Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  “Liar!” Lexi and I shout in sync, our loud voices bellowing around the room.

  “There is no such place as Algoe. It's a fictional hamlet made up in the 1930s to copyright maps,” I enlighten, my tone informative but with a hint of bitchiness.

  “Is that true?” Brodie asks Marcus.

  I crank my neck back at Marcus. His elevated shoulders drop the instant he catches my wrathful glare. My back molars grind together as my eyes narrow into thin slits.

  “Are you going to tell us who he is, or are we going to force-feed him Lexi’s lunch until it’s tortured out of him,” I ask, my tone half-wrathful, half-astonished. I’m so confused by my pendulum-swinging moods, my voice can’t even choose which side to take.

  “My cooking isn’t that bad,” Lexi grumbles under her breath.

  Crickets are heard when no one attempts to deny her statement. Not even a squeak parts Marcus’s lips. His screwed-up facial expression tells me the scent of Lexi’s lunch has finally caught up with him.

  Cocking my hip, my austere stare grows. Marcus’s eyes twinkle in amusement as the corner of his lips pucker high. He’s always found my attempts to overpower him amusing. He can be cocky. He knows he has me over a barrel.

  Marcus returns my glare with just as much intensity, but instead of firing the air with tension, it sparks it with palpable lust. When he scrubs his hand over his clipped afro, my fingers twitch in envy. It's the fight of my life to keep my feet planted on the ground. I just want to mash our lips together and leave Lexi the task of unearthing who our counterfeit visitor is.

  The only thing that stops me making a fool of myself is when Jackson pipes up, “Brodie isn’t my cousin. He works for Marcus’s security team. He was assigned to keep an eye on Lexi until we knew who was stalking you. Since Lexi was present in a lot of images the FBI obtained last week, we wanted to ensure she wasn’t a target.”

  I sling my eyes to Jackson. “Then why not just say that?”

  His brows shoot up into his hairline as the color in his face drains. “That’s why.” He nudges his head to a flash of red at my side.

  Blood is racing through Lexi’s body so hard and fast, she looks like she is about to combust. Her fists are balled at her side, and her wrathful eyes are rapt on Jackson.

  “It was Marcus’s idea,” Jackson mumbles, attempting to weasel himself out of trouble. “I just agreed to pretend Brodie was my cousin.”

  If he is hoping his confession will ease Lexi’s anger, he needs to come up with a new tactic. His statement only angers Lexi more.

  “How many times did I ask you if Brodie was really your cousin?” Lexi asks Jackson, her tone firm. Even though she technically asked him a question, she continues speaking, denying him the chance to reply. “And how many times did you assure me he was who he said he was?”

  Jackson works his jaw side to side as his hand scrapes the stubble on his chin. He looks so fretful, I’m starting to feel sorry for him. In all honesty, he didn’t do anything I wouldn’t have done to keep Lexi safe. If she knew Brodie was here to keep an eye on her, Lexi would have had his bags packed so quickly, his head would still be spinning three weeks later. So if Jackson felt a little white lie was needed to ensure Lexi was safe, I’m not going to judge him for it.

  “As stupid as it sounds, Marcus and Jackson had their reasons to keep this from us,” I express to Lexi, prying her enraged gaze from Jackson. “I’m not saying it makes what they did right, or that it can excuse them from any punishment you’d like to instill—” I pray her punishment will include them eating the disgusting pot of food on the cooktop. “—but at the end of the day, they were trying to protect us, Lexi. Can we really hold that against them?”

  Lexi thinks about my heartfelt pledge for all of two seconds before answering, “Ah, yeah, I can.” She swings her eyes to Marcus. “You should be so grateful you picked the timid, more reserved Garcia woman.” Her eyes drift back to Jackson. “You weren’t so lucky.”

  12

  Marcus and I spend the entire week hidden away from the world in my family home. We parked his car in the garage to keep suspicious eyes at bay and had a month's worth of groceries home-delivered, so we’d have no reason to leave. I know the main reason Marcus brought me here instead of his expansive New York property was because he knew I needed the comforts of home as I worked through the gauntlet of emotions bombarding me. He was right. The past week has been a rollercoaster ride in good and bad ways. Marcus has been my rock, astonishing me time and time again with his wisdom and understanding. . . and impeccable bedroom skills. He's been perfect, more than I could have ever hoped for.

