by Shandi Boyes
“I’m not going to hurt you, Cleo,” Dexter mutters, his voice displaying his utter bewilderment at my eccentric behavior.
I laugh a scary witch-like cackle. “That’s not the first time I’ve been told that the past month,” I sneer through the panic curled around my throat.
I’ve never been more grateful for nosy nancies when my frightened laugh gains me the watchful eye of a dozen or so patrons seated around us. Their eyes track me as I race for the sidewalk, my speed so unchecked, I barrel through a group of teens entering the premises without pause for remorse.
“Cleo!” Dexter shouts as I hightail it out the main door of Toloache.
Refreshingly cool winds of a December day blast my face when I rush onto the sidewalk. My screaming lungs protesting the lack of air is the only thing that stops my brisk pace down the crammed sidewalk. Standing to the side, I splay my hands across my hips to suck in numerous breaths of air. The oxygen trickling into my lungs does nothing to ease the tightness spread across my chest. Although I’ve never experienced a panic attack, I’m reasonably sure that's what's happening right now.
Realizing there is only one man who can calm any storm attempting to overcome me, I change the course of my direction. I consider signaling for a taxi, but with Links only a few blocks from my current location and traffic at its worst, it would be quicker for me to walk.
Ignoring the tears threatening to spill from my eyes at any moment, I hustle through the mass gathering of people lingering on the sidewalks. New York always has an eclectic mix of people lining the streets. Food vendors, artists, businessmen and women, and tourists stretch as far as the eye can see. Usually, my eyes would happily take in the marvel of my sister city, but today my panic is too great to grant my eyes’ silent pleas.
Just as I’m about to cross the road as per the flashing man is indicating, my elbow is seized in a firm grip. My chest grows tighter when my gaze lifts and meets with a set of stern blue eyes I left baffled in the restaurant minutes ago. Remaining quiet, Dexter guides me into a small alley on my right. His hold isn’t overly firm; I could easily shrug out of his grasp, but with the realization dawning that he knows about my relationship with Marcus, I’m acting more subdued than normal.
The smell of urine adds to the queasiness in my stomach when we travel deep into the alley. Our unexpected presence startles a group of homeless men seeking shelter from the chilly winds in the nook of an old store. When Dexter releases my elbow from his grasp, I lean my back on the brickwork to suck in some breaths. Horrid alarm is curled around my throat so tightly, it thrusts my exchange in the hallway of Marcus's home to the forefront of my mind.
After my lungs have regained the ability to breathe without fear, I lift my eyes to Dexter. He peers at me, his shock unmissable.
“What the hell is going on, Cleo?”
Bile burns the back of my throat from the desolate look in his eyes. It's the same look his eyes held when I told him about my parents and Tate’s accident. Usually, I keep that type of information to myself, but since one of our impromptu meetings in the ravine of Global Tens’ IT department occurred on the anniversary of my parents’ death, I spilled details of my personal life I've never openly shared before. Although many of our colleagues knew of my tragic loss, not one before Dexter expressed condolences for it. Even though it happened years before we met, the words he said to me that day will forever be carried in my heart.
“Every tragedy has a lesson equal in significance to its heartbreak.”
When he said it, my thoughts immediately went to the green-eyed man who offered me comfort in the elevator that horrific day. That was the first time I honestly wondered if it was something more significant bringing us together. If we were truly destined to meet that day. Now, it seems like it was true. I'd give anything to bring my parents and Tate back, but I don't know if I could give up Marcus. Is that horrible of me to say? God—it is. But it's also true.
I tug on the hem of my skirt, anxiously knotting it around my fingers while asking, “Where did you get that photo from, Dexter?”
Dexter works his jaw side to side before he moves to a dumpster halfway down the alley. My brows furrow when he pulls out a state-of-the-art laptop from his frayed bag. From how ratty his bag is, I never suspected he was housing computer equipment worth thousands. He rests his laptop on the dumpster lid, then fires it up. Ignoring my inner voice warning me to be cautious, I pace to stand next to him.
