Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  “Yes,” Aubrey agrees with a giggle.

  "Then why are you here?" I cringe when my high tone makes my voice come out rude. I’m not trying to sound obnoxious, because all I'm feeling is gratitude. Even more so since my stomach’s focus hasn’t veered away from the fragrant dish in front of me to cite an objection about Aubrey’s disclosure that Marcus preferred his previous liaisons to be uninterrupted.

  Aubrey taps the piece of paper I'm clutching for dear life. "Because Mr. Everett said none of this applies to you. In fact, he didn't even give me a list of meals he wanted prepared this week. I was told to make you feel as if you're in your own home."

  I grind my back molars together as I fight to ignore the tears welling in my eyes. Not trusting myself not to blubber, I quickly reply, “You’ve done exactly that. Thank you.”

  A flare of happiness sparks in Aubrey's eyes before it makes way for a dusting of tears. I'm glad to see I'm not the only one incapable of ignoring the substantial sentiment in the air.

  “Now grab a fork and take a seat. If I eat all this chicken, Marcus will force us to eat that rubbish,” I mumble, nudging my head to the paper I’ve dumped on the countertop.

  With a smile, Aubrey does as requested. We spend the next several moments sitting side by side, consuming the dish I'm sure took her hours to make. The chicken is so tender it melts in my mouth the instant it hits my tongue. Aubrey discloses that the recipe has been handed down by her family for generations. It's so old, she doesn't even recall where it originated from.

  Although Aubrey and I are separated in age by around two decades, we talk as if we are friends. I discover she is the eldest of eleven children, ranging between the ages of 17 and 54. Her parents still live in Mexico, along with half of her siblings, and she is unmarried with no children of her own.

  “Did you not want children, or was the timing never right?” I query, praying she won’t see my question as being nosy. I’m so genuinely interested in her life that I blurted out my question before I could stop my words.

  "A little bit of both. With so many younger siblings, by the time I reached thirty, it felt like I had already raised my children." She slips off the stool and moves to the sink to commence clearing away our dishes. "It may be selfish, but I wanted some me time."

  “That’s not selfish.” I join her at the sink. After accepting the dish she is holding out, I continue, “Selfish would have been leaving your parents to raise your siblings alone.”

  “Hmm. I guess.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I’ve always grown up believing it takes a community to raise a child, not just its parents. It’s unfortunate that logic isn’t as strong as it used to be.”

  "If my dad were still around, he'd 100% agree with you. He always said ‘it is the free-range parents’ fault for raising a generation of entitled people.' Don't get me wrong, he wanted his children to achieve greatness; he just didn't want us to become self-centered and undeserving while doing it. ‘Everyone wants the glory, but no one is willing to climb their way to the top anymore' was another one of his favorite sayings."

  Aubrey giggles. “My papa calls them the ‘silver spoon generation.’”

  The rest of our dishes are done in silence. It isn't uncomfortable, but the silence does allow my thoughts to run wild. At least this time, not all my thoughts are reckless—like Aubrey's disclosure that Marcus's sub rules don’t apply to me. But for every question I answer, another one pops up. Like is Marcus's negligence of the rules a good or a bad thing for our relationship? Before me, Marcus hadn't even frolicked with a sub outside of the playroom, let alone made love to one. I adore that I have that special part of him, but part of me worries I'm drawing him too far out of his comfort zone. Marcus doesn't instill punishment for pleasure, but what Keira said is true: the BDSM lifestyle is all he knows. If my desire for him to give that up became stronger than my need to be dominated, could Marcus walk away from the BDSM lifestyle?

  I'd like to say yes confidently, but if I did, that would be a lie. I truly don't believe Marcus's desires for me are stronger than his need for power and control. He has never hidden the fact he craves control, so why would that logic suddenly change? It wouldn’t.

  I thank Aubrey for dinner and our chat when I hear my cell phone vibrating on the glass entranceway table. Because the residence is quiet, every buzz it makes adds to the quickening of my pulse.

  My lungs take stock of their oxygen levels when I lift my cell and discover three unread messages from an unknown number. The first message is a simple one-line text.

  Unknown number: I’m here if you need me.

