by Shandi Boyes
Following my gaze, Richard balks as his throat works hard to swallow. When rage floods his cheeks, I curl my finger around the trigger of his gun, bracing for his brash response.
He surprises me by muttering, “I can explain this, Cleo.” He raises his eyes back to me. “Just give me the chance to explain. It isn’t what you’re thinking.” He peers straight into my eyes, letting his seemingly direct gaze sweet-talk me.
Little does he know I’ve seen all his tricks, so I’m not buying the latest gimmick he’s trying to sell me. The sweet, naïve Cleo he wanted to coerce into his bed five years ago is nowhere to be seen. She is long gone, buried right alongside my family.
“Unlock the doors,” I request, my tone not betraying the panic thickening my veins.
Richard stares at me, his chest thrusting up and down. “You’re safer in here than out there.” He motions his head to the mottling of houses dotting the coastline. “People like us don’t belong here, Cleo.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I respond, glaring into his eyes with the same amount of disdain.
Richard’s eyes bounce between the barrel of the gun pointed at his torso and the lock on the driver’s side door as he seizes a few moments for silent contemplation.
Just when I think he will deny my request, the distinct sound of a lock unclicking booms into my ears. Bitter relief engulfs me, but I save my gratitude for a more appropriate time.
I lick my dry lips before instructing, “Now remove the keys from the ignition and hand them to me.”
Richard smirks, his cocky attitude returning so swiftly the air becomes rife with a muggy stuffiness. “I’m not going to do that, Cleo,” he advises, his head shaking like my demand was merely a suggestion. “I’m not doing a single darn thing until you stop pointing that at me.” He nudges his head to the gun rattling in my hand.
“Then I guess we’ll be sitting here a while then,” I snap, my tone telling him I’m not in the mood for his power trips. I am days away from beginning my cycle. He should not be messing with me.
“I guess we are.” Richard’s voice has a twang I haven’t heard previously. “Until you put the gun down, we’re going to sit here, wasting time like we’re a couple of retirees with nothing better to do.”
“Spoken like a man who doesn’t have a gun pointed at him,” I retaliate, my voice rising in anger. “You’ll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it.” The little voice inside me breaks into rapturous applause, smitten by the sheer determination relayed by my stern tone.
Its standing ovation doesn’t linger for long. The anger scorching my veins grows when Richard throws his head back and laughs.
“I think you have our roles reversed. Master Chains may have convinced you that participants in power play have equal rights, but we know that isn’t true. The master commands. The submissive obeys.” He locks his glistening eyes with me. “Since there is only one sub in this car, it's safe to say who the master is.”
My pulse rings in my ears, startled at his extensive knowledge of my relationship with Marcus. I’m not talking about the obeying part of his ignorant assessment of the BDSM lifestyle; I’m talking about Marcus’s involvement in the BDSM community. How could Richard know about that? There is no way he could know any of that unless he’s involved in the lifestyle too. . .
My thoughts trail off as my eyes rocket to Richard. He winks, confirming my silent suspicions that he is familiar with the BDSM lifestyle—very familiar. My pupils expand in shock as various scenarios run through my brain on the real reason he suddenly arrived on Marcus’s doorstep this morning. None of them are pretty.
With his arrogance at an all-time high, and his grin smug, I can easily derive his true motive. He isn’t here to coax secret information from me; he is here to gloat, to ensure his superiority is showcased in the brightest light. He thinks he has the upper hand since he holds the most influential cards. What he doesn’t realize is, he didn’t keep his cards close to his chest. I just saw his entire hand.
“You gave Mr. Carson access to Chains. You sold out your own community just to make a profit. Your new truck, your fancy apartment—those weren’t gained from working in security. You only achieved that at Chains’ expense.” My tone ensures he can’t mistake my statements as questions. “Why would you do that, Richard? What could they have possibly done to deserve this type of injustice?”
