Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  Once his cum is smeared in the exact position my diamond collar used to sit, he locks his dark gaze with mine. My heart breaks from the desolate look in his eyes. He appears truly broken. I hate that our exchange has filled him with remorse when all I’m feeling is euphoria.

  His sweet breath fans my lips when he mutters, “This is one collar he’ll never be able to remove. Even if he can’t see it, he will smell it.”

  After one last prolonged glance of my flushed and disheveled appearance, he spins on his heels and stalks to the door.

  “Marcus?” I ask, dazed.

  He acts like he doesn’t hear me as he continues his trek without pause. His long strides have him crossing the room in two heart-thrashing seconds. I stand frozen, unmoving and unspeaking. My muted stance doesn’t last long. Only as long as it takes for my anger to steamroll back in. Who does he think he is that he can treat me in such a way? I’m not a worthless whore he can dispose of like trash. I’m going to be the mother of his child, for crying out loud.

  Fuming with out-of-control rage, I grab one of the many toilet paper rolls knocked down during our exchange and peg it at Marcus’s rapidly retreating frame. “I hate you!” I scream, my voice hoarse from my previous erotic cries.

  I continue throwing insult after insult at him, telling him I don’t need him in my life, and I never want to see him again. Every word I scream is a lie, but I’m praying one will nick his gigantic ego enough to force him to retaliate.

  None of them work. He just exits the room without so much as a sideways glance in my direction. Then I slump to the ground and cry.

  26

  My hand furiously scrapes across my cheek to gather my tears when the clunk of a lock sliding out of place booms into my ears. I still as my body seeks signs of the trespasser’s identity interrupting my private sulk. Failing to hear any signs, I lift my eyes from the ground to see Dexter is entering the room. His brows furrow, and his lips quirk when he spots me sitting on the ground.

  “Are you okay, Cleo?”

  I rise from the ground, my legs still shaky from the mind-hazing climax I endured minutes ago. The squares of toilet paper I used to wipe some of Marcus’s cum off my neck drop to the floor like feathers floating in a warm summer breeze. “Um. Yeah. I just needed a minute.”

  Dexter remains quiet. He doesn't need to speak for me to know what he is thinking, though. The room reeks of sweaty, lust-fueled sex. It's so pungent, even if Marcus hadn't smeared his cum on my neck, I'm confident Dexter would still know what occupied our hour apart.

  Embarrassed by him catching me getting down and dirty in a storage room, I tuck my chin in close to my chest, not just hiding my flaming red cheeks from Dexter, but my grossly collared neck I was only halfway through cleaning up when he arrived. My slumped posture has me catching sight of my purse and Dexter’s wallet dumped in the middle of the room.

  “Let me,” Dexter says when I bob down to gather the articles off the floor.

  He swoops down and collects the items before a syllable can escape my lips. “Thanks,” I murmur when he hands me my clutch.

  My brows stitch when his hand rummages through his wallet, as if he wants to assure nothing is out of place.

  “I didn’t touch anything,” I assure him, equally shocked and appalled he’d think I’d steal from him. I may have been close to homeless before bumping into Mr. Carson, but I’d never resort to such levels of stealing just to put food on the table. There is desperate, then there is desperate. I’m still on the first step of desperate.

  “It’s not you I’m worried about,” Dexter mutters under his breath, his words so soft I’m not sure he wanted me to hear them.

  Happy his wallet is in its original condition, he slides it into the pocket of his trousers. His change in position conveys even more wariness.

  "I take it the person you wanted to buy a drink for was a woman?" My voice is smeared with relief that I'm not the only one who struggled to be respectful in public. He has a large red smear on the collar of his dress shirt. If my hunch is right, it appears to be vibrant red lipstick. For how high on his collar it is, it could have only been put there one way.

  Dexter’s wide, confused eyes bounce between mine for several heart-clutching seconds before he shrugs, indicating he is unaware what my question refers to. I’m not buying his innocent act. His pupils expanded to the size of saucers the instant I insensitively probed, plus the quiver in his jaw tripled.