  The next two messages are picture files. Although the image of an elegantly dressed couple wouldn’t usually instigate a horrid epidemic of nausea, it's recognizing the two people in the image that has my stomach churning out of control.

  The first photo is a snap of Marcus and Keira standing at the front an industrial-looking building. Marcus has his arm wrapped around Keira's waist, and his nose is tucked into her neck, hiding his alluring green eyes from the person snapping their photo unaware. They are both wearing masks—similar to the ones I saw Chains patrons wearing three months ago.

  The second photo is a little harder for me to decipher. It's so pixelated even someone with perfect eyesight would have a hard time decrypting it. It's only when I flick between the two images numerous times do I realize what the second photo is. Both photos are identical, but one is zoomed in to display the bare skin on Keira's right shoulder blade. Because her shoulder is mottled with faint bruises and red welts, the image is barely identifiable. It also doesn’t help that her welts are a circular pattern. . . My inner monologue trails off as I’m held captive by a terrible notion. Those marks on Keira’s shoulder look oddly familiar to ones I’ve seen before. They are nearly an exact replica to the strands on a flogger I saw in Marcus’s playroom at Chains months ago.

  No, they couldn’t be. . .Marcus wouldn’t cheat on me. He doesn’t cheat.

  I nearly drop my phone onto the marble floor when a deep voice asks, “What’s that?”

  I take a moment to settle the mad beat of my heart before connecting my eyes with Brodie. If he keeps scaring the living daylights out of me, I'm going to put squeakers on his shoes. My god—I can barely breathe with how hard my heart is thudding my chest.

  My brain demands I act on these photos immediately. I twist my phone to face Brodie, who removes my cell from my grasp so he can appraise the images more diligently. Initially, his brows stitch, but I know the exact moment it dawns on him what he is looking at. His jaw quivers as his eyes rocket to mine.

  “Who sent you those pictures?” he queries, his tone direct.

  I shrug. “Does it matter? What’s captured in the photo should be more concerning than who took them, shouldn’t it?”

  Brodie’s lips twitch, preparing to speak, but I beat him to it. “What do you think caused the marks on Keira’s shoulder?”

  Brodie’s throat works hard to swallow as he scrubs his hand over his chin. He remains as quiet as a church mouse. He doesn’t need to answer my question, though. His eyes tell the entire story.

  I angrily shake my head, sick of the constant deflections of my questions. If someone would just answer one goddamn question without skirting it, I wouldn’t be so consumed by confused rage right now. It's the constant feeling of being left in the dark that's driving me more crazy than Keira’s acknowledgment she wants Marcus to be her Master. Yes, these images are as innocent as the ones I witnessed in person last week, but they'd be a whole heap easier to handle if there weren’t a shadow of doubt placed on every question I ask.

  Realizing there is only one man who can give me answers, I snatch my cell out of Brodie’s hand and head for the stairs, wanting privacy for what should be a private conversation. I’m halfway up the curved stairwell when Brodie shouts, “Just because you received these photos tonight doesn’t mean they were taken tonight. They could be from months ago.”

  “It still doesn’t cha
nge the facts, Brodie. Although more ghastly than last week, Keira is once again wearing Marcus’s trademark in public.”

  Brodie replies, but I don’t hear a word over the roaring of blood to my ears. After running my sweaty hands down the flare of my skirt, I dial Marcus’s number. I command on repeat for my body to calm down; it never listens. It's a lot harder feigning ignorance than I realized.

  Marcus's cell rings eight times before it connects to his voicemail. I stand from the bed to pace a track into the plush carpet fibers of Marcus's master suite. My brain is warning me not to act so irrational—he could merely be flying home—but my heart is enlarged with worry, certain Marcus's silence is more dire than my brain realizes.

  When my heart’s pleas ring louder than my brain, I scroll through my list of contacts, stopping when I find a number I stored in there weeks ago. My hand shakes when I press my cell phone close to my ear. I count the rings—one, two, three, four—praying I don’t reach eight before my call is answered.

  Gratitude pumps into me when the distinctive clip of a landline shrills into my ears on the seventh ring.

  "Hello," greets a thick husky voice I immediately recognize.

