by Shandi Boyes
My head slants to the side, and I prick my ears when a familiar voice jingles over the soft hum of noise. Stopping in the middle of the space, I scan the room for Serenity. I spot her a few seconds later liaising with a handsome man on my right in his late twenties wearing a well-tailored suit. Although sexual energy is bouncing off them in abundance, they do seem to be in a tiff. It looks heated, and it immediately brings to mind the saying, "Don't mix business with pleasure.”
Not wanting to disturb them, I loiter at the side of the kitchen and wait for them to finish. Like a train wreck you can't stop watching, I don't want to intrude on their exchange, but I can't force my eyes to look away from them either. Although they seem like an odd match, there is no denying the chemistry suffocating the air with muggy heat. The sexual energy bristling off them is fire-sparking.
Unlike the suit-clad man and me, Serenity has dressed appropriately in a pair of slim-cut jeans and a plain black tee. A few hair products have mussed her hair into a sexy style, and the refreshing smell of flowers is pumping out of her. She looks casual, hardworking and sexy. The only thing dampening her appeal is the large crease of worry grooved in her forehead.
Although Serenity’s down-to-earth look gives off the hint of wealth, the suit-clad man’s aura screams of it. He has light mousy brown hair, piercing brown eyes, and a body that showcases a sturdy fitness regime. If his eyes weren't relaying his fondness for Serenity, I could have mistaken his tight jaw and thin-lined lips as unbridled anger, whereas now, I think their exchange is more based on confusion. Or perhaps even jealousy?
A good ten to fifteen minutes pass before Serenity huffs while pacing away from the handsome man. Although their exchange appeared strangled by confrontation, it doesn’t stop the unnamed man's appreciative glance at Serenity's backside as she saunters away from him. Incidentally, her hips are sashaying a little more than usual as well.
“Everything okay?” I ask, startling Serenity from my stalking post when she glides past me.
Serenity closes her eyes and counts backward from three before spinning on her heels to face me. The heavy groove between her eyes clears away when her gaze meets mine.
“You came!” she squeals, sending her high-pitched voice jingling off the walls and booming into my ears.
“Of course I came,” I reply, pretending I didn’t spend the last forty-eight hours analyzing the perfect defense to recant my offer of assistance. Although most of my ideas came up stumps, I thought my very final excuse of car trouble was a sure-fire winner. We all know how that panned out.
Smiling, Serenity wraps me up in a firm hug. For a woman whose arms are the size of twigs, she doesn’t lack any strength. I take a few moments relishing the comfort you can only get from a friendly hug. Once I’ve had my fill, I pull back from our embrace. Warmth spreads across my chest when I notice our exchange hasn’t just eased my swishing stomach; it has also erased the concern from Serenity’s eyes.
“Where do you need me?” I ask, my tone relaying my eagerness to be assigned a task. I’ve always aspired to do charity work, but with my busy work schedule and inability to drag my backside out of bed before 9 AM on weekends, my aspirations have never reached fruition.
Serenity bows a brow. “In that outfit. . . anywhere but here. If you even get a smidge of a stain on that gorgeous skirt, I’ll be cursed by the fashion gods.”
Guilt creeps into my veins. I can’t believe I was so vain, I put my desire for revenge above the needs of the people relying on Links for shelter. It's time for the selfishness to stop. Right here; right now.
“Give me any task your heart desires. The dirtier, the better,” I request with an arched brow.
Pressing her index finger to her lips, Serenity contemplates the perfect chore for me to do. Her big hazel eyes drift around our location as her manicured brows cinch together. I can tell the exact moment an idea pops into her head. Her eyes brighten, and her ruby-colored lips curl into a luscious smirk. Her excitement sets me off balance, and a sick feeling hits my stomach like something awful is about to happen.
“Do you have any experience with the media?” Serenity asks, her girly voice an odd combination of pleading and showy.
“Umm. . .” Yes, I do. “A little?” I wish desperately that I could tell her the truth. That I could stop the endless lies streaming out of my mouth the past two months, but I can’t. Not just because I am protecting my sister’s life by continuing with this charade; but because when my secrets are divulged, it will be to the man responsible for them, not his baby sister.