“Remember the doctored footage you asked me to look into?” Dexter asks as his fingers fly wildly over his keyboard.
I nod. How could I forget it? That's the only piece of evidence Global Ten has of Marcus’s connection to Chains.
I sigh in sweet relief when Dexter advises, “As I originally assumed, whoever doctored the tape is a computer genius. I couldn’t recoup a single second of the missing footage.”
My deep sigh lodges in my throat when Dexter quickly adds on, “But. . .” He pauses, building the suspense until it's nearly murderous. “Working with a restrictive timeframe can cause issues to arise for even the greatest hacker.”
He brings up a photo on the screen. It's nothing more than a stream of yellow taxis. "There is an ATM across the street from the hotel Delilah secured the surveillance footage from. Although it faces west, at the right time of the day, with the right angle, it reflects images from inside the hotel foyer. They reflect off the side mirrors of any cars in the vicinity."
My pupils dilate as the color drains from my face. “You’re kidding, right?”
Shaking his head, Dexter points to a taxi positioned fourth down a line of many. Squinting, I drag my face to within an inch of the laptop screen so I can access the image more diligently. I gasp in disbelief when the smallest fragment of Marcus and me is seen in the side mirror of the taxi Dexter is pointing at. Realizing I’ve spotted us, Dexter clicks a few times on the photo, zooming in close enough, it replicates the picture he showed me earlier.
I swallow several times in a row before locking my eyes with Dexter, “Have you shown this photo to anyone?”
Although my tone alludes to my worry about Global Ten discovering my connection to Marcus, that isn't my priority. I'm more concerned at establishing the relationship between Richard and Dexter than worrying about the possibility of being sued for breach of contract.
“I had contemplated sharing my discovery with Delilah,” Dexter admits, his shoulder perking up. “Then I remembered our agreement. I said I’d bring anything I found to you first; I’m a man of my word.”
“So you haven’t shown this photo to anyone?” I ask with suspicion rife in my tone.
When Dexter shakes his head, I say, "Then how did Richard get an exact replica of that photo?" My voice is smeared with annoyance, angered at the continuous lies of the people surrounding me.
Dexter balks, seemingly stunned. “Richard who?”
If I didn’t spot the absolute bewilderment scouring his handsome face, I’d be attempted to think he was faking surprise. “The head of security at Global Ten. The guy the shrine in the foyer at Global Ten is for,” I explain to his baffled expression.
I can tell the instant recognition dawns on Dexter’s face. “Richard, the jerk from security, had this photo?”
I arch my brow, shocked by his crude remark about a man who just lost his life. When Dexter remains quiet, glaring at me and waiting for me to answer, I nod.
While running his fingers through his thick mane, he curses under his breath. “He must have had more skills than he let on,” he mutters more to himself than me. “That image took me weeks to find.”
Remaining quiet, his hand drops from his hair to scrape the stubble on his chin. His lips twitch, but not a word seeps from his hard-lined mouth. I imitate his silence, categorizing every thought passing through his astute mind. Although our relationship isn’t close, I feel like I know him well enough to read some of his thoughts. He is truly stumped by my confession. Beyond shocked.
After a beat, Dexte
r’s dazed eyes meet with mine. “How did you know Richard had this photo?”
Shit. I didn’t consider the fact my interrogation could do a complete one-eighty on me.
“Umm . . . Richard showed it to me,” I eventually advise, deciding honesty is always the best policy.
“When?” Dexter probes, his voice not as grilling as the one he was using earlier.
My heart slithers into my churning stomach. "Around an hour before his death," I admit, my tone low as the sluggish beat of my heart.
“You went to Florida with Richard?” Dexter sounds astonished, like he is more blindsided by my supposed relationship with Richard than he is of my actual relationship with Marcus. I guess his response isn’t wholly unwarranted. My run-in with Richard three months ago was water cooler fodder at Global Ten for weeks following the incident.
"I wasn't in Florida with Richard. He came there to see me. To show me that photo," I disclose, nudging my head to Dexter’s laptop screen.