  “The lipstick on your collar? Unless Meeka cornered you unaware, I can’t think of another way that mark could have gotten there.” I waggle my brows, happy to use his gasping expression to detract from the awkwardness of him finding me sitting on the ground bawling in a storage room in the middle of Christmas Eve celebrations.

  His cheeks turn a hue of pink as his hand darts up to his neckline. When his fingers immediately graze the area I am referring to, my assumption is proven dead on point. "It was an interesting opportunity I'd be a fool not to take advantage of," he murmurs, his tone laced with innuendo.

  Stealing my chance to chastise him further, he bands his arm around my sweat-drenched back and guides me out of the storage room. I flinch, expecting him to react to the sticky mess on my body. My worry is unwarranted. He doesn’t even notice my change in hairstyle, much less that every inch of my skin smells like Marcus. That probably has to do with the fact his own skin is a sweaty, sticky mess.

  My long strides out of the storage room come to a dead halt when my eyes lock in on a pair of alluring green eyes across the room. Just like earlier tonight, Marcus doesn't hide his skin-roasting glance. He just stares at me, unashamed and without remorse. While Keira blubbers nonstop in his ear, he sips on a glass of whiskey. My throat feels scratchy when his other hand slides into his trouser pocket—the same pocket he stuffed my shredded panties in.

  I can tell the exact moment his fingertips graze the damp material, as his nostrils flare, and the lust-incited gleam in his eyes doubles.

  Sickened that he is thinking of me while he has Keira plastered at his side, I break out of Dexter’s hold and head for the door. I can’t handle this anymore. My hormones are too out of whack to continue with this rollercoaster ride. I want to get off. I need to get off. I thought I was strong enough to handle this, but I’m not. Marcus doesn’t just rule my body, he rules my heart as well, and every day I spend without him shrivels it more and more.

  If I don’t stop this crazy ride soon, there isn’t going to be any of me left to love. Our baby deserves better than a heartless mother. My baby deserves the world, so if I must cut ties with its father to give him or her that, so be it. Just like Lexi, I’ll do everything in my power to protect my baby. Even denying my heart its greatest wish.

  “Cleo, wait!” Dexter shouts, following me onto the sidewalk. “He is playing games with you, and you're letting him win.”

  I angrily wipe at the tears streaming down my face, loathing that they’re making me look weak. Once all my tears are cleared away, I spin around to face Dexter. "I'm not letting him win. I'm forfeiting the game. It's different."

  “No, it’s not. You’re giving him all the power, letting him play you like a pawn.”

  I viciously shake my head. “No, I gave him all the power. Now I’m taking it back.”

  “Until he corners you in another storage closet for a cheap fuck,” Dexter roars, the viciousness of his words shocking me.

  My nostrils flare as my eyes rocket to Dexter. “Until you’ve walked a day in my shoes, you have no right to judge me. That was not fucking—”

  "Then what was it?" Dexter interrupts as his wild eyes dance between mine. "Because you sure as hell look like you've just been fucked. Real classy, Cleo. Arrive at an event with one guy to wander off and fuck another."

  “Oh, how convenient for your morals to arrive now. Where were they when you were guzzling down whiskey as if it was water? Or when you got lipstick on your shirt?!”

  The hushed whispers of those around us advise that our l
ittle spectacle is gaining us unwanted attention, but unable to back down without having the last word, I take a step closer to Dexter and sneer, "It's not classed as fucking when it's with someone you love.”

  He snarls, bearing teeth. “He treats you like a whore. That’s not love, Cleo. That’s treating you how you’re acting.”

  “Whatever,” I immaturely retaliate, flicking off his cruel comment as if it's a piece of lint. Nothing he could say will pain my heart any more than its already hurting. “Maybe one day you’ll understand the difference between fucking and love. Until then, stick to what you know, Dexter. As a man who won’t date women with a certain hair color shouldn’t be giving relationship advice. ”

  When I spin on my heels, Dexter grabs my wrists and drags me back. Air whizzes through my gaped lips when he yanks me into his raging-with-anger body. If it weren’t for our hands stuck between us, we would be plastered together even closer than we were when dancing.