Taking my resilient approach as determination to wrangle the media, Serenity curls her arm around the crook of my elbow and drags me out of the industrial-sized kitchen.
My steps are even more rickety than the ones I took thirty minutes ago.
7
Links’ grand opening was a phenomenal success. From the instant Serenity cut the red tape in front of a gauntlet of disappointed paparazzi expecting to see Marcus, the stream of people entering the doors has been nonstop. It was both a heartwarming and strangling time. Heartwarming as it is a beautiful thing to witness so many people come together for the greater good; choking as I never fathomed there were so many victims of domestic violence. I've spent half my day gleaming at the smiling faces of the patrons Links is sheltering, where my other half was depleted fighting back tears. I’m not ashamed to admit I lost my battle when a small four-year-old girl thanked me for her second helping of pancakes with a quick squeeze of my thigh. I’ve never felt as proud as I did in that instant.
At one stage, the flow of foot traffic into Links was so frantic, a state-assigned building inspector threatened to close the doors. I don’t know if he had a change of heart because he was overwhelmed by the number of people requiring shelter, or he didn’t stand a chance going up against a stubborn Garcia woman and a young lady with the heart of a warrior. Either way, at the end of the day, Serenity and I won our appeal. It was an uphill battle, but the fact he agreed to keep the doors open was a win either way.
Appreciating the extra surge of blood pumping into my heart, I press an impromptu peck to Serenity’s cheek and wrap her up in a firm hug.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” she whispers into my ear, returning my embrace.
When she draws away from our little huddle at the side of the rec room, I sweep my hand across my cheeks, ensuring no sneaky tears spilled from my eyes. Happy my face is moisture-free, I nod. “What you did here is a truly magical thing, Serenity. You must be so proud.”
“I am,” Serenity agrees, her head bobbing up and down. “I’ve very proud of what Marcus and the members of Chains achieved here today.”
My eyes rocket to Serenity; disbelief is smeared all over my face. “Marcus told you about Chains?” I mumble, my words low and tainted with worry that I’m unknowingly sharing guarded secrets.
Serenity takes her time drinking in my blemished cheeks and red-tipped nose before nodding. “Yes.” Her one word communicates way more than I could ever express.
“When?”
Marcus only told me last week that no one in his family is aware of his involvement in the BDSM lifestyle, so I’m somewhat surprised by his sudden decision of full disclosure.
Serenity gathers her hand in mine. The crazy thump of her pulse pounds my palm. “I went and saw him after our lunch date on Wednesday.”
My nerves prickle, hyper-stimulated by her placid response. I’m wheezing, perspiring, and out of breath, dying for her to feed me more information on their interaction.
Serenity says nothing. Not a single word.
Incapable of harnessing my curiosity for a second longer, I blubber out, “And?”
Serenity's heavy exhalation rustles the hairs clinging to my sweat-damp neck. "And after I tore into him for breaching your privacy, he told me everything about Chains and its association with Links.”
She locks her glistening eyes with mine; they’re teeming with tears. “Then he told me about all the mistakes he made
with you. I’ve never seen him so unguarded before, Cleo. If his eyes weren’t relaying how much pain he was in, I could have used his disarray to my advantage. But. . .” She sighs, seemingly unable to finish her reply.
"You can't hurt someone you love even when you're angry at them," I fill in, expressing the real reason I've guarded Marcus’s secret the past week. Although I'm so furious at him for breaking my trust, my anger isn't intense enough to curb my desire to protect him.
Breathing out the massive sentiment looming in her lungs, Serenity firms her grip on my hand before nodding. “Yes,” she scarcely whispers.
Although Serenity’s reply assuaged some of my curiosity, it didn't thoroughly squash it. After scanning my eyes over our location, confirming we are void of prying onlookers, I ask, “How did you handle his confession?”
I wait with bated breath for her answer, praying she handled his involvement in the BDSM lifestyle with the same grace she showed today—with nothing but understanding and respect.