The laughter lining Richard’s face vanishes in an instant. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorts, his voice dangerously low, exposing his rapidly surging anger. “I came here to help you.” He glares into my eyes, his disdain at my accusations unmissable. “I don’t know why I bothered. You're just as judging and condescending as the members of Chains.”
As my back molars grind, my fear shifts to fury. Thinking he has me distracted with blatant anger, Richard lunges for the gun. I’m too well rehearsed in handling men like him that I foil his attempts before he gets within sniffing distance. I rear up my knee, ramming it hard enough into his wrist that a painful grunt emits from his lips before I yank open the passenger side door with my other hand. I land on the compacted dirt with a thud, sending pain rocketing up my arm, but it doesn’t deter me in the slightest.
Rolling onto my knees, my eyes shoot in all directions, frantically searching for the gun that dislodged from my grasp during my tumble. The overgrown edging of the dirt road hinders my efforts to find the small black pistol in the grass. My poor eyesight means I can barely see as it is, let alone with fear-induced tears welling in my eyes.
When the sound of Richard’s driver’s side door cranking open booms into the silence, I crank my neck to the side. His black boots stomp onto the ground with a bang when he curls out of his car and races toward me.
I push off my feet with a grunt, charging for a large hedge on my right.
“Cleo, stop!” Richard yells out in urgency.
I continue with my mission to evade him, running as fast as my quaking legs can take me. The sharp prickles on the hedge scratch my forearms when I push through the bush, trying to put as much space between Richard and me as possible.
When I reach the clearing on the other side of the hedge, I boost my speed, ignoring Richard’s continued pleas for me to stop. My heart is thumping against my ribs, and sweat is slicking my skin, but my pace remains unchecked.
My heart launches into my throat when my frantic pace comes to an abrupt halt. With my urge to get away from Richard my utmost priority, I nearly run straight off a cliff. I’m millimeters from plunging to my death, balancing dangerously on a crumbling cliff face with only the minutest portion of dirt left under my feet. My pupils widen, and my breathing shifts to a shallow pant as my body merges into survival mode.
Turning my eyes only, for fear of falling if I were to move, I spot Richard cautiously approaching on my left. “Cleo,” he warns, his tone lowering with panic when he notices how precariously I am dangling on the brink. “Carefully step back,” he instructs me, like it's the simplest thing to do.
When I attempt to follow his instructions, the unstable ground under my feet gives way. The panic curled around my throat tightens when fragments of rock topple into the waves smashing the chunky boulders below. With the weather being temperamental the past week, the ocean is showcasing its power in the most frightening way. It's an awe-inspiring yet teeth-chattering visual.
“I can’t move,” I gasp out, my panic so uncontained I’m not above seeking assistance from a man I’ve always seen more as an enemy than a friend.
Approaching me as if I am a bomb about to detonate, Richard cautiously moves closer to the volatile rock edge. “Keep your eyes on me, Cleo,” he instructs when my fearful gaze shifts sideways to the scenery threatening to take me to my final resting place.
Panting, I stray my eyes back to Richard, ludicrously believing he is my safest option to get out of this situation alive. How ridiculous is that? I’m frozen in place, more afraid of plunging to my death than of a man who has h
undreds of images of me in his car.
My stomach gurgles when I feel the ground shifting beneath my feet. “Stop,” I breathe out. “The ground is too unstable to hold both our weight.”
Richard continues moving toward me, his steps slow and without noise.
“Richard, please.” A single tear glides down my cheek as the earth I’m balancing on loosens more. “It isn’t safe; stay back.”
Richard lifts his eyes from the ground to me. “I’ve got you, Cleo,” he assures, the honesty in his eyes adding strength to his admission. “You’ve just got to trust me. Do you trust me, Cleo?”
My head shakes instinctively, the fear curled around my throat not persuasive enough to realize now is not the time for honesty.
The heavy groove of worry digging into Richard’s usually smooth forehead deepens from my brisk shake. “Well, I guess it’s lucky I have enough confidence for the both of us.”