  “I already know the difference between fucking and love. But since I’m foolishly chasing a woman who can’t see her worth, I have to sit by and watch her make mistake after stupid mistake.”

  My eyes bounce between his as shock makes itself known. Although he didn’t directly name names, his blazing eyes tell the entire story. He wants me.

  “Dexter. . . I. . .” Of all the times for words to fail me, I wish now wasn’t the time. “I’m sorry. I like you, but we will never be a couple—”

  “Why?” he interrupts, his anger growing. “Because I’m not a billionaire rock star with a fucked-up obsession with kink? Or because I don’t treat you like a whore? What the fuck has he given you that I can’t?”

  My lips twitch, but I remain quiet. I can barely breathe, let alone speak. I’ve never been confronted with such a furious glance as the one Dexter is giving me. Not even when I was assaulted in the alleyway months ago.

  “Give me a reason, Cleo! One fucking thing he’s given you that I can’t, and I’ll drop my entire campaign. I’ll walk away, knowing the better man won,” Dexter yells, sending his loud voice roaring into the eerie quiet.

  “A baby,” I murmur before I can stop my words. “He gave me a baby.”

  Dexter balks but remains as quiet as a monk on a vow of silence. I would have assumed he missed my snapped comment if he wasn’t clenching his fists opened and closed.

  “You’re pregnant?” he queries, his tone high. “With his baby?” His voice sounds disgusted when he sneers “his.”

  Before a syllable is fired off my tongue, I’m slammed with a barrage of personal questions. I’m not just talking about a handful of Global Ten Media employees assuming we are a prime example of an office romp gone wrong; I’m talking about the dozen or so paparazzi absorbing and categorizing my every move.

  "Did she say ‘baby?’ He gave her a baby?"

  “Is the baby Marcus Everett’s?”

  “Can you repeat your pregnancy confirmation louder?”

  “Cleo, would you like to confirm reports you’re the reason for Rise Up’s latest world tour cancellation?”

  Ignoring the screamed questions being thrown at me left, right and center, I lock my eyes with Dexter’s brimming-with-disappointment eyes. “I’m sorry,” is all I murmur before pushing through the throng of paparazzi cramming the sidewalk to signal for a taxi. Thankfully, one pulls to the curb almost immediately, saving me from the onslaught of painful elbow jabs and even more probing questions.

  “Are you famous?” the driver asks when I slide into the backseat and beg for him to go.

  “No, just a case of mistaken identity,” I assure him before connecting my pleading eyes with his in the rearview mirror. “Please go.”

  The gentleman’s eyes glisten, then he pulls away from the curb. “I’ll still get your signature just in case,” he murmurs before throwing a used napkin and pen over the partition.

  My scribbled signature didn't save me the exorbitant fee for the cab ride from New York to my home in Montclair. If I didn't catch sight of Mr. Carson's handwritten check in my purse while rummaging for a non-maxed out credit card, I might have cried when the driver announced the fee.

  “Thank you,” I say to the driver, paying his tip with the last of the crumpled-up bills in my purse.

  He smiles softly before unlatching the locks. Although annoyed at his belief I was going to stiff him on his fare, I can also understand his hesitation. I spent the entire trip with my head resting on the chilly window while peering out at the starless sky. With my mind in a state of panic on how I’ll dodge the latest scandal engulfing me, the expression on my face no doubt displayed my desire to flee.

  I can't believe I blubbered out my news like that. If it isn't bad enough I've shared my pregnancy with everyone before Marcus, I did it in front of a group of reporters. I'm not only going to be slain by the media, but the diehard Rise Up fans as well. They already hate me after watching the video of Marcus and Dexter fighting. There are even shirts being sold in local stores emblazoned with "I wouldn't kiss Cleo for a million dollars" or "Who said pirating was the demise of music? It was a woman named Cleo." Now they will hunt for blood. It's my fault, though. If I had just kept my mouth shut, none of this would be happening.