  "Hi, Abel," I address, hating that I've allowed the pleas of my foolish heart to put him in the middle of my confrontation with Marcus. "I'm sorry to bother you; I am just seeking Marcus. He isn't answering his cell, so I thought I'd check and see if you knew when he was scheduled to fly out."

  “Fly out? Ah. . . I’m confused as to what you mean, Ms. Cleo.”

  The panic in his tone also shocks me. "He was scheduled to fly out earlier today, but his departure was delayed. Is he still there? Can I talk to him?"

  Abel's heavy sigh obscures the tapping of his feet on the wooden floorboards of Marcus's Florida home. He coughs to clear his throat before he mutters, "Umm. . . Ah . . ."

  “He is there, isn’t he?” I interrupt, my tone crammed with suspicion.

  My suspicions amplify when Abel replies, “No. I haven’t seen Mr. Everett today, Ms. Cleo.”

  The room spins around me as I'm overwhelmed with dizziness. Not trusting my legs, I sit on the edge of Marcus's huge bed.

  "When did you last see him?" I ask, my voice half-panicked, half-laced with unbridled jealousy. I'm frankly stumped on which emotion to honor. I feel panicked and enraged with anger at the same time.

  Horrid unease twists in my stomach when Abel replies, "I haven't seen him since he left with you weeks ago." His voice has a whip of edginess to it, like he too is annoyed by Marcus's lack of contact.

  I remain quiet, unable to speak through the terrible feeling twisting my stomach. Marcus said he was returning to Ravenshoe, so why wouldn’t he stay at his residence while he was there? Not unless he stayed elsewhere. . .

  I’m freed from my sickening thoughts when Abel asks, “Ms. Cleo, are you there?”

  “Ah, yes,” I reply, my voice as low as my heart rate. “If you hear from Marcus, can you tell him I need to talk to him?” I roll my eyes, loathing that the confidence I built the past three months was sideswiped in one afternoon.

  “Yes, Ms. Cleo, I most certainly will.” Some of the dread scorching my throat eases from Abel’s guarantee.

  After apologizing again for disturbing him, I bid farewell to Abel, then disconnect our call. I don’t know if I’m just being spiteful, or merely striving to spark a reaction out of Marcus, but I send him a cryptic text message.

  Me: How’s the weather in Florida? Be sure to rug up before you return home because things are getting mighty cold here. By the way, Abel says hello.

  I glare at my phone for the next twenty minutes, yearning for it to ring, buzz, vibrate—to do anything!

  It does nothing.

  15

  I angrily swipe at a tear on my cheek when a brief tap sounds on the door of Marcus’s bedroom. Not waiting for me to give permission to enter, Lexi cracks open the door and saunters inside. I slowly suck in a lung-filling gulp of air as I drink in her perfectly made-up ensemble. She is wearing a thick wool skirt with a dangerously high slit kept modest by three strategically placed chunky diaper pins. Her long-sleeve white shirt accentuates every perfect curve of her body, and her hair has been curled in a crazy, rock-chick style. With her vibrant brown eyes shadowed with a glittering of midnight black powder, her red-painted lips really pop off her face. She has taken the requisite 80’s Rock ‘n Roll dress code on Luke’s invitation and given it her own edge. I’m not going to lie; she looks so sexy, I’m afraid shoulder pads and teased-up bangs are about to become all the rage again.

  Noticing I'm still wearing the same outfit I wore at lunch, Lexi checks the time on her watch. "It's 9 PM, Cleo," she states as if I am unaware of the time.

  “I know,” I reply, rising from my slumped position. “I’m not going. I called Jackson, he’ll be here to collect you soon.”

  “No,” Lexi responds, spreading her hands over her cocked hip. “You RSVP’d for both of us. That means we’re both going.”

  She tosses aside my furious glare as if it's as weightless as a piece of lint before padding into the walk-in closet I share with Marcus. I can hear her grunting and moaning as she digs through my minuscule collection of clothes. She arrives at my bedside two minutes later holding a ghastly bright fluorescent pink slip dress I forgot I owned with a pair of glossy navy blue heels.

  “Tease out your curls and cake some blue eyeshadow on your eyes, and you’ll be good to go.” Lexi throws the dress at me.

