by Shandi Boyes
Anger rushes to the surface of my cheeks, brightening them with a vibrant red coloring. “How long have they been down there?” I nudge my head in the direction I just came from.
Brodie rubs at a kink in his neck while muttering, “Who?”
I grit my teeth together before issuing him the stinkiest stink-eye I’ve ever given.
“Around ten or fifteen minutes,” he responds, unable to withstand my fury for a moment longer. “I was supposed to ensure you didn’t go down there.”
I don’t know if his hesitance arises from guilt, or because he is worried about what his punishment is going to be for failing to adhere to Marcus’s request.
I realize it's the latter when he adds on, “Are you going to tell Marcus about this?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “But when you see him again, can you give him this.” I thrust my diamond collar into Brodie’s chest. “And tell him to go fuck himself.”
Ignoring the tears looming in my eyes, I escape into the ballroom before Brodie can stop me. I know Brodie doesn’t deserve to cop the wrath of my fury, but the fact he continued with Marcus’s ruse to deceive me warrants his own form of punishment.
Snarling at the shocked faces of the two females who confronted me outside the bathroom, I weave through the dense throng of people mingling in the lavish surroundings. I have one focus on my mind: riding the very first taxi home, crawling into bed, and forgetting about a world I don’t belong in.
Halfway across the room, my elbow is suddenly clutched in a firm hold. With my body not reacting the way it usually would in Marcus’s presence, I keep my retaliation to a bare minimum: a rueful glare spurred on by malicious anger.
The thin slit of my eyes widen when I realize who I'm directing my anger at. Even if his worried gaze weren't covered with a plain black mask, I wouldn't be able to mistake his icy blue eyes and ruggedly handsome face.
“You alright, Cleo?” Dexter’s voice is tainted with apprehension.
He peers in the direction I’ve just stormed in from, seeking the person who has caused me to act so stupidly. Although I can’t see Marcus, I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, so I know he is in the room.
I step into the path of Dexter’s worried gaze. Even vehemently angry at Marcus, my desire to protect him still outweighs my desire to hurt him. “It was just a group of girls not appreciating my inclusion in the festivities.” Because my statement is somewhat truthful, it comes out authentic.
“Okay,” Dexter says, his lips pursing. “So it’s not the green-eyed man whose eyes are growing even greener the longer we stand across from each other? He’s becoming so green, he looks like he is about to go on a hulk-smash.” The playfulness in his eyes immediately dampens my anger.
When he chuckles at my immature eye roll, I punch him in the bicep.
“Come on, Cleo, you have to admit, that one was pretty funny,” he stammers out through laughter.
“That wasn’t funny. It was pathetic,” I retaliate, my tone relaying my words were not meant to be callous.
“No. That’s pathetic,” Dexter retorts, nudging his head to Delilah watching our exchange with a keen eye from the bar Andy is working behind.
Believing my stare is directed at him, Andy smiles and waves. I return his friendly gesture with a brief wave before turning my eyes back to Dexter. “Did you know Delilah was going to be here?”
"Uh huh.” He nods. "Considering I'm here as her date, I can't play stupid."
“You’re Delilah’s date?!”
“Shh, Cleo,” Dexter pleads, covering my mouth with his hand. “I don’t want the whole world knowing. Jesus.”
His eyes dart around the room, ensuring my loud squeal didn’t gain us any unwanted attention. Although our exchange encouraged a handful of new spectators, there are only two I’m concerned about: Delilah and Marcus.
“Why are you here as Delilah’s date?” I ask Dexter when he removes his hand from my mouth. I flinch as my eyes widen. “Did you just call your date pathetic?”
“Sue me for honesty,” he mumbles, ignoring my first question to answer the less complicated one.
My breathing turns labored when he curls his arm around my torso and leads me onto the dance floor.
“Ah, I was just on my way out.”
“If you leave now, you’ll give Delilah more ammunition against you.” Dexter’s tone is direct and to the point.
My eyes lock with his. “You know about her vendetta against me?”
