“No, thank you,” I reply when Dexter offers me a drink from the small crystal bar tucked under the windowsill of the stretch limousine. My mouth is parched, and I’d love a drink, but considering any liquid in the bar is alcohol-based, my quenching my thirst must wait until we arrive at the Christmas party.
After Dexter fills his glass with a generous serving of whiskey, he sinks back into his chair, cautious not to spill any liquor on his expensive tailor-fitted suit. When I swung open my front door to greet Dexter, my eyes bugged out of my head. Compared to my simple satin long-sleeve dress and plain black pumps, Dexter was dressed to the nines in a tailored suit and bowtie. Mortified I’d mistaken the dress code, I rushed back into my room, hoping to glam up the bland design of my dress with a few intricate pieces of jewelry and a new take on my hairstyle.
Although time was against me, I wrangled my wavy locks into a twisted French braid that slides down the right side of my neck. Although Dexter’s appearance still screams wealth, my hasty mini makeover compliments his sophistication.
“Do you know if Mr. Carson is attending tonight?” I aim to keep the hopefulness out of my voice. My attempts are borderline.
Dexter’s brows bow high into his hairline. “Yes. Since he hasn’t attended the past five years, a conscious effort was made to assure he was at tonight’s event.”
“A conscious effort? By whom?”
Dexter shrugs. “That’s just the gossip around the water coolers.”
“Any other gossip I’ve missed out on?” I twist to face him. Even though the main purpose of our date is to make contact with Mr. Carson, I don’t want to be rude. Dexter has made an effort to impress me tonight, and it would be ill-mannered of me to pretend I haven’t noticed.
“Hmm,” Dexter murmurs, his voice giving the hint he guzzled his whiskey too quickly. It's raspy and thick, and if I am being totally honest, pulse-quickening. “Keira and Delilah no longer work at Global Ten.
“Oh.” I’d like to say more, but my words are trapped in my throat.
“No one knows why or how; Keira just failed to turn up the Monday morning following. . .” He locks his eyes with me. “. . . you know.”
Still unable to talk, I nod. He is referring to the night we kissed.
“And Delilah hasn’t been seen since she was seconded to a secret assignment the start of last week. She didn’t even pack her office. It's like she has vanished off the face of the planet.”
My brows furrow. “She’s probably torturing a whole new set of defenseless interns at another Global Ten office?” I don’t know why my reply comes out sounding like a question. Delilah is the bane of my existence, but I’m still shocked by Dexter’s nonchalant disclosure of her supposed disappearance.
“Did you know Keira was at the party the night we kissed?” Dexter queries, placing his empty glass on the bar.
I wait for him to refill his drink before answering, “Not at the start, but I spotted her as I was leaving.”
“Figured as much,” he murmurs under his breath before taking a sizeable gulp of the brown liquid inside. He screws up his face, unappreciative of the burn of liquor rolling down his throat. “I don’t know what burns more: the whiskey or knowing you only kissed me to get back at him.”
“Dexter. . .I. . . ah.” I can’t formulate words as every one I try to force out of my mouth is a lie. I did kiss him to get back at Marcus, but I never figured I’d be confronted by his honesty.
“Don’t feel bad,” Dexter demands, plonking his half-consumed whiskey on the bar. “I can think of much worse ways to be used. Hell, you’re welcome to use me anytime you like.”
I elbow him in the ribs when he waggles his brows excessively.
“I just hope you aren’t seeing me in the same shady light you’re seeing him. Our kiss might have added ammunition to the failure of your relationship, but that couldn’t have been the only downfall.” His voice softens at the end, a unique mix of confusion and regret.
“Our kiss didn’t help, but there were a lot of misunderstandings before that,” I admit before I can stop my words.
Dexter runs his fingers through his thick hair as he returns his eyes to mine. The unease in his gaze sets me on edge, but I hold my ground, acting like I am still the strong-willed Garcia my parents raised to me be.