  The only downers we’ve faced are from outside influences.

  After a short investigation, Richard's death was recorded as suicide on his death certificate even with the county of Ravenshoe still searching for his body. Although Shian shot him in the seconds leading up to his death, the coroner did not believe the bullet wound to his shoulder would have caused grave injuries. It was Richard’s decision to leap over the cliff’s edge that instigated his demise. The bullet that killed Stephen, the man who assaulted me in the alleyway, was matched to the bullets in Richard's gun. The shell casings and identifiable markings on the dislodged bullets were also positively confirmed as being one and the same.

  Shian believes Richard and Stephen colluded my attack in the alleyway two weeks ago. When Stephen took the assault further than Richard stipulated, Richard sought his revenge in the ghastliest way. Police are under the assumption that the ten minutes Richard spent searching for his cell phone the night of my attack wasn’t as innocent as it seemed. They believe that was when he orchestrated his revenge on Stephen. Allegedly, our arrival at his apartment was not to secure his phone. He was there to collect his gun.

  Although I’ve been informed of numerous horrific things about Richard the past week, the last thing he said to me the day he saved me from the cliff plays on repeat in my mind most nights before I go to bed. He admitted he had done some terrible things, but he was adamant it wasn’t as bad as what they were making it seem. Only now am I wondering if the “they” he was referring to is the FBI?

  “Sorry,” I mutter, my attention reverting to the present when a soft voice calls my name.

  Anna, a personal assistant hired by Marcus, steps in front of me. “Did you prefer the emerald green or the mint?” She hands me two hand-sketched drawings with green satin swatches stapled in the top right corner.

  For the past hour, Anna and I have been working on an extensive collection of garments, trying to find the perfect one for me to wear to a fundraising gala next week. In all honesty, I had forgotten entirely about Slater's verbal invitation weeks ago. I took his invite with a pinch of salt, assuming he was just being polite. I had no idea his invite extended to this level. I'm not only an invited guest to the Serena Scott $10,000 per plate annual Fundraising Gala, I’ll be one of only a handful of attendees dressed in a one-of-a-kind J. Holt-created gown, handcrafted and sewn by none other than fashion icon Jenni Holt, wife of Nicholas Holt, lead guitarist of Rise Up.

  “Umm. . .” I look at the two designs we’ve narrowed in down to, not one hundred percent convinced on either design. They are both beautiful, but they aren’t the exact style I’m aiming for.

  “What look are you going for?” Lexi asks from her stalking post at the edge of the living room. My scare with Richard last week shook her so greatly, she’s been mothering me nearly as much as I usually mother her. Don’t get me wrong, she is as painful as always, but that's one of the many things I love about Lexi, so I wouldn’t have her any other way.

  I was hoping Lexi could join us at the fundraiser, but with the plate fee being so high, neither of us were willing to push Marcus's generosity further than it's already been stretched. He has already done so much for us by paying for the Kalydeco program, there is no way I could ask for another dime.

  I answer Lexi’s question with a shrug. “I don’t know? Is there such a thing as sexy and c
lassy?”

  “Uh huh,” Lexi giggles before running her hand down the front of her body. She stands tall, showcasing her undeniable beauty with a hint of pompousness.

  I roll my eyes. “Maybe I should wear you then?”

  With a giggle, Lexi pushes off the wall and paces to me. “Eww, that’s very Hannibal Lecter, Cleo.” She slithers her tongue in a way no woman ever should.

  After propping her backside on the edge of the chair I’m sitting on, her eyes lower to the drawings I’m grasping. She peruses them with a pair of fresh eyes. I’ve looked at so many sketches, they are all starting to look the same.

  “Is that the mask you’re wearing?” Lexi queries a short time later, nudging her head to the gorgeous silver beaded mask sitting on our coffee table.

  “Yes,” I reply, my love for the mask evident. The instant I saw the handcrafted beads and crystal design, I knew it was the one I was going to wear. It's exquisite—nearly as divine as Marcus’s eyes.

  “That’s classy,” Lexi purrs, her words rolling off her tongue. “So now we just need sexy.” She screws up her nose as she continues perusing the drawings. “This one,” she says, pointing to the full-length ball gown sketch in my left hand.