His lips twist, seemingly unsure of how to reply. "She knows you're the key to discovering the man behind the Chains empire, so she is gunning for blood," he eventually answers.
Spotting the panic flaring in my eyes, he quickly adds on, “But we’re going to ensure her speculations remain exactly that—speculation.”
He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear before banding his arms around my waist. Although there is a good two to three inches of air between us, I swear I hear Marcus’s furious growl rumble across the room. It quickens my pulse and does stupid things to my libido.
“That’s why I agreed to be Delilah’s date,” Dexter advises, forcing my focus back to him instead of scanning the room for Marcus. “She thinks I’m dancing with you to pry information from you. My sexiness is supposed to baffle you so much, secrets come spilling out of your mouth before your mushy brain can stop them.”
I laugh. If I hadn't seen the sheer cockiness beaming out of him, I might have considered another response, but with his confidence so high, I'm sure my little bout of laughter won't dent his ego too much. It was also laugh or cry—I’d prefer to save my tears until I am in privacy of my own home.
“Oh, you don’t think I’m up to the challenge?” Dexter remarks when he hears my quiet chuckles, his tone as pompous as his bowed brow.
“No, I’m not saying that. I just don’t know whether to be insulted or pleased by your disclosure. I’m not surprised Delilah thinks I’m such an airhead that a drool-worthy man with strikingly handsome features would turn my insides so gooey, they’d melt out of me before I could stop them. I’m just shocked you’d expose that to me. Why would you do that?”
Hoping to downplay the pain shredding my heart in two, I overemphasize my praise of Dexter’s features. Although he is a very handsome man, my heart is such a twisted mess, I haven’t even stopped to appraise how handsome he looks in his flawless tuxedo.
Just like last week, Dexter shrugs his shoulders like it's no big deal. “Why not? I get to rub shoulders with the people who rule this city while dancing with a beautiful woman who unfortunately doesn’t find me attractive enough to turn her insides into goop.”
I blush. Partially because the sway of our dance moves has decreased the space between us, but mainly because of his compliment that he thinks I’m beautiful. It gives my battered ego a small boost it badly needs.
We dance in silence for several moments with nothing but tension between us; it’s not caused by Dexter’s closeness—he has been a complete gentleman—it's from the scene of Marcus and Keira playing on repeat in my baffled mind the past twenty minutes. My heart is begging for me to stop and properly evaluate the situation, but my brain—and Dexter’s remorseful eyes—are pleading me to stop this nonsense before I get so tangled up, I’ll never leave unscathed.
I’m truly at a loss on what to do. I’ve just had the most magical two weeks of my life blindsided by a five-minute event I’m still baffled about. Surely there must be more to this story than what I saw? Or am I so infatuated with Marcus I’m not seeing the entire picture? Is love truly that blinding?
Yearning to ease the pain fettering my heart, I lock my eyes with Dexter. “Do you believe people can change who they are destined to be for love?”
Dexter peers down at me as if I asked him the access codes for the nuclear weapons in Tennessee. His response is what you’d expected from a twenty-eight-year-old bachelor.
“I don’t know about for love,” he eventually replies, his tone cagey. “But
I believe anyone can change who they are if that's what they truly want.”
“What if they aren’t sure if it's what they want when they’re not having it?” I cringe. Even I’m baffled by my riddled statement.
Aiming to lessen the confusion marring Dexter’s face, I ask my question in a simpler way. “Have you ever been so tied up over someone, you forget who you are when you’re with them?”
The confusion on Dexter face vanishes as he nods.
“Is that normal?” Sheer bewilderment echoes in my tone.
A flurry of girls at our side hovers closer when Dexter smiles. “Yes, Cleo, that's perfectly normal.” He stares me straight in the eyes, his expression deadpan. “It’s called love.”
“But isn’t love supposed to build your confidence and self-worth?”
Dexter once again nods.
“Then why does it hurt so much?” I mumble more to myself than Dexter.
Dexter’s fingers flex on my back so firmly, his knuckles pop. His heart thrashing against his ribs nearly drowns out his reply, “Because you’re in love with the wrong person.”