“Can I speak freely?” Dexter asks, his tone forthright.
Appreciating him seeking permission, I reply, “Yes. Please.”
“Marcus embarrassed you in front of millions of viewers, sat by and watched the media call you every vulgar name known to mankind, then paraded around town as if you were nothing more than a blip on his radar, yet, you still wear his trademark. Why? Did he knock your confidence so low you can’t see how much you’re worth, Cleo? Despite what you’re thinking, you’re better than this. You deserve better than that.” He nudges his head to the chain link pendant curled around my neck.
My hand instinctively darts up to cover my pendant, protecting it from the harshness of his slurred words. Although everything he says is true, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
“It’s complicated,” I murmur, using the same excuse my heart has argued with my brain over and over again the past two weeks.
The remainder of our trip is made in silence, our conversation as barren as the bottle of whiskey Dexter emptied during our two-hour trip. When we arrive at the gala, I force a smile onto my face before following Dexter out of the limousine. Thankfully, with Dexter attached to my side, it takes the paparazzi glancing in my direction three times before they realize who I am. By then, it’s too late. Dexter and I have already entered the lobby where the Christmas function is being held, and they are trapped outside by the big burly bodyguards manning the doors.
A flurry of black in the corner of my eye gains my attention when Dexter moves through the crowd of people gawking at us. Although the stranger’s glance is one of hundreds directed at me right now, my body is responding differently. His gaze seems familiar—hauntingly familiar.
While Dexter chitchats with a man and an elegantly dressed lady, my eyes scan the crowd, seeking the person who set my heart rate rocketing with a single glance. It takes me several moments to lock in on a razor-cut jawline concealed by a turned-up trenchcoat collar. I hold my breath when his head shifts in my direction. For the quickest second, time comes to a standstill. I’m certain I’ve seen that face before, only now it belongs to a ghost.
“I need to use the washroom,” I advise Dexter as my eyes follow the black blur careening through the crowd as if he is panicked by my wide-eyed glare.
Dexter loosens his grip enough I can slip my hand out of his grasp, but not quite enough to not project his disappointment I’m fleeing his company so early. When his eyes lower to mine, a stabbing pain hits my chest. His eyes are teeming with remorse and silent pleas. They nick my heart, but don’t diminish my naturally engrained inquisitiveness. My desire to hunt down the man mere moments from evading me is so strong, nothing could stop me—not even Marcus.
“I’ll be right back,” I assure Dexter, loathing how many people I’ve made feel terrible the past three months.
I wait for Dexter to nod before dashing in the direction the suit-covered man went. My pace quickens when the man I’m chasing peers back at me, pinning me in place with his murky blue eyes. My frozen stance comes to an end when he darts down a concealed corridor at the edge of the hotel foyer. I take off after him, my fear overrun by curiosity. Even with a cap hanging low on his head, I’m certain I recognize those eyes.
When I reach the entrance of the eerily black corridor, I glance over
my shoulder, back to the large gathering of people lingering in the foyer. My intuition is screaming at me to spin on my heels and return to Dexter, but no matter how loudly it pleads, my inquisitiveness reigns supreme.
Exhaling a deep breath, I step into the dingy and cramped space. My heart rate doubles when my poor vision locks in on a blob of black halfway down the hall.
“Richard?” I query, my voice equally scared and hopeful. “Is that you?”
Ignoring my interrogation, he shuffles further down the dingy corridor. The hiss of overworked boilers adds to the squealing in my ears as I cautiously step down the brick-lined corridor. Murmured voices sound over the creaking of old water pipes when I stop at a T intersection halfway down the corridor. I glance in three directions, unsure which way to go.
My head snaps to the side as my heart smashes against my ribs. Something just darted past the hallway on my right, scaring the living daylights out of me.
“Hello?” I call out, praying I’ll not be front page news again tomorrow—its headline more horrendous than the ones I’ve endured the past two weeks. “Is anyone down here?”
