Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  When we reach the white stretch limousine, Jenni throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tightly. “It’s a perfect fit,” she gushes as her eyes absorb the dress she hand-crafted for me.

  “It is, thank you. You did such a wonderful job,” I praise her.

  Although my gushing response could be perceived as butt-kissing, I’m too grateful to care what others think. This dress took Jenni hours to create, but she refused a dime for her time. That notion alone deserves gushing praise.

  I'm grateful for the chilly wind blowing in from the west when Emily follows Jenni's suit by greeting me with a friendly hug. Although her hold isn’t overly firm, it's tight enough the clamps bounded to my nipples take notice of her embrace. Thankfully, the brisk evening temperatures award me with the perfect excuse as to why my nipples are so fiercely erect.

  After greeting Kylie in a similar manner to Jenni and Emily, Noah gestures for us to enter the stretch limousine. When I clamber into the lavish confines, I notice all the girls are sitting on one side. Not wanting to imbalance the natural flow, I take the vacant spot between Jenni and Kylie. Once all the members of Rise Up enter the limo, we commence our hour trip into the city.

  Even with the car’s sumptuous interior fired with uncontainable excitement, nothing has dampened the sexual tension that brewed between Marcus and me before we entered the limo. It's so copious, every minute has the coils of my womb firming more. Although he has been talking to Slater the past thirty minutes, I've felt the heat of his gaze on me numerous times. His intensely provocative watch has even more command over my body than the clamps stimulating my nipples. It makes me needy and hot, and has me wishing we weren't surrounded by six of his closest friends.

  “Sorry, what did you say?” I question when I realize my endeavor to secure Marcus’s devotion caused me to miss the last half of Emily’s sentence.

  Emily, Jenni and Kylie’s eyes brighten with amusement when they drink in my flushed cheeks and wide eyes. Thankfully, they don't seem upset at my lack of schmoozing ability. Actually, they appear to be enjoying every awkward second of it. The redness of Jenni's cheeks have remained stable the past thirty minutes, and Kylie and Emily's lips are always tugged high.

  Spotting my suspicious glare, Kylie mutters, “We’ve all been there before.”

  “Been where?” I ask, trying to act clueless. That would be a whole lot easier to do if I couldn’t feel the heat rising up my cheeks.

  All three of them cozy in close, like they’re about to share nationally guarded secrets.

  "I bet you wish there was no one else in the limo but Marcus and you," Emily whispers, her voice laced with playfulness.

  "Or you're hoping the hotel the fundraiser is being held at has vacant rooms readily available," Kylie adds on. The laughter in her words enhances the country twang of her voice.

  “Or that the latch in the disabled bathroom in the ballroom has been fixed,” Jenni states matter-of-factly.

  Everyone's eyes snap to Jenni. Shock and disbelief are smeared all over their faces.

  "What?" Jenni mumbles, her cheeks turning the color of beetroot. "I'm not the one who created the stupid rule we all have to travel everywhere together. At the last gala, I was six months pregnant and extremely horny.”

  Kylie laughs before nodding in agreement. “Normally, it is Slater hot on my tail. This time around, I swear, any time Penelope leaves the room, I’m tackling him to the ground.” She drifts her eyes to Emily. “What about you, have you noticed any difference this time around?”

  A touch of pink graces Emily’s cheeks as her hand moves to caress her basically non-existent bump. I get hit with a severe bout of the warm fuzzies when Noah and Emily's eyes meet. It turns into a full-blown pandemic when Noah awards Emily’s quickest glance with his famous dimpled grin.

  Emily waits for Noah's attention to revert to Marcus before whispering, "My only craving this pregnancy has been pineapple. I eat it, cook it, drink it. Anything pineapple related, I'm on it."

  Kylie’s eyes sling to mine when I choke on my spit. With her brow arched high into her hairline, she rubs my back in a circular motion. “You okay?” she queries ever so quietly. “Aren’t you a fan of pineapple?” The cheekiness in her reply has me double-guessing Slater’s knowledge of Marcus’s secret life.