Before I can understand what his reply means, Richard charges for me. A zinging pain rockets up my arm when he seizes my wrist in a firm hold and yanks me backward. I crash into his body with so much force, the brutal grunt that escapes his lips fans the hairs clinging to my drenched neck. We fall to the ground with a thud a good three to four feet back from the edge, which crumbles into the ocean below like a soggy cookie being dunked in coffee.
“Oh my god,” I sigh, my words barely audible.
I clutch my chest for dear life, ensuring my heart remains in its rightful spot as fear engulfs every inch of me. I’m not the only one shunted in silence by the events that just occurred. Richard lies on his back next to me, his chest rising and falling with every deep inhalation of air he takes. His eyes are arrested on the crystal clear blue sky, the first one Florida has had the past four days. It's eerily beautiful in a serene moment in time.
I join Richard in his silent stance, unable to think of an appropriate thing to say. Yes, from the multiple photos of me in his car, my alarmed response to his presence is warranted, but if his sole aim was to hurt me, why did he just risk his life to save mine?
Before a lucid thought can coalesce in my brain, the hair on my arms prickles with awareness. You know that feeling you get when you’re being watched? That's what I am feeling right now.
My breathing kicks up a notch when the noise of grass crunching under feet sounds through my ears. Raising my hand to shield my eyes from the blinding afternoon sun, I crank my neck so I can identify the person sneakily approaching us.
“Shian?” Shian lives in New York, so why would she be in Florida?
Hesitant in her approach, Shian lifts her index finger to her lips, requesting I remain quiet. Sick unease spreads through my veins like wildfire, increasing the perspiration making my skin a sticky mess. When I nod, Shian continues on her sneaky approach. Half of me wants to warn Richard, whereas the other half wants to run into Shian’s arms in gratitude for her rescue.
Unsure which side of the coin I should follow, I remain quiet, unemotional and unmoved.
Once Shian is a few feet from us, she removes her gun from her holster and devotes its attention to Richard. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” she instructs, the barrel of her government-issued pistol locked on the section of skin between Richard’s eyes. “If you so much as blink, I’ll shoot you.”
Richard balks, then does as instructed. He holds his hands in front of his torso and keeps his body perfectly still. When Shian approaches Richard’s left side, he turns his eyes to me. Our eyes lock and hold for several terrifying moments. Although the expression on his face displays he is a calm and collected man, his eyes are showing anything but.
“Roll onto your stomach and rise to your knees,” Shian demands, her tone loud enough to break through the blood roaring in my ears.
Ignoring Shian’s stern request, Richard mutters, “I didn’t do what they think I did.” He is so quiet, I strain to hear him. His brows scrunch as the storm in his eyes grows more rampant. “I should paraphrase it better. I didn’t do what they are accusing me of. I’m not a good man, Cleo, but I’m not a monster either.”
Tears prick in my eyes from the sheer uncertainty of his tone. For a man who exudes confidence by the bucket load, the shakiness of his voice has my nerves sitting on edge. They are even more unstable than the cliff’s edge I was dangling on mere seconds ago.
Ignoring Shian’s continuous screams for Richard to follow her instruction, I keep my eyes locked with his and say, “Okay. Just explain that, and I’m sure they will understand. Nothing bad done with good intentions can’t be undone with honesty.”
The corner of Richard’s lips tugs high. “You’ve always believed there is good in everyone,” he mutters under his breath, his cinnamon-laced breath fanning my mouth. “Promise me you won’t let anyone ever taint that about you.”
My eyes bounce between his as horrible unease settles deep in my stomach. “Richard—”
“Promise me, Cleo,” he interrupts, his low voice barely heard over Shian’s demand for him to kneel.
“I promise,” I stammer out as fresh tears leak from my eyes. I don’t know why I am crying, but Richard’s swift change in composure has sent my emotions so haywire I’m beginning to wonder which way is up.
My breath snags in my throat when Richard leans over for the quickest second to press his lips to mine. I’m not the only one disturbed by his sudden movement; Shian balks as well. Her reaction isn’t solely based on Richard’s impromptu kiss though. It's when he stealthily rises from the ground and sprints for the cliff’s edge, reaching the clearing in under two heart-thrashing seconds.
