Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  My head snaps to the side when the conference room door unexpectedly opens. I dive away from the glass wall, not wanting to be busted spying on Mr. Carson’s private life.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was in here,” says a soft voice, her tone muffled by a sob.

  As she begins closing the door, I catch the quickest glimpse of her profile.

  “Keira?” I query, my voice relaying my uncertainty. Although I’ve met Keira a handful of times, I can’t one hundred percent testify that the briefest preview of a tear-stained face is her.

  My theory is proven when Keira stops exiting the conference room and sheepishly lifts her head from the ground to me. Pain strikes my chest when I notice how many angry tears are staining her beautiful face. The concern etched on my face doubles when my eyes drop to her dusty pink blouse and black pleated pencil skirt. Oh, my god—she’s Mr. Carson’s unknown guest.

  With my mouth failing to produce the words my brain wants it to relinquish, I pace closer to Keira. I’m not even halfway across the conference room when Keira mutters, “I’m so sorry, Cleo.”

  My shock at her apology doesn’t register when she flies out of the conference room, nearly knocking over Mr. Carson as he enters. What in the world could she be apologizing for?

  16

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything I could say or do that would convince you to stay?” Mr. Carson questions, his eyes lifting from my resignation letter clutched in his hand.

  I shake my head. “No. This decision is best for all involved.”

  He sinks deeper into his chair, sending the squeak of overworked hinges bouncing around the room. “Delilah has been given a two-week suspension with the stipulation she can only return to her position on the agreement she works with a career guidance officer and undertakes anger management counseling. Global Ten Media is doing everything in its power to correct her error in judgment last month, Cleo, so if you're concerned about any conflict, there is no reason to fret. I’m bringing Global Ten back to its glory days; I need staff like you to help me drag it back from the ashes.”

  I smile, pleased by his praise. Although I appreciate everything he’s put in place to reel in Delilah’s malicious reign over the past three years, it still isn’t enough to change my mind. With Global Ten’s investigation into Chains still active, my loyalties must remain with Marcus. I love him, and I’ll support him while he is unjustly vilified.

  Marcus is a wonderful man, and just because he is involved in the BDSM lifestyle does not give anyone cause to harass him. If I could inform Mr. Carson of that without the fear of prosecution, I would. But since I need to be legally conscious of anything I say regarding this case, I shift my investigation in a new direction.

  “Can I ask you something?” I ask, prying him away from his private thoughts. His mind seems as adrift as mine today.

  When he nods, giving me silent permission, I say, “When I was talking to Keira a few months ago. . .” Ignoring the way his spine straightens at the mentioning of Keira’s name, I continue, “She mentioned that the head of media had been pushing the story into Chains for nearly a year before you agreed to investigate it.”

  Mr. Carson’s eyes remain fixated on the glistening tabletop as he nods, agreeing with Keira’s admission.

  “Why did you suddenly agree to the investigation? What changed your mind?” I inwardly sigh when my voice is void of the panic clutching my throat.

  Mr. Carson’s tongue darts out to replenish his cracked lips as he raises his eyes to mine. My heart whacks my chest when I spot the furious gleam darkening his squinted gaze. Gone is the businessman gushing about a staff member he wants to keep, replaced with a man who climbed from the deepest depths of poverty to become one of the wealthiest men in the country.

  “The owner of Chains operates his business under the guise he is helping the members of his community. He is not. He is solely operating to make a profit. He doesn’t care about the members of the BDSM community. All he cares about is lining his pockets with money—”

  "That's not true," I interrupt before I can stop my words. "How could you have possibly reached that conclusion?" I scoot to the edge of my chair, wanting to look him straight in the eyes so he can see the honesty relayed by mine. "Your advisors aren't giving you the correct information. Chains isn't about profit margins and money-hungry power plays. It's about giving the BDSM community a safe, sensual and sane place to express themselves. A place to play in safety."

  “In safety?” Mr. Carson retaliates, his loud voice startling me. “Did you see the photos the surveillance camera took that day? Did you look at them?”