  I forcefully swallow the spit halfway down my windpipe before nodding.

  “Was that a yes to hating pineapples or. . .” Kylie leaves her question hanging open. It replicates my dropped jaw to perfection.

  After giggling at my slack-jawed expression, Kylie returns her attention to Emily. I follow in her footsteps.

  Emily leans in even closer. Her voice is so quiet, my ears strain to hear her when she mutters, “That myth about pineapple making guys’ cum taste sweeter. . . it isn’t a myth.”

  Jenni and Kylie’s boisterous giggles boom around the car’s interior, startling the members of Rise Up. I laugh too, but it's more to hide my flushed cheeks from my earlier choking. I still can’t believe out of all the cravings in the world, Emily had to pick pineapples.

  The remainder of our trip to New York is spent in a similar fashion as the first thirty minutes. The girls continue sharing whispered secrets, while the guys watch on with curious smirks etched on their faces. I even manage to share little tidbits of my relationship with Marcus. Well, I shouldn't really say little, considering most of their questions pertained to certain regions of Marcus's body. There is nothing little about that.

  Honestly, even with me immaturely giggling like a high school student, the past hour and a half has been magical. When my parents and Tate died, I let a lot of people very important to me slip away. It wasn’t their choice. The burden of blame solely belongs on my shoulders. But no matter how much my heart told me is was okay to move on from my grief, it just didn’t feel right to be laughing and hanging out with my friends so soon after losing my family. Then before I knew it, years passed.

  Jenni, Emily, and Kylie’s close bond reminds me of the friendship I had with Luke, Chastity, and Michael. Back in our high school days, I didn't think anything could separate us. We were unstoppable. I had no clue how cruel the world can truly be.

  Emily runs her hand down my arm, returning my focus to her. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I lie, loathing that I’m letting old memories taint new ones. “I’m just nervous. I’ve never attended an event like this before.”

  I can tell by the glint of empathy in Emily’s eyes she knows I am lying, but thankfully, she isn’t going to push me. “There is no reason to be nervous, Cleo. Unless you have a fondness for napping in public?”

  As my brows stitch, I shake my head.

  “Then you will be perfectly fine,” she assures me.

  Nervous butterflies take flight in my stomach five minutes later when the limousine pulls to the curb of an elegant, well-known hotel in mid-Manhattan. With the attendees of this event paying thousands of dollars a plate to attend, the media presence is at an all-time high.

  When Hawke arrives at the side of the limousine, the paparazzi go into a frenzy. They push and shove against the barrier, vying for the prime position to capture one of the world’s hottest commodities.

  After securing their masks around their faces, Noah and Emily cautiously exit the limo. They stop in front of the sponsored backdrop to give the paparazzi plenty of time to capture their photo before continuing their trek down the long red carpet. The noise of the paparazzi cameras clicking is drowned out by the fans frantically screaming for the opportunity to meet their idol in the flesh. Just like I have witnessed time and time again the past five years, Noah places a kiss on Emily’s cheek before he approaches the mass gathering of screaming fans to sign autographs and pose for pictures.

  Once given the signal by Hawke, Jenni and Nick exit the limo next, closely followed by Slater and Kylie. My heart warms when I notice they all follow the same routine Noah and Emily undertook.

  Before I know it, it's just Ma
rcus and me left sitting in the limo.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Marcus asks, scooting across the bench to help me put on my large silver mask.

  I wait for him to secure the satin straps before replying, “No, I’ll be fine with Brodie.” I nudge my head to the privacy partition I know Brodie is sitting behind. “It's safer this way.”

  Spotting a snip of anger forming in Marcus's eyes, I add on, "Despite what the members of Chains believe, a mask isn't an adequate disguise. If we want to keep our relationship out of the public eye, we can't be seen in public together." I run my thumb over his slanted brow, smoothing the heavy groove settled between them. "No mask could ever hide these exquisite eyes from the world, and rightfully so, they shouldn't be hidden."

  “I don’t want to hide you either, Cleo,” Marcus rebuts, his tone quickening in anger.