27
Four songs pass before Dexter and I lose most of the stares devoted to us. All but two remain. The two that put us in this predicament to begin with: Marcus and Delilah. From the whitening of Noah's face when Hawke had a quiet word in his ear, I'd say the girls’ plans of dancing the night away are about to come to an end. With his fists clenched at his sides and two of his bandmates in tow, he hightails it to the front exit of the hotel, sending the paparazzi into a frenzy.
“Is there something I’m missing?” Dexter asks when he notices the grim expression on my face.
I timidly shake my head. Although Noah is without a doubt angry about Emily sneaking out, I'm confident her punishment won't be as severe as mine. Wouldn’t have been, I mentally correct. There is no won’t when there is no chance of it happening.
Over the charade of pretending my heart isn't bleeding out, I lift my eyes to Dexter and ask, "How much longer until I can crawl into bed and forget tonight ever happened?"
The bright gleam in Dexter’s eyes dampens from my admission. “Just a bunch of girls making fun of you, hey? Chin up, kiddo, or who are the women at Global Ten going to discuss around the water cooler if they don’t have their fierce-less leader to look up to?” His tone conveys he isn’t goading me; he is trying to build my confidence, not tear it down. “You’re tougher than this, Cleo, don’t let the naysayers bring you down.”
“Who said it was the naysayers? Maybe your devilishly good looks are wearing me down, making my skin thinner than it used to be.” I try to make my voice come out playful, but the heaviness of my heart alters my tone.
My jaw quivers in Dexter's hand when he cups my chin. His thumb carefully brushes my cheeks, as if he is catching my tears before they fall. He doesn't need to worry, the anger still heating my veins is potent enough to stave off my desire to cry.
Smiling to soothe the sting of rejection, I pull away from Dexter’s tender embrace. Although I appreciate his support, I don’t need any more awkwardness to this already difficult exchange. Dexter accepts my rejection with a sense of maturity not many men his age display. He graciously acknowledges the silent pleas of my eyes with a humble smirk. The same can’t be said for Marcus.
Although I keep my gaze discreet, my eyes track him as he storms across the room, his pace unchecked until he enters the door I exited fuming in anger nearly forty minutes ago. Even though his slamming of the door is soundless, it rattles my heart straight out of my chest cavity. Although I should be happy he tasted his own medicine, I don’t feel happy. I feel horrible. So much so, my stomach won’t stop churning.
The contents of my squishy stomach nearly surfaces when Dexter unexpectedly dips me.
"Eyes on me, Cleo," he mutters before flipping me back up so quickly, my hair falls in front of my face. "As far as anyone in this room knows, you do not know the man who just stormed out of here. You aren't here with anyone. You just came here to have a good time," he explains to my baffled expression.
He curls my arms around his neck before swinging his hips in the rhythm of the music. Since his body is plastered to mine, we move in sync. To anyone but us, we appear like an intimate couple moments away from shredding each other's clothes off. Dexter's ruse is so compelling, only the crippling pain gnawing my chest is stopping me from believing it is true. Everyone's eyes are on us—even Delilah's. That's probably because we look like idiots bumping and grinding against each other to a string quartet rendition of “Angel” by Robbie Williams.
The quartet has barely made it to the second chorus when my shoulder is tapped. “I’m cutting in,” states a deep voice I don’t immediately recognize.
My eyes bulge when the gentleman doesn't wait for Dexter to reply. He merely places one hand on my lower back, molds his body to mine, then foxtrots around the room like we are two ballroom dancers putting on a display for the fundraising benefactors.
Shocked by the stranger's brazenness, and stellar dance moves, I lift my eyes to the man accosting me. On the way from his thrusting chest to his eyes, I take in his white pleated dress shirt, midnight black tuxedo jacket, cropped beard and lined-with-amusement mouth.
“I thought you didn’t belong in places like this?” I murmur as my eyes lock with Brodie’s twinkling gaze.
"I don’t.” He twirls me around and around until we are out of Dexter's earshot. "But I was given unambiguous instructions that forced me into this getup." He grimaces as he drops his eyes to his outfit.