  “Yes. Many times.” I was mostly seeking interactions between Marcus and me, but I’ve viewed the surveillance images over a dozen times the past three months. “Every person in those images was at that party of their own free will. If they didn’t want to be there, they wouldn’t be there.”

  “That’s not true,” he argues, mimicking the tone I used earlier. He stands from his chair, his fists clenching open and closed as he struggles to reel in his anger. “What happens at those parties is wrong; it may not be illegal, but it should be, as no one should be subjected to what happens at those parties. It’s sick and . . . inhumane.”

  I also stand from my chair, my anger too great for me to remain seated. “Every person at Chains was a consenting adult. A human being who should be allowed to express their sexual partialities without fear of judgment. Just because you don’t agree with it, doesn’t make it immoral or sick.”

  “They hurt people! They are sick, bigoted men who get off on harming those below them!” Mr. Carson’s voice is so loud, it roars through the top level of Global Ten Media, silencing everyone in its path.

  “Like you hurt Keira?”

  He stills as his eyes snap to mine. They are blazing with uncontrollable rage. He is both angered and sickened by my question. “I didn’t hurt Keira,” he mutters under his breath, his words barely audible. “I’d never hurt her.”

  “She left your office with tears streaming down her face,” I disclose, pointing to the section of privacy curtain still flapping in the breeze of the AC. “She was devastated. If you were not to blame for that, who is?”

  He locks his eyes with mine. The tension radiating out of them is so palpable, it slicks my skin with sweat. “Everything that's happening to Keira is of her own doing—”

  “Just like everything that happens at Chains is the members’ own choice,” I interrupt, using his words against him. “You can dislike their choices. Hell, you can even hate them. But you cannot tell them how to live their lives. Nobody has the right to dictate to someone else how they should feel or act. Not your boss, not your wife, and not even your Master. Those choices solely belong to the person born with them. A submissive title does not change that.”

  As I pace to the side of the room to gather my coat, I run the back of my hand under my nose, ensuring none of the contents threatening to spill have the chance to escape. After experiencing the most wondrous two weeks of my life, Mr. Carson’s words cut a little deeper than I care to admit. I may not be Marcus’s sub, but my knowledge of the BDSM community no longer allows me to sit by and watch someone ridicule me or anyone in the lifestyle about our sexual proclivities without reacting to their vicious words. Considering I’m seconds away from exposing how erroneous Mr. Carson’s assumptions are, I need to leave, and I need to leave now.

  Mr. Carson’s eyes remain steadfast on me as I sling my coat around my shuddering shoulders and gather my purse from the tabletop. I keep my head held high, refusing to let him see he has rattled me. I can tell by his confused eyes he wants to say something, but his mouth refuses to relinquish his words. When his eyes track mine as I head for the door, the confusion in them grows. Just like his actions have me double-guessing why he initially agreed to investigate Chains, mine have him doubting my resignation. This is as personal to him as it is to me. He’s just on the opposing team.

  Just before
I exit the door, Mr. Carson’s hand shoots out to seize my wrist. His hold is firm enough to gather my attention, but not rigid enough to warrant panic. “Is there something you need to tell me, Cleo?”

  When I shake my head, he acts like he didn’t notice it. “Did I chose wrong? Did I push you into something against your will? You can tell me anything, Cleo. You have my word; anything you say in these walls will remain between us.”

  The absolute agony in his words softens my anger somewhat. “The only thing I have to say is, despite what society tells you, everyone has the right to be who they want to be. As long as it's safe, sane and consensual, the opinions of others shouldn’t be taken into account. Perhaps you should remember that the next time you’re prying into people’s private lives as if their choices are less valid than your own.”

  With that, I exit the conference room, leaving Mr. Carson standing in the middle, muted and dumbfounded.

  The tapping of my high heels on the veined marble tiles of Global Ten Media’s foyer is drowned out by someone calling my name. I flinch when my shoulder is suddenly pinched in a tight squeeze. Still reeling from my exchange with Mr. Carson and the rattled nerves this building always incites, I yank away from the person accosting me.