  “I know that,” I assure him, peering into his squinted eyes. “But this isn’t just about me and you; it’s about the community you built solely to protect. If your secret is exposed, Marcus, the members of Chains will most likely follow suit. Neither of us want that. So, if we have to spend an hour or two glancing at each other from across the room like star-struck strangers, that's what we will do.”

  When he runs his hand over his clipped afro, I know I’m breaking through his resistance. That's something he always does when he is contemplating. It's one of only a very small handful of flaws his has.

  “Besides, wasn’t the whole point of clamping my nipples some form of delayed gratification?” I ask, grateful my voice comes out with the hint of sexiness I was aiming for.

  Marcus’s eyes spark with dominance, proving my assumption is spot on.

  “Then why don’t we see tonight as the same thing? Two strangers denying the magnetizing allure firing the air with heat. Only to lose their battle when they share the same transport home.” I stare straight into his eyes, my expression deadpan. “We do get our own limo home, don’t we?”

  His lips curve into a panty-moistening smirk as he nods.

  "Alone?" I clarify, wanting to ensure I'm not setting myself up for disappointment.

  I love the close bond Marcus has with his bandmates and their significant others, but I'm greedy when it comes to having private time with Marcus. If he didn't indicate he felt the same way, I’d try to diminish my neediness, but since he relishes our alone time as much as I do, I'll continue trying to ensure we have adequate one-on-one time.

  When Marcus nods again, I say, “Get out.”

  He glares at me as his face lines with concealed humor.

  “The quicker we get this over with, the quicker I can have my wicked way with you,” I quote, using his own words against him.

  Marcus throws his head back and laughs, easing the anxiety that I’m pushing his patience to a point he isn’t willing to accept.

  While twisting a strand of my hair around his finger, he mutters, “Lose your panties by the end of the night, Cleo. I don’t want anything in my way when I discover if my theory is true.”

  “What theory?”

  Hunger for friction on my skin burns through me like a wildfire when his hand drops from my hair to run over my budded nipple. The heat of his skin makes the coolness of the steel clamps more noticeable.

  “That I can make you come with just a set of clamps and a smile.”

  From the way his seductive voice makes every muscle in my body clench, I have no doubt his theory will be proven accurate.

  With a gleam in his eyes conveying his confidence, he slides out of the limo, straight into an onslaught of paparazzi.

  23

  My entrance with Brodie into the gala isn’t as elaborate as Marcus’s. Although this hotel is one of the top-ranking hotels in the world, it's clear the panel of judges who awarded it that title the past three years haven’t seen this side of the building.

  "Careful," Brodie says, nudging his head to a pile of goop on the sidewalk in front of me.

  “What's that?” I ask, sidestepping the mess that looks like the concoction Lexi cooked for lunch two weeks ago.

  Brodie shrugs his shoulders before leaning in for a closer inspection. When his nose screws up, I hold out my hand, advising I don’t need an update on what it is.

  The hissing sound of overworked boilers jingles into my ears when Brodie holds open a thick fire exit door for me. I scoot past his suit-covered body, observing a slight aroma of a manly aftershave lingering off his cropped beard.

  “I thought the whole idea of aftershave was to put it on after you shave,” I jest, waggling my brows.

  My eyes narrow into thin slits when Brodie stands on the train of my dress, hindering my steps down the long, dingy corridor. When I spot the leering grin stretched across his face, I immaturely stick out my tongue. Although Brodie is several years older than Tate was when he died, they have very similar attributes.

  We walk in silence down the hall side by side when Brodie discloses, “Lucy said it smelled nice.”

  “Who’s Lucy?” I grill him as we enter a door that leads us into another long corridor. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Brodie looks like he is going to be ill at any moment. “No. She is my daughter.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. Not expecting my sudden stop, Brodie crashes into my back. “You have a daughter?” I ask, shock in my tone.