A dash of humor tinges my blood when I notice the tuxedo jacket he is wearing is at least two sizes too small. “Did you give Marcus my message?”
“Yep,” Brodie replies, popping out the “P” with a hint of the cheekiness blazing in his eyes.
“And? What did he say?” I roll my eyes, hating my inability to curb my inquisitiveness.
“You can ask him that yourself.” Brodie stops his marvelous dance moves as quickly as he started them.
Muted and confused, my bewildered eyes frolic between his. When he motions his head to the right, I follow his gaze. A whiz of air puffs from my mouth when I notice we are no longer on the dance floor. He twirled me into so much of a tizzy, I’m standing outside the door Marcus entered mere minutes ago. Oh, shit, this isn’t good.
Before I can voice my concerns to Brodie, my elbow is seized, and I'm dragged into the narrow corridor. I don't need to look up to know who is clutching my arm. My level breathing and the prickling of the hairs on my nape give away who it is: Master Chains.
Remaining quiet, Marcus guides me deeper into the corridor, away from prying eyes or ears that may be watching us. Just one touch of Marcus’s hands on my skin has me wanting to forget what I saw earlier. It's genuinely astonishing how his briefest touch can switch my anger to longing instantaneously. I've gone from boiling with rage to panting in lust in under two point five seconds.
The needs of my body are thrown into the background of my mind when we enter a small room on my right, and I realize we aren't the only two members attending our gathering. Keira is standing up a few paces in front of me. With her hands splayed across her tiny waist, her twinkling-with-remorse eyes bounce between Marcus and me. Seeing her up close has my anger steamrolling back in at a rate I can’t control. There is no doubt the charm in the middle of her choker is a chain link. It's as obvious as the sun hanging in the sky.
My eyes snap to Marcus. “Are you friggin kidding me? Out of all the rooms in this damn hotel, you had to bring to the one already occupied by your sub!”
He glares at me, acting like I spoke the curse words I struggled to maintain. I spin on my heel, preparing to exit the room. Since Marcus’s hand is clutched around mine, I don’t even get two steps away from him before he yanks me backward. I grit my teeth, fighting with all my might not to smack the egotistical gleam off his face. It's a pointless effort. The pleas of my broken heart soon become too great for me to ignore.
After issuing me his wrath solely by using his eyes, Marcus lifts them to Keira, who is watching our exchange with reverent silence. “Would you mind giving us a minute,” he commands her, his tone relaying his statement is not a suggestion.
My anger reaches fever pitch when Keira bows her head before stepping backward. Her stance couldn't be more submissive if she tried. I place my hands onto Marcus’s thrusting chest and push back. I need distance between us, and I need it now. I can’t think straight when he is standing so close to me, and my intuition is telling me it's vital I think rationally right now.
After exhaling a deep breath, I ask. “Is Keira your sub?” My heartache resonates in my low tone.
Ignoring my interrogation, Marcus asks, “Who was the man you were dancing with?”
“Is. Keira. Your. Sub?” I dramatically pause between each word like he’s hard of hearing.
“Who was the man you were dancing with?” Marcus’s tone is as low as mine.
“Is Keira your sub?!” I scream at the top of my lungs, my voice laced with an equal amount of anger and devastation.
“Keep your voice down,” Marcus requests, his tone a complete contradiction to the fury radiating out of him.
“Why? Are you afraid Keira will discover she isn’t the only sub on your long list of many? Or that not all your subs are as submissive as her?”
The glare Marcus directs me rams a brick into my throat, but it doesn’t stop me from asking, “Is Keira your sub?”
Ignoring my question, Marcus seizes my wrist and drags me to a stack of chairs in the corner of the room. After flipping over a chair, he takes a seat. I eye him in utter shock, silenced by the calm demeanor radiating out of him as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Confusion engulfs me. Where did his tuxedo jacket go? I gasp in a sharp breath when reality dawns. Now Brodie’s two-sizes-too-small tuxedo jacket makes sense.