My shouted questions stop the murmured voices in an instant while adding to the sweat slicking my skin. I pivot on my heels, preparing to leave, too paralyzed by the fear scorching my veins to continue my mission. Just before I exit, I spot a man halfway down the corridor wearing a black trenchcoat. I push off my feet and race down the hall before my brain can cite an objection.
“Richard,” I mumble in disbelief as I grip the man’s shoulder and spin him around to face me.
I take a step back, frightened. The man I’ve approached isn’t Richard. It's Mr. Carson.
“Cleo?” I don’t know why, but his greeting sounds like a question. “What are you doing down here?”
“Oh. Um. I was looking for a friend. Have you see anyone else down here?” When the nape on my neck prickles, I straighten my spine and take a step back, moving out of Mr. Carson’s hold. When I leaped in fright, his hands must have shot out to stop me from falling, otherwise what other reason would he have for holding me?
“No, there isn’t anyone else down here. You shouldn’t be down here either, Cleo. It isn’t safe.” Not giving me a chance to reply, he places his hand on the curve of my lower back and directs me toward the foyer. The way he moves us through the dimly lit corridors with ease exposes he is familiar with the floorplan of this establishment.
“Is this one of your properties?” I inwardly gag, hating my obsessive need to know everything.
“Yes,” Mr. Carson answers, his tone direct and to the point.
“That must be nice.”
He drops massively dilated eyes to mine, seeking silent clarification on my riddled statement.
“Having enough money to buy half of New York.”
He smirks. “Not quite half, but I’m getting there.”
“By forcing people out of their homes they’ve lived in their entire lives? Who said chivalry was dead?”
Mr. Carson’s long strides come to an immediate halt. The glare he directs at me would make grown men shiver in their boots, but I hold my ground. All my nerves were so rattled out of me while chasing ghosts down dingy corridors that I’m fearless.
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Carson queries.
“Where shall I start?” I murmur, tapping my finger on my pursed lips. “The fact you didn’t keep your pledge to pay for my sister’s health and schooling for the remainder of her life? Or the part about how you increase your bank balance by swindling your ex-employees out of their rightful entitlements?”
“A check for your sister’s full tuition was mailed over a month ago. I addressed the envelope myself,” he replies, his tone giving no indication of deceit. “And in regards to your entitlements, your salary was paid this morning, along with the other twenty-eight thousand employees I pay every week.”
“Unless some money-hungry dust bunnies came in and cleared out my account, both this week and last week’s salaries were not deposited into my bank account.” If I wasn’t being swarmed by embarrassment, I’d not hesitate to whip out my phone to show him how dire my bank account is. It's the lowest it’s ever been.
When Mr. Carson glares at me with confusion etched over his face, I push aside my embarrassment and hunt for my phone in my clutch.
“I don’t need proof,” he assures me, stopping my manic rummaging by placing his hand over mine. “Your eyes are the only proof I need.”
I snap my clutch back together, hoist it under my arm, then lift my eyes to Mr. Carson, using my soul-baring eyes to my advantage. Tears prick in my eyes when he nods before guiding me into an office at the end of the hall so he can secure a checkbook from the top drawer. I watch him in silence, too stunned to do or say anything. He writes a check for ten thousand dollars before handing it to me.
“That’s way too much. My weekly salary is only—”
“We’ll work out the details Monday morning. Until then, take that as collateral and my word as your guarantee. I’ve never backed down from a pledge. I am a man of my word, so you can be assured I’ll find out who caused this error, and I’ll personally fix it,” he promises, staring straight into my eyes.
Incapable of speaking for the fear of crying, I store the check in my clutch, dip my chin in thanks, then spin on my heels. I may have shamefully bombarded him outside of working hours, but my pride is too great to allow him to see my tears.
“And Cleo?”
I force a neutral expression on my face before cranking my neck back to peer at him.