“And?” Dexter presses, assuming I’ve not already divulged all the cards I’m guarding close my chest. “What else happened?”
“Nothing. He showed me the photo. We left. He fell." I swallow hard, fighting to eradicate the bitter taste in the back of my throat.
I balk, beyond stunned when Dexter unexpectedly curls his arms around my back so he can draw me to his torso. His erratically beating heart bellows into my ear, nearly making me miss his muttered, “Jesus, Cleo, you were there when Richard died?”
Unsure if he is asking a question or stating a fact, I nod.
“Fuck,” Dexter breathes out slowly, proving he was asking a question. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, Cleo. No one should ever see that. Jesus. . . I don’t know what else I can say to make this any easier for you.”
“You don’t need to say anything. I’m okay,” I murmur into his chest. I try to pull out of his embrace, but his hold is too firm for me to break away from.
After squeezing the living beejeebers out of me, he gently peels me off his chest by the tops of my shoulders. As his eyes frantically scan my face, he asks, “Are you okay? Were you hurt? Did he hurt you?” His last question comes out with so much pain, you’d swear he’d been sucker-punched.
I shake my head. “No.” Not externally anyway.
Dexter takes a moment to absorb the truth from my eyes. Happy I am being honest, he sighs deeply. “Good.” He shuts down the screen of his laptop, then stores it back in his ratty bag.
I eye him curiously, shocked he is ending his interrogation when it has only just begun. Why isn’t he grilling me for more info? Even if his interests in Richard are waning, is he not the slightest bit curious as to why I was at the hotel with Marcus?
When I ask him that, he mutters, “Not particularly.” He shrugs his shoulders in the most nonchalant way.
I take a step backward, blinking and confused. “Why?”
“Why not? Don’t you think you’ve been through enough, Cleo?”
“Yes, but. . .” My words fail me. I’m too stunned by his blasé demeanor to force my mouth to cooperate with the prompts of my brain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m in awe he would do this for me, but I’m still flabbergasted nevertheless.
“I’m not going to add more to your plate, Cleo. You worked under Delilah for three years; you’ve done your time. So as far as anyone at Global Ten is aware, this picture never existed.”
Bitter relief engulfs me when I read the truth from his eyes. “Oh my god, Dexter. I don’t know what to say?”
He smiles a shy grin. “I’ll take a thank you.”
“Thank you,” I express wholeheartedly while battling to ignore the tears welling in my eyes. I wrap my hands around his and squeeze them tightly. “Thank you; thank you; thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” Dexter replies, like it’s no big deal. “But don’t think our new deal gets you out of buying me lunch.”
I laugh. I know I shouldn’t as it is a highly inappropriate thing to do in the tenseness of our meeting, but it breaks free before I can shut it down. “I owe you a lot more than lunch.”
“Be careful what you throw out in offering, Cleo. I still haven’t secured a date for Global Ten’s Christmas party yet.”
My laughter immediately stops. “I just resigned from my position,” I disclose, my tone a mix of relief and remorse. “After the run-in I just had with Mr. Carson, I doubt my invitation would still be valid even if I hadn’t resigned.”
“Lucky my invite has a plus one then.” Dexter cockily winks.
Stealing my chance to reply, he gathers his laptop bag from the dumpster and exits the alleyway, only glancing back at me staring at him in shock once, and if I am being totally honest, with a slight smidge of admiration.
17
As I enter the main doors of Links, I hear someone calling my name. I stop sweeping the bustling space when my gaze locks with Serenity’s glistening hazel eyes. I wave a greeting before removing my coat to hang it on the coatrack on my left. Compared to the freezing wind blowing outside, the temperature in Links is warm and inviting.
“Wow! Look at you all jazzed up.” Serenity swoops to greet me with a kiss on the cheek. “I thought Marcus said he had to pick you up?”
With my mood still high from my exchange with Dexter, I return Serenity’s hug with more gusto than usual. “When did you get back from Ravenshoe?” I ask, recalling Abel’s eagerness for her return last week.
“This morning,” she replies, pulling back from our embrace.