  I take a deep breath, mentally preparing for my second run through the shards of hell before cranking open the taxi door. Although the media has been camped out on my lawn the past two weeks, their presence has tripled from when I left earlier this evening. Clearly, gossip circulates even more quickly than a taxi ride from Manhattan to Montclair.

  The questions thrown at me are oddly similar to the ones in New York, but instead of asking me to repeat my confirmation, they’re requesting for me to confirm the rumors that Marcus is denying the paternity of our baby.

  I keep my head down and my lips clamped shut as I struggle to push my way through the media. How can this be legal? They are trespassing on private property, yet when I called the police to complain, I was treated as if I were the criminal.

  Their crushing onslaught continues until I enter the foyer of my home. Taking a minute to clear my nerves, I lean my back on the entranceway door and suck in lung-filling gulps of air. I pretend the wetness glistening my cheeks is sweat from the blinding paparazzi lights scorching my skin as I made the trek from the sidewalk to my front porch.

  My heart rate doubles when the crazed frenzy outside the door replicates ones heard inside. Pushing off my feet, I pace into the living room, gathering an umbrella out of the nightstand on the way. The reasoning behind the ruckus comes to light when I see the program Lexi is watching on TV. It's a live broadcast of my arrival home, slightly delayed as per national standards.

  Lexi cranks her neck to peer at me. "I knew something was wrong the instant the media swarm grew in size. I wanted you to tell Marcus you're pregnant, Cleo, but not like this." She nudges her head to the TV.

  Before I can request for her to switch it off, she rewinds the footage until it stops outside the building I fled from an hour ago. I dump the umbrella I gathered to defend myself before taking the empty seat next to Lexi. Just like I was, Marcus is swamped by the paparazzi as he leaves Global Ten’s Christmas function. Although my heart is still in tatters, I take comfort in the fact he is minus the blonde he had plastered to his side most of the night.

  Lexi takes my hand in hers when Marcus and his lawyer stop in front of the media. His lawyer—a man matching the picture Marcus showed me after my attack in the alleyway—advises he will be releasing a brief statement. I scoot to the edge of my chair, wanting to ensure I can hear what he has to say.

  Standing to the side with his head held high but his eyes elsewhere, Marcus allows his lawyer to speak on his behalf. “As per speculations, Mr. Everett has recently become aware that an old acquaintance of his, Ms. Cleo Garcia, has announced she is pregnant.”

  The media go crazy, nearly drowning out the rest of his statement. "Although Mr. Everett wishes Ms. Garcia well, until such time as her pregnancy is confirmed and DNA tests ar
e arranged, Mr. Everett will act under the assumption Ms. Garcia's child is not his. Any further questions in regards to the alleged pregnancy and paternity should be directed to my office." He hands a bunch of business cards to the media contingent in the front row before gesturing for Marcus to leave before him.

  The paparazzi follow Marcus down the stairs, asking question after question until he slides into the back seat of a blacked-out SUV. Lexi switches off the TV as her wide, shocked eyes stray to mine. Her lips twitch, but not a peep escapes her mouth. I’m just as dumbfounded. Although I hate that Marcus was informed of my pregnancy via the media, his denial is shocking.

  “How can he deny little boo-boo is his?” Lexi asks, reading my private thoughts.

  I shrug, a better reply above my comprehension.

  “That’s bullshit, Cleo. That—”

  “Hurts,” I stammer out, my one word muffled by a sob. “I saw him tonight,” I admit, not caring that my tears are falling freely. “We. . .” The horrified expression on my face speaks on my behalf.

  “Tonight?” Lexi asks, certain she heard me wrong.

  I nod. "The building he was standing in front of was the location of Global Ten's Christmas party. He was there as Keira's date." My voice displays my disgust in myself. Even though I had him first, tonight I technically became the other woman. That's one label I’ve never wanted.

  “I tried to stop our exchange, but I’m defenseless when it comes to him,” I blubber while running the back of my hand under my nose. “I still love him, even when he is tearing my heart in two.”

  “Oh, Cleo. . .” Lexi murmurs while pulling me into her arms, where I stay for the next several hours, crying about a man I love, but never wholly owned.