  “Come on, Cleo. Chop, chop. There is such a thing as too late,” Lexi bickers when I fail to move my sloth-like form.

  “I don’t want to go out. I’m tired,” I grumble when she grasps my arms and drags me from the bed.

  Ignoring my childish whine, she whips my shirt over my head before wrangling with the zipper on my skirt. I freeze when her nose digs into my armpit. She inhales two quick whiffs in rapid succession before murmuring, "Good enough." She yanks my dress off the coat hanger and drags it over my head before I can blink.

  “You don’t understand, Lexi. I have a very legitimate reason why I don’t want to go out.”

  "I know," Lexi sighs, cutting me off. "I ran into Brodie in the hallway."

  Great. The last thing I want is people talking about me behind my back.

  “It’s not like that, Cleo,” Lexi replies to my private thoughts. “Brodie wasn’t gossiping about you. He’s just worried. I assured him you’ll be fine. You’re a Garcia. We survive anything.”

  She swirls an eyeshadow brush in her makeup kit I didn’t notice she was holding until now. Happy she has an adequate amount of blue eyeshadow on the brush, she sets to work on doing my makeup.

  I remain quiet, running her declaration through my mind on repeat. I am a Garcia, and I’ve survived much worse than this, but I don’t know if I’ll survive losing Marcus. Just the thought of not having him in my life has my stomach twisting up in knots.

  After applying enough makeup to my face to conceal my devastation, Lexi locks her eyes with mine. "When the game is ending sooner than you like, you force the opposition into the penalty box," she recites a quote our dad mentioned numerous times in our teens. I've never understood its logic. Tonight is no different.

  I begrudgingly slip on my heels, gather my cell, then shadow Lexi into the hallway. Although I’m not the best company, being surrounded by old friends will remind me I’m stronger than I realize. Just as I’m about to take the first step of the stairwell, Lexi seizes my elbow. My eyes bounce between hers when she continues clutching my arm until she has dragged me to the very end of the hallway.

  “Brodie is downstairs,” she whispers like it's a treasured secret.

  “Yeah. . . so?”

  The hallway is dimly lit, but it isn’t dark enough for me to miss Lexi’s eye roll. “You can’t force penalty time by colluding with the umpire,” she grumbles.

  Chilly winter winds whip my hair into a frenzy when Lexi cranks open the window we are standing next to. After thrust
ing her purse and cell into my chest, she clambers out the window.

  “Are you insane? We’re grown women, for crying out loud. We don’t need to sneak out.” Half of my sentence is muffled by a bout of childish giggling. My reaction can’t be helped. With Lexi’s super tight skirt, watching her scoot along the tree branch her legs are wrapped around is extremely entertaining.

  “If I get a splinter in my snatch, you’re digging it out,” Lexi warns, her pitch drenched with cheeky innuendo.

  “If you’re wearing panties, you won’t have to worry. . .” The remainder of my sentence gets lodged in my throat when Lexi suggestively waggles her brows.

  “Lexi! You’re. . .” I can’t think of an appropriate word to call her. “You’re bad,” I settle on.

  “Obviously not since you’re only just realizing this.” She grunts when she lands on the dew-covered ground with a thud, her years of cheerleading awarding her the perfect dismount.

  After throwing down her purse and our cells, I hike my skirt up high on my thighs and climb out the window sill. My ovaries shrivel up when the freezing cold temps outside have me wishing I could dart downstairs to retrieve my coat. It's as thin as my patience is right now, but it would be better than nothing.

  “Come on, Cleo.” Lexi encourages me to hurry. “Jax has the heat on in his truck.”

  I grimace when the tree bark digs into the smooth skin high on my thighs. My dismount isn’t as graceful as Lexi’s. It isn’t a lack of cheerleading skills causing me to fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes, it is hearing Brodie calling my name. For how loud he is, I’m confident he is on the second level of Marcus’s house.

  My assumptions are proven correct when Brodie’s torso leans out of the window I just climbed out not even two seconds before. His wide eyes dart between me and Lexi standing frozen on the manicured turf, the confusion in them doubling for every second that ticks by.

  “Don’t you dare!” he warns in a gravelly tone when he realizes what we are doing.