The warmth blooming across my chest grows when I spot nothing but joy radiating from her beautifully unique eyes. She is as in love with Abel just as I am.
“And already back at the helm. No rest for the wicked, hey?” I spiritedly bump her with my hip.
“Yeah, something like that,” she replies with a roll of her eyes.
She tries to conceal the quickest flare of apprehension blazing through her usually vibrant eyes before I see it, but she wasn’t quite quick enough. I arch my brow, demanding an explanation for her odd reaction. Just like her big brother, Serenity doesn’t lack confidence, so I’m somewhat surprised by her dour response. The only time I’ve seen her high-spiritedness dulled by anxiety was when we had lunch together after Marcus and I broke up. So to say I’m worried about her rapid shift in composure would be a major understatement.
When Serenity fails to comply to my silent request for further information, I decide to voice it instead. “Is everything okay?” I ask as my eyes scan the area, seeking Marcus amongst the crowd.
Is he aware of Serenity’s issue? I highly doubt it. Because if he was aware, he’d be standing right beside me, grilling her too.
Or maybe he is aware, and that’s what caused his drastic shift in mood this morning? Worry hangs heavily on my chest as my baffled brain sorts through the events thus far today. I thought Marcus’s grouchy temper was a consequence of a forced intermission in our week of reclusion. I had no clue it was something greater than that. I really need to reel in my shrewdness when I’m with Marcus, and start thinking with both my head and my heart. It won’t be easy, as one glance into his eyes and all rational thoughts vanish. But if I want our relationship to withstand the test of time, I need to pay attention to all factors of our relationship. Not just the sexual elements.
My eyes return to Serenity when she murmurs, “Stop fretting, Cleo. Everything is fine. . .as long as I remember the mantra ‘all guys are assholes.’”
Some of my panic clears away from the loathsome expression on her face. “I can’t believe you nearly gave me a heart attack over some random guy.”
“Not just some random guy,” Serenity recants, her mood rising as quickly as her plump lips. “A super-hot, tall drink of water who makes my insides squeal every time he steps into the room. It’s just a pity he’s the bane of my existence. Hence, the ‘all guys are assholes’ reference.”
“Not all guys are assholes. Your brother is pretty cool.” I waggle my brows excessively, hoping a
little bit of friskiness will lessen the anxiousness clouding her pretty hazel eyes.
It doesn’t have the effect I am aiming for when her face pales. “Please shut up. I love you, Cleo, and I’m soooo glad you and Marcus got your shit together, but if I have to hear one more gushing compliment about either of you, I’m going to vomit.” Her eccentric gag gains us the attention of a handful of Links clients keeping warm from the chilly winter day in the main rec room.
I giggle. It's the only defense I have to stop myself from asking what accolades she’s heard about me. Considering no one in Links knows who I am, I’m confident the compliments she is referring to came from Marcus. It might seem conceited I want to know what he said, but after the knock my ego took during my meeting with Mr. Carson, a little boost wouldn’t go astray.
“So when do I get all the juicy details about the man who has your panties twisted in knots?” I ask, once more bumping her with my hip.
Serenity returns my hip bump, her eyes void of the anxiety they held earlier. “When you get my annoying big brother off his case.”
“Marcus knows who he is?” I ask, shock resonating in my tone.
Guilt darkens Serenity’s eyes. “No. But he knows of him.”
My brows furrow in confusion. Suddenly, the light bulb in my head switches on. “Is he a member of Chains?”
“What?! No!” Serenity shouts, clearly shocked by my assumption. She spreads her hands across her hips as she clears her face of all emotions. “But would it be so bad if he were?”
“No,” I reply, dragging out the short word overdramatically. “Not for me, anyway. Your brother on the other hand. . .” I leave my sentence open, letting her answer it how she sees fit. Marcus is very protective of his sisters. So much so, I don’t know what his reaction would be if he discovered one of them wanted to follow his footsteps into the BDSM lifestyle. I’m sure he’d support them, but it isn’t a conversation I’d volunteer to participate in.