  “I was steering toward that one, but something about it doesn’t feel quite right,” I admit, pretending I still have some of the fashion sense my brush with designer clothing awarded me with five years ago.

  Lexi purses her lips as she nods, agreeing with my suggestion. I jump in fright when she suddenly mutters, “I know!” She yanks off the satin swatch for the dress she disregarded and places it next to the sketch she has chosen.

  My pupils widen as I nod. “Perfect!”

  “That would be lovely,” agrees Anna, joining our intimate gathering with a confidence not many women hold when trying to get between two Garcia sisters. “I’ll get your selection and measurements straight to Mrs. Holt.”

  Accepting the sketch board from my hand, Anna removes the old satin swatch and replaces it with the one I want. “You have quite an eye for fashion, Cleo,” she praises. Her eyes roll as a tsk escapes her red-painted lips. “I’d like to say the same for Mr. Everett’s previous subs, but that would be pointless. Their idea of fashion never went past the lingerie department at Barney’s.” She laughs as if she is sharing a funny joke.

  I don't find her humor amusing. Actually, I feel ill. "Umm . . . I'm . . . Ah."

  “Cleo isn’t Chains’ sub,” Lexi informs Anna when my words fail me. “She is his girlfriend.”

  Anna’s pupils widen to the size of saucers. I can see her confusion twisting up from her stomach to her throat. She looks truly baffled. “Oh, I’m very sorry,” she mumbles, her tone relaying the uncertainty of her reply, like she is unsure if Lexi’s admission is true.

  My hand darts out to calm Lexi when she rises from the couch, preparing to unleash an onslaught of verbal abuse on Anna. “It’s just a title; it’s not worth bickering over,” I assure her in a soft tone to ensure Anna doesn’t overhear me.

  Reading the truth from Lexi’s narrowed gaze, Anna stammers, “Certainly. Mr. Everett’s girlfriend. I shall jot that down.”

  Lexi huffs loudly before standing from the couch. “You do that,” she snarls, showcasing her lack of maturity with three tiny words.

  She leaves the living room as quickly as she arrived. Her feet stomping loudly nearly drowns out Anna’s muffled apology.

  “It’s fine, Anna. Truly.”

  Hating that we’ve made her feel uncomfortable, I stand from my seat and aid her in gathering swatches of material and hundreds of sketches she brought with her. Anna remains quiet, but her eyes relay apology after apology.

  Once we have all the items packed away, I walk Anna to the door. Although my stomach is swirling from her assumption I am Marcus’s sub, I can’t be angry at her. Anna has been working with Marcus for years, so it's understandable she was confused about my status in his life. If Marcus hadn’t spent the last two weeks worshipping me as if I am a goddess, I may have looked a little deeper into Anna’s remark. But since my confidence is at an all-time high, I’ll let her comment slide without a second thought. It's the right thing to do. Isn’t it?

  When we reach the front porch, Anna turns around to face me. She is a pretty lady, mid-thirties, crystal clear brown eyes and curly hair sitting just below her shoulders. Her vibrant red hair gives her aura a wildness her contained personality fails to dampen. When she first spoke, I thought she was from Britain, but she quickly corrected me that her heritage is Irish.

  "Mrs. Holt will have the dress finalized by close of business Thursday," Anna informs me, her voice high in elation. "Then I'll come and assist you getting ready next weekend. You're going to look fabulous, Cleo. The belle of the ball."

  Suddenly, she balks, the color in her face not as vibrant as it was mere minutes ago. She appears as if she wants to say something, but's hesitant about what my reaction will be.

  “What is it?” I ask, hoping her first impression was the most accurate one. The one that displayed she is a woman of strength and honor. Even with our ages being nearly a decade apart, I could imagine us becoming close friends.

  “Umm. . . do you think we could get ready at Mr. Everett’s property?”

  When I remain frozen in silence, Anna continues, “It isn’t that your home isn’t lovely, Cleo. It is. I just have wonderful supplies my team can access at Mr. Everett’s house. With it being the first time Mr. Everett has taken a guest to this gala, I want to make you shine in the beautiful gown you’ve selected.”