  The panic blazing my veins simmers when a voice I immediately recognize says, “Shit, sorry, Cleo. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Pretending I can’t feel the imprudent stare of numerous ex-colleagues, I pivot around to face the velvety smooth voice. Regret makes itself comfy in the middle of my chest when I come eye to eye with Dexter, IT consultant of Global Ten Media. His brows are stitched together tightly, and a worried cloud obscures his usually lively eyes.

  Although we've only ever interacted during working hours, Dexter quickly became more of a friend than a work colleague. At the start, I thought our mutual respect was because he didn't treat me like a walking Barbie doll with a slim waist and ample chest, but it was more than that. Dexter kept his word the last time we spoke; he went out of his way to talk to Delilah in the hope it would ease her unachievable demands on me. Although his private word didn't lessen Delilah's strict regime, I appreciated the effort he put in. Not many people are willing to go up against Delilah, so recognition for valor should be given when it's due.

  Smiling to alleviate the irritation marring Dexter’s handsome face, I pace to stand in front of him. “Sorry, I’m a little touchy after a meeting with Mr. Carson.” My voice comes out snarky, still off-balanced from my exchange with Mr. Carson.

  Although I left the meeting with my head held high, I’m afraid I may have created more problems for Marcus and the members of Chains than I set out to. If Mr. Carson wasn’t already wary of my involvement in the BDSM community, I’m confident he suspects it now.

  A feeble smile etches on Dexter’s mouth as he asks, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I scoff, brushing off his interest with a wave of my hand. “Nothing I can’t handle.” My teeth grit when the last half of my sentence comes out shaky.

  Smiling a grin that makes my heart beat a little faster, Dexter curls his arm around my shoulders and guides me outside of Global Ten Media Headquarters. “You can tell me all about your run in with Mr. Carson while you buy me lunch; I’m starving, and you owe me.”

  Ignoring the inquisitive glance of the security officer manning the security desk, I mumble, “I owe you?”

  Dexter adjusts a tattered old laptop bag over his shoulder as he escorts me out the large revolving doors of Global Ten. “You asked me to bring you anything I found on the surveillance tape directly to you. I’m bringing it directly to you.”

  Sick unease spreads through me. “You. . .f-found something?” I roll my eyes at my pathetic reply. I’m a grown woman for crying out loud, but I am stuttering like a second grader.

  Not hearing the sheer panic relayed in my low tone, Dexter replies, “Yup.”

  I swallow several times in a row, frantically washing away the bile creeping up my esophagus before it sees daylight.

  “Do you have any alcohol in your satchel?” I query. I aim for my voice to come out playful. It was a pointless endeavor. “Because from the look on your face, I’m certain I’ll need a stiff drink before I hear what you have to say.”

  Dexter’s lips curl into a shit-eating grin. I don’t know him well enough to decipher if it's a friendly smile or one from the Reaper about to claim my demise.

  “When you see what I’ve got up my sleeve, your head will be spinning either way,” he mutters with a waggle of his brows.

  My lips quirk as panicked curiosity engulfs me. If he is about to serve me my last meal, would he smile while doing it? I’ve heard of the term “smiling assassin,” but Dexter doesn’t seem like two-faced man. He’s always been more of a help than a hindrance.

  As we continue our trek across the wondrous landscape of New York City, I keep my gaze on Dexter, hoping a slip in his composure will surrender some information about what he has unearthed from the doctored surveillance tapes. His composure doesn’t falter in the slightest. He remains quiet, carefully leading me through the crowd of people mingling on the overcrowded sidewalks until we reach Toloache 50.

  My eyes rocket to Dexter, shocked that out of all the restaurants in the city, he picks the exact one I dined at with Serenity three weeks ago.

  Spotting my gaped mouth, Dexter asks, “Don’t you like Mexican?”

  Not waiting for me to reply, he places his hand on the curve of my back so he can direct me to a booth in the very far corner of the restaurant.

  “If it’s your first visit, I’d suggest sticking to mild.”