  My heart ramps up a notch when Brodie smiles a breathtaking grin. While nodding, he digs his hand into the back pocket of his trousers to produce his wallet. Blood floods my heart when he pulls out a strip of photo booth photos. I don't know how old these pictures are, but in the photos Lucy looks to be around three or four. She has dirty blonde hair like Brodie, but her eyes are brown in color.

  “She’s gorgeous.” I’m not being deceitful. She is the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.

  Brodie nods in full agreement. "Thankfully, she is the spitting image of her mother."

  “Do you have a photo of her?” I query before gritting my teeth, loathing my inability to ease people into my nosey-nancying.

  Before Brodie can answer my intrusive question, his hand shoots up to his ear. He is wearing an earplug similar to the ones the Secret Service use when protecting the President.

  "Tell him we're coming," Brodie comments to whomever is jabbering in his ear. "We're in hallway three. . . We stopped for two seconds for crying out loud! How far does he think I can get in two seconds?"

  Shaking his head, he places his hand on the curve of my back and commences guiding me through the guts of the hotel, his pace quicker than our previous one.

  “Seriously? . . . Okay,” he snaps. His low tone causes a surge of worry to race down my spine.

  Although he is extremely quiet, I don’t miss his snide remark about pedantic rock stars and their controlling behavior. Clearly, whoever is instructing him on the other end must be an employee of Marcus’s.

  After weaving through numerous damp corridors and dingy rooms, we stop at a door marked “personnel.” The faint hum of a violin trickles through the crack of the door when Brodie carefully pries it open.

  “If you have any concerns, I’ll be right outside this door,” Brodie informs me.

  I peer at him, blinking and confused. “You’re not coming in with me?” Sheer panic echoes in my tone.

  “No.” Brodie shakes his head. “I don’t belong in there.”

  Not giving me the chance to voice the same concern, he barges me through the door. My unladylike tumble into the lavish room gains me the attention of an assembly of middle-aged ladies mingling at the side of an affluent-looking space—it also makes me acutely aware of the clamps holding my nipples hostage.

  Smiling to ward off their inquisitive glances, I regain my footing, dip my chin in greeting, then make a beeline for a bar I spotted during my ungracious entrance.

  The deeper I merge into the grand ballroom, the more my earlier hesitation surfaces. Thousands of people fill the space with a sea of black tuxedos and luxurious silks.
Even if the attendees weren’t dripping in priceless jewels, the wealth in the room would still be unmissable. It's so abundant, the scent of money filters through in the air.

  Approximately half a dozen gala guests smile politely when I float by. The rest. . . let me just say, I thought Delilah’s rueful glare was the worst I’d encounter in my lifetime. It isn’t. If I didn’t know the pleats of my dress concealed the instruments clamped to my nipples, I would have used that as an excuse for their wrathful stares. But since that isn’t the case, I shrug off their prudent glares as them knowing I am not one of their kind. Obviously, the stench of the unfortunate is more potent than the scent of the rich.

  Ignoring the furrowed brows and snarled glances, I continue for the bar. Halfway across the room, my steps slow as the hairs on my arms prickle with primitive awareness. As my eyes scan my location, my breathing shallows to a wheezy pant. Although I can't see Marcus, I know he is here. I can feel it deep in my bones.

  It takes me scanning a sea of thousands before I spot him peering at me from across the room. Although he is standing several hundred feet from me, the heat of his gaze takes care of the goosebumps mottling my skin—it also soothes the nicks my ego is being hammered with.

  I stand frozen, caught in the trance of a pair of beautifully exquisite green eyes. Noticing my frozen-in-lust stature, the curve of Marcus’s lips tug higher, but his conversation with a group of men at the edge of the ballroom continues. Although they are wearing masks, I know the men he is speaking with aren’t his bandmates. They all appear a decade or two older than Marcus. . . and a foot or two wider.

  After giving Marcus a sneaky wave, I continue my endeavor to reach the bar. With his white-hot gaze provoking more excitement in my body than the restraints on my nipples, my mouth is parched. I knew our sexual attraction would be too great to ignore. There were thousands of people mingling around us, but when he glanced at me, it was if it was just him and me. Two souls destined to meet.