  Finding out I’m the first person Marcus has taken to the gala eases some of the turmoil swishing in my stomach, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “You have supplies at Marcus’s house?”

  Anna nods a little overeagerly. “Yes. Some of Mr. Everett’s subs were very pedantic.” She rolls her eyes, the disgust on her face unmissable. “None were as pleasant as you. One. . . oh, I was glad to see the back of her. She was horrid . . .” Her words taper off into silence before she swallows harshly. “Oh my goodness. I just did it again. I’m so sorry, Cleo. I have a terrible neurosis of shoving my foot in my mouth as it is, but since you're so easy to talk to, I’m saying things I should never be saying.”

  “It’s fine,” I advise, not needing any more apology than her remorseful eyes are relaying.

  She isn’t saying anything I haven’t heard previously, and part of me is grateful she already feels comfortable enough around me to be herself. I also like that she thinks I’m the politest sub Marcus has had—even if I’m not his sub.

  "It's fine," I repeat more forcefully when Anna's eyes continue to convey her sympathies. "We will get ready at Marcus's property. It's closer to the gala anyway, so it makes sense to get ready there."

  "Okay. Thank you," Anna murmurs before leaning in to press a kiss on each of my cheeks. "I'll see you next week?"

  I smile and nod. The silent plea for forgiveness in her eyes holds firm as she saunters down my front patio. I wait for her to slip into her expensive-looking car, wave goodbye, then shut my front door. Noticing I’m back within the safety of my home, Brodie leaves his bodyguard post at the side of the foyer and enters the kitchen.

  Even though he is no longer guarding Lexi, Brodie’s presence has remained in my home the past week. The only difference now is he flanks me instead of Lexi. Although Marcus would never admit it, I’m sure that only happened at his request. It’s annoying having my every move watched, but it hasn’t been all bad. Brodie’s personality adds a whole new dynamic to our small group. He is funny, straightforward, and doesn’t jump to Marcus’s every command. Don’t get me wrong, he strongly conveys the aura of a bodyguard, but he does it in a less knee-quaking way than I expected.

  From an outsider’s perspective, you’d swear he was Jackson’s cousin. That's how well Brodie plays the role. The only reason he couldn’t pull the wool over mine and Lexi’s eyes is because we’ve known the Collards for decades, so we’ve met most of their
family. Brodie’s name was never mentioned. That alone was a dead giveaway he wasn’t a Collard. Their family is as close-knit as mine was before it came to a tragic end.

  Rubbing a kink in my neck, I pace toward the kitchen, which is bustling with noise, not wanting negative thoughts to dampen my happy mood. Although a little edgy about my conversation with Anna, I’m not utterly surprised by it. Just like me, Marcus has a past. His is just a lot more risqué than mine. Although it would be nice to live in our isolated bubble for the rest of the eternity, these types of mishaps will become more regular as our relationship blossoms.

  When I pop my head into the kitchen, I spot Brodie, Lexi and Jackson huddled around our little eating nook. A grin curls on my lips when I spot Jackson giving Lexi a sneaky kiss on the nape of her neck while Brodie is distracted by a sports story in our local paper. Lexi and Jackson’s disagreement last week ended the instant Jackson apologized for being deceitful. It was that exact moment I realized Lexi wasn’t just in love with Jackson. He is it for her. Usually, her spats with ex-boyfriends have lasted days, if not weeks. Only once they groveled, begged and pleaded for forgiveness with extravagant gifts did she back down. Jackson barely mumbled the word “sorry,” and Lexi was leaping into his arms to accept the rest of his apology with a steamy kiss.

  “Did you see the latest injury report? I don’t like the Mounties chances this year,” Brodie says, backhanding Jackson’s shoulder.

  Jackson stops placing a peppering of butterfly kisses on Lexi’s neck to peer at Brodie. “Is it true Jones is out?” he asks, his interest notable.

  The evil glare Lexi directs at Brodie is so potent it could kill millions. I push off my feet and pace deeper into the kitchen, knowing Lexi well enough to know she is seconds away from full-blown psychopath mode. Brodie is either a fearless man or an idiot. I’d be hesitant to interrupt Lexi when she’s being showered with attention if our house was burning down, much less for an article about our local football team.