“I didn’t get to the position I am in by sitting on a perch and shitting on those below me. I used to be one of those unknowns on the bottom rung, so I understand the struggle it takes to reach the top.” I smile when some of his Jersey boy heritage rings true in his voice. “My offer from weeks ago is still valid. I need people like you to bring Global Ten back to its glory days.”
I shake my head, knowing no amount of agony will ever have me working for a company that so hideously invades people’s right to privacy.
Spotting my disagreeing gesture, Mr. Carson says, “I don’t need an immediate answer, Cleo. Think about it over the weekend, a week, a month. Take as much time as you need. My offer will remain as long as it takes for you to realize mistakes were made, but I’m doing everything in my power to fix them.”
“Okay,” I agree, accepting his guarantee with the confidence his eyes are relaying. “I’ll consider your offer if you’ll consider one of my own.”
He stores his check book in the drawer before pacing around the desk to stand in front of me. “Hit me with it,” he says, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“Talk to your niece.”
He balks as his pupils dilate to the size of dimes.
“I don’t know why you’re keeping your lineage a secret, but I have a feeling even you don’t know the entire story. Any good journalist will tell you there is only one way to get answers—”
“By asking questions,” we say in unison.
“Exactly,” I confirm, nodding. “I know the importance of protecting your family, but there comes a point where you need to make sure the people you’re protecting are being shielded for the right reason. I saw the photos of Keira. I understand how hard they would have been for you to see. But the voice of the majority is no proof of justice.”
With that, I exit his office, my steps more spirited than the ones I took earlier.
25
Needing a few moments to settle my erratic heart, I slip into the women’s restroom at the side of the foyer. With most of the guests in the main ballroom, a peaceful silence has fallen over the elegant space. I do my business in one of the vacant stalls before heading to the sink to wash my hands. Thankfully, this time I’m not bombarded by any unwelcomed guests.
As I wash my hands in the sink, I take in the way the little secret nestled safely in my womb has added to the rosiness of my cheeks. My eyes are wide and bright, spurred on by
both excitement and fear; and my hair is extra glossy thanks to the overload of vitamins Jackson has been feeding me the past week. Although my insides feel like they’re in a million pieces, my outside appearance successfully conceals their shattered remains.
After tucking a few strands of rogue hairs back into my braid, I trail my fingers down my cheek, stopping once they reach the diamond pendant sitting in the little groove of my neck. While I stare at the necklace, I recall what Dexter said in the limousine. Although his sneered statement hurt to hear, every word he grinded out was true. I’ve been slaughtered in the media, called names I’ll never speak. I lost my job, my freedom, and my right to privacy the instant Marcus ridiculed me in front of not only millions of viewers, but his fans and bandmates as well, yet I’m still wearing a gift that symbolizes I am his. This needs to stop—the pain, the anger, the remorse—it all needs to stop.
I feel the shudder of my hands all the way up my arms when I slide them around my neck to release the white gold latch on my nape. I exhale deeply when my necklace descends down my chest, puddling around the neckline of my dress. Gathering the thin chain in my grasp, I fist it tightly before placing it in the hidden nook of my clutch.
I peer back at the mirror, feeling oddly naked. The necklace was thin, but its significance was immense. “You’ve got this,” I declare to the stranger staring back at me.
I hold my head high as I weave through the throng of people mingling in the opulent space. My ruse of using the washroom took longer than I anticipated, and the mood of the crowd has greatly improved since I left. Not only is alcohol enticing a carefree sentiment amongst the cheerful group, so is the beloved Christmas bonus disbursed in every Christmas card Mr. Carson awards. From the gleaming smiles of numerous partygoers, this year’s bonus must have improved over last year’s.
I find Dexter sitting at a bar at the side of the dance floor. His expensive suit jacket has been removed, and his bowtie is draped around his slumped shoulders. I quicken my pace, eager to discover what has caused his low composure.