I exhale dramatically when she replies, “Nothing’s changed. Despite whatever title he has in that industry—”
“Lifestyle,” I correct.
“Lifestyle,” Serenity copies, her voice reserved. “Marcus will always be Marcus to me.” She lifts her eyes to me, the sentiment in them doubling in size. “Just like you’ll always be the woman who made him so reckless he lost all his scruples.”
Her comment is playful, but it doesn’t stop a stabbing pain inflicting the middle of my chest. I rub at the pain while wandering my gaze around the room, doing anything to ignore the tears burning my eyes.
Serenity’s grip on my hand turns deadly, warming my snap-frozen heart with the heat pulverizing her veins. “Forgive him, Cleo,” she implores. “Then you can both move on from this. You’re miserable. He’s miserable. Why can’t you be miserable together?”
“I can’t,” I mumble, my words as weak as my reply.
“Why?” Serenity asks, like forgiveness is the answer to everything.
I twist my body to face her, hiding my pale cheeks from the horde of people mingling in Links’ rec room. “Because you can’t forgive someone who hasn’t asked for forgiveness,” I reply, sucking in a deep breath that thrusts my chest forward. “I also don’t deserve his request for clemency, because I am no better than he is.”
Serenity’s pupils expand as she gulps in a dramatic breath. Her shimmering eyes dance between mine, seeking clarification on my cryptic declaration. Worried she has the ability to read me as well as her brother, I excuse myself, snatch my purse off the shelf, then make a beeline for the bathroom.
My mad dash down the corridor has me accidentally bumping into a blurred frame standing in the cramped space.
“Sorry.”
The smell of vanilla permeates the air as the person I nearly barreled over replies, “Cleo, are you okay?”
Stopping just outside the women’s restroom, I lift my eyes to the teaming-with-anxiety voice. I'm taken aback when I spot Keira standing halfway down the corridor. She is dressed casually in a pair of white wool pants and a one-shoulder cashmere sweater. Her hair is pulled off her face, making her appear a few years younger than her twenty-six years, and she is holding a brochure for Links firmly in her hand.
The drama making my skin a sticky mess grows when her wide gaze zooms in on the tears welling in my eyes. “Cleo?” she questions, surprised by my disheveled appearance.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, pushing open the washroom door. “I just need a minute. It’s a little overwhelming out there.”
Exhaling in a rush, I step into the bathroom and quickly shut the door behind me. My first instinct is to scramble for the lock, but, unfortunately, there isn't one. Seeking privacy, I spin on my heels and head for the closest stall. Even someone as nosy as Mrs. Rachet would have a hard time spying on me in there.
After taking care of business and seizing a few moments to calm my nerves, I move to the sink to wash up. I sigh, so grateful the washroom is as deserted as it was when I entered it. When my eyes lift to the vanity mirror, I grimace, repulsed at the reflection looming back at me. The tears I’ve been struggling to keep at bay most of the day have awarded me with raccoon eyes and massively dilated pupils. The makeup I spent an hour perfecting this morning has sagged off my face, leaving nothing but sweat stains dribbling down my cheeks. My outsides look as wretched as I feel on the inside.
Placing my handbag on the vanity, I soak a paper towel and rub it under my eyes, removing a coating of mascara smeared under there. Once that mess is half-presentable, I drag my fingers through my unruly hair, then set to work on hiding the dark rings plaguing my eyes with a concealer stick from my purse. In no time at all, the fake Cleo I’ve been presenting to the world the past week is back stronger than ever.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper to my reflection in the mirror. “Today is no different than every other day of your life the past four years. One shit storm after another.” I mumble my last sentence.
The go-and-get-them attitude I’m attempting to build gets sideswiped when the screen of my silenced cellphone illuminates in my purse. After storing my concealer stick back into my oversized bag, I dig my cell out. Sick gloom spreads across my chest when I notice I have three voicemail messages from Delilah.
I’d like to say her constant checking in has dampened the past week. Unfortunately, that would be a lie. When I informed her the delay in processing the surveillance tape was because of doctored footage, her desire to identify the masked man at the helm of Chains became more zealous than ever.