“Richard, no!” I scream at the same time Shian fires her gun. “Stop! Don’t fire!”
I scramble to my knees, knowing Richard’s chance of surviving his fall is practically non-existent as it is, much less with a bullet wound to contend with.
My pleas fall on deaf ears when Shian continues firing, sending the vile smell of gunpowder filtering into my nostrils. Everything slows to a snail’s pace as a scene gruesome enough to incite nightmares evolves before my eyes.
My hand darts up to muffle my screams when one of the bullets dislodged from Shian’s gun hits Richard in his upper left shoulder. His body jolts when he is impacted by the pain no doubt blackening his veins. He spins almost lifelessly to face me. His face is ashen, his eyes unmoving. More tears seep down my cheeks, matching the blood trickling from the side of his mouth. Unbelievably, he awards me one last cocky grin before he falls backward, plunging lifelessly into the dark, tumultuous waters below.
“No!” I shout in a blood-curdling scream.
The putrid scent of fear permeates the air as I crawl to the cliff’s face on my hands and knees. With concerns for my safety in the background of my mind, I move to the very edge of the crumbling ground Richard just fell from to peer down at the ocean, which is showcasing Mother Nature’s power in the ultimate light. Nothing but volatile waves breaking on sharpened rock surfaces confronts me.
Richard is nowhere to be seen.
3
A hiss of air parts my lips when a first responder dabs antiseptic ointment onto the scratches on my arm. Although tender, my body welcomes the pain, happy to use it as a distraction to the ache maiming my heart. Richard and I were never close, but I’m still baffled by the events that just occurred.
“Sorry,” the handsome middle-aged medic apologizes, mistaking my grimace as him hurting me.
Faintly smiling to assure him I’m fine, I drift my eyes around my location. People are covering every inch of the café I’m sitting in. With Shian’s approach so under-scaled, I had no clue about the massive police operation supporting her from the sidelines. Just in the café parking lot, there are a dozen police cruisers, three ambulances, and two unmarked black SUVs. The SUVs’ tinted windows are so dark, they reflect the helicopter hovering in the distance, searching for Richard’s body in the eerie waters of Bronte's Peak.
Even though it's an unpleasant winter’s day, the swell of the crowd continues
to grow as fast as the sun is setting on the horizon. The spectacle of a massive police hunt is too compelling to inhibit the curiosity of the locals. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve watched events unfold from live broadcasts many times the past twenty-six years. Some I’d give anything to un-see.
My mind drifts from horrid memories when the brush of a hand down my arm draws my attention back to the present. Shian is standing in front of me with an apprehensive smirk etched on her mouth and a pair of sorrowful eyes.
“Is Marcus here yet?”
She shakes her head. “With media swarming Bronte’s Peak, he’s having trouble gaining entry unnoticed. . .” Her words taper off as she peers at someone over my shoulder.
Although the smile tugging her full lips high is a clear indication of whom she is looking at, the primitive awareness activating every nerve ending in my body truly gives away who is entering the café.
Slinging my head to the side, my heart squeezes in my chest. Marcus is standing just inside the main entranceway door of the café. He is wearing the same tailored suit he left the house in earlier, but he has removed his suit jacket. His recognizable green eyes are hidden by a cap hanging low on his head. His gaze swings to the left before veering to the right as he seeks me among the cramped surroundings. When he spots me sitting on one of the red leather-topped swivel stools stretched across the counter of the cafe, the pain scouring his beautiful face with thick lines clears away in an instant.
He pushes off his feet to make a beeline for me. I do the same. My pace is more frantic than his. I rush for him, my steps so frenetic, I clumsily trip over my feet halfway across the room. My scratched-up arms brace out in front of my body, preparing for imminent impact. My tumble to the floor is thwarted when Marcus catches me in his arms before pulling me to his broad chest. I inhale deeply, relishing in the scent of his unique smell.
“Cleo. . .”