  “I’ve been here before. The food here is great,” I disclose before handing my jacket to the smiling waiter.

  “Oh, hi, nice to see you again,” I greet when I realize it's the same waiter from two weeks ago.

  The handsome man peers at me in confusion. His brows furl as his baffled eyes run over my face. He is utterly dumbfounded as to who I am. Ouch, that’s a sting my ego didn’t see coming.

  After accepting the menu from the shunted-into-silence waiter, I slip into the chair opposite the booth Dexter has taken a seat in. I can’t believe I was so idiotic I thought a waiter would remember me from weeks ago. He must see thousands of faces every week, so why in the world would he remember mine? Clearly, my run-in with Mr. Carson has startled me more than I care to admit.

  When the waiter takes our orders, I ignore the protests of my grumbling stomach by only ordering an alcohol-free beverage. With my mind still a twisted mess of confusion, I’m not willing to haze it more with alcohol. Until Global Ten’s investigation into Chains concludes, I need to be on my game. Alcohol has always made me a little unforgiving, so I’ll push my love of a fruit cocktail to the side for the greater good.

  Dexter peers up from his menu, his brow quirked in suspicion.

  “I have plans for lunch with a friend,” I explain. Well, he is more than a friend, but I keep that snippet of information to myself.

  “I’ll have two servings of queso fundido and a bowl of chips and salsa.” The waiter jots down Dexter’s order before accepting the menu from his grasp.

  “Hungry?” I query. I keep my tone friendly, hoping it will ease the tension in the air. It doesn’t.

  Dexter’s eyes shoot to my vibrating cell phone when it rattles on the tabletop, I quickly silence it and flip over the screen, ensuring Dexter won’t see the sneaky picture I took of Marcus this morning that I saved as my screensaver. A sense of unease engulfs me when my quick flip alerts me I’ve already missed two calls from Marcus during my travels from Global Ten to Toloache. Great.

  After swallowing down my unease, I return my eyes to Dexter. From the narrowed squint of his icy blue eyes, I begin to worry my endeavor to hide my caller’s identification was ineffective.

  "Thank you," I whisper to the waiter when he places our beverages in front of us, happy to use him as a distraction from the awkwardness firing between Dexter and me.

&
nbsp; Maybe my assumption about us being more friends than colleagues was misguided? With the sternness of his lips and the anger vibrating out of him in invisible waves, extremely uncomfortable are the only words I can use to explain our exchange accurately.

  I’m grateful I didn’t order lunch when Dexter asks, “Was Marcus Everett the reason you were assaulted in the alleyway outside of Global Ten three weeks ago?”

  “How do you know about my assault?” I query, focusing on the less important part of his question, doing anything to draw the focus away from his knowledge of my relationship with Marcus.

  After scanning the room, Dexter’s hand digs into his dilapidated laptop satchel sitting on the seat next to him. My stomach winds up to my throat when he produces a folded-up piece of paper not even two seconds later. I swear, the entire world is drowned out as I watch him slowly unfold the document before handing it to me. I stare at the sheet of paper like it's a bomb set to detonate at any moment.

  Exhaling harshly, I run my sweaty palms down the flare of my skirt before accepting the paper. My intuition that this is a deadly weapon is confirmed when my eyes lower to the badly granulated picture. It's an exact replica of the photo Richard showed me at Marcus's residence in Florida. The one of Marcus and me entering the hotel in Manhattan four weeks ago.

  What does this mean? Did Dexter stumble upon this during his efforts to restore the tape Marcus had doctored? Is he working in cahoots with Richard? Or is he just as confused about this photo as I am? I seriously don't know what his point is for showing me this. But I do know one thing: I'm not getting lured into another trap. I barely survived the first one.

  Pushing back from the table, I dump the photo onto the table so I can gather my coat the waiter hung on a rack on my right. Dexter’s confused eyes bounce between mine as I hastily shove my arms into my sleeves of my trusty coat. My movements are so frenzied, the frail material of my jacket crumbles from my rough tugs.