“It will be only a matter of time before he makes a mistake, as the cost of hiding isn’t as transparent as the man wishing to remain invisible,” she has quoted multiple times this week.
Like most of society, Marcus’s quest for anonymity bolstered Delilah’s campaign to expose him. Her beliefs of anyone’s God-given-right for privacy are as ill-guided as her moral compass. Both could use a major overhaul.
Deciding I don’t have the strength to deal with Delilah right now, I store my cell phone in the pocket of my skirt, zip up my purse and head out of the washroom. My steps falter halfway across the pristine tiled floor. The beat of my heart quickly follows suit. As I stand frozen in the pine-fragranced room, my scalp prickles with primitive awareness.
Before my muddled brain can decipher the bizarre prompts of my body, the sound of a door handle lowering jingles into my ears. My eyes snap to watch the washroom door creep open millimeter by torturous millimeter. I don’t need to see the face of the person entering the restroom to identify him, though. The quickening of my pulse is all the indication I need.
Marcus.
8
Adrenaline surges through my veins when Marcus steps into the women’s restroom, shutting the door behind him. My heart kicks into a mad beat, a combination of anxiety and excitement as my eyes rake the length of his body. Even though he is dressed casually in a pair of black jeans, a plain white T, and a baseball cap, he is easily distinguishable. No gimmicks or props could fool my body's awareness of his closeness—not a single damn thing.
The attraction between us is still as active as ever, cracking and hissing in the air, but it's been shadowed by deceit so heavy, it's forcefully keeping us apart. I gulp, eradicating a lump in my throat when Marcus removes his baseball cap and places it on the vanity I was standing in front of earlier. My breath hitches in my throat when his stunning green irises are fully exposed. His eyes are restless, and his face looks tired, but even with his outside appearance matching the sentiments of my insides, he is still an incredibly handsome man. The roughness of his unshaven jaw gives his appearance a tempestuous edge, and the hollow bleakness of his eyes makes his alluring green gaze even more compelling. I’ve never seen a man so beautiful and haunted at the same time.
Holding my gaze, Marcus spans the distance between us. Even with the terseness of our situation, the air is fired with lust so strong, it crackles in the air like a whip lashing a sweat-drench
ed back. My astute brain screams at me to walk away before my lust-driven heart gets snagged by his fascinating eyes, but I don’t budge an inch, my body too engrossed by his commanding aura to do anything. I can barely breathe, let alone order my legs to move.
“Stop,” I whisper when the scent of his freshly showered smell engulfs me, teetering my emotions more than the silent pleas for forgiveness from his eyes.
“Please stop,” I beg again when he fails to adhere to my initial request.
My last plea comes out in a hurry when the coolness of the tiled washroom wall soothes the overheated skin on my back. I was so rapt by his presence I didn’t realize I was cowardly retreating. If it weren’t for my purse sitting between us, I’d once again be trapped between an unmovable object and the man who can make my heart rate soar to the next galaxy before stepping to the side to watch it plummet back to reality.
“You can’t be in here,” I mumble, my words shaky and crammed with uncertainty. “This is the ladies’ washroom. You need to go,” I stutter, shamefully using any excuse I can to force him to leave.
“I can’t,” Marcus mutters, his words as deep as the darkness in his eyes. “I tried to stay away, Cleo; believe me I did, but I can’t do it anymore.”
I stray my gaze to the floor, incapable of withstanding the lure of his tempting eyes. I can’t trust myself around this man. He is my weakness. Furthermore, the pain in his eyes is too raw for me to hold this conversation. For every second I peer into them, my defenses weaken more and more.
“I’ll make this right, Cleo. I’ll fix the mistakes I made,” Marcus informs me, his tone a unique mix of commanding and reserved. “I’m not leaving until you give me the chance to make things right.”
His fingers hover just below my downcast chin as he brushes them over my chain link pendant nestled between my collarbones. He isn’t quite touching me, but he is close enough awareness sizzles through my body. I don't know whether he is keeping his distance out of fear of how I may react, or because he is aware some of my hairs are bristling for reasons other than passion. Some are blatant fury.
