Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  Pretending I can’t feel my insides twisting up, I scoot across the mattress, filling in the minutest portion of air left between us. “So what do you say, Master Chains? Do you accept the new terms of our agreement? Or do you have some stipulations you’d like to add?” I cringe when my voice comes out with a tremor I was hoping to conceal with light-hearted commentary.

  My heart slithers into my gut when Marcus murmurs, “Hmmm.” He takes his time considering his options, building the suspense until it hangs so thickly in the air, it's almost murderous.

  The five o’clock shadow on his top lip tickles my mouth when he murmurs, “I accept your offer, Ms. Garcia. No further negotiations necessary.”

  I exhale loudly as fresh tears prick my eyes.

  We seal our new deal with a kiss. . .and a few hours twisted beneath the sheets.

  9

  My hand sweeps at the handful of tears trickling down my face before I pull back from Abel’s embrace. Even though I’m confident my cheeks are tear-free, the twinkle in Abel’s eyes tells me he didn’t miss the one or two splashes that hit the collar of his shirt.

  “You’ll be back soon. I just know it,” Abel mutters, squeezing my hand. “Until then, you continue reminding that boy of mine that life is about noise, mess, and chaos.” He nudges his head to Marcus sitting in the driver’s seat of his fancy sports car. After returning his mischievous eyes to me, he continues, “And I’ll enjoy the benefits of a full night’s sleep without any noisy interruptions.”

  I swallow harshly as heat rises to my cheeks. That’s my cue to leave.

  After pressing a final kiss on Abel’s elevated cheek, I slide into the passenger seat of Marcus’s car. The tight pleated pencil skirt I’m wearing glides up inappropriately high on my thigh. A grin curls on my lips, loving Marcus’s bug-eyed reaction to the scandalous portions of skin I’m exposing. Not a word seeps from his mouth, but the hiss of air straining through his teeth gives me the exact reaction I was hoping for.

  I’ve never used my body as a ploy for attention before, but I’m not above using it to secure Marcus’s utmost devotion. Although he spent hours last night devouring every inch of me, there is still a snippet of worry festering in my heart that things between us are about to drastically change. It probably has more to do with returning home than Marcus’s quietness this morning, but I can’t one hundred percent testify to that. Marcus has never been an overly talkative person anyway, so both my assumptions could be entirely off the mark.

  Storing away my confusion for a more appropriate time, I fasten my seatbelt and swing my eyes to Marcus. My breath hitches when I spot him watching me, the hunger in his eyes as prominent as ever.

  “You ready?”

  A grin curls on my lips. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  My thighs touch when he revs the engine of his expensive pride and joy. The vibration of the high horse-powered motor rumbles through my seat before clustering in my rapidly awakening core. It reminds me so much of the time we evaded the paparazzi when we were leaving the airport hangar. With the media being well-informed of the band’s home base, Marcus said, any time a jet is scheduled to arrive, the paparazzi are either expecting a member of Rise Up, or a handful of the wealthy businessmen who also claim Ravenshoe as their hometown. It's their regular haunt to stalk since the band’s home bases are closely guarded secrets.

  My grin sags to a pout. “I didn’t think the paparazzi knew about this place?” I hate that my foolishness yesterday has compromised his privacy.

  “They don’t.” Marcus’s lips curve higher than the needle on his speedometer. “But when I recalled how much you enjoyed the ride last time, I thought I‘d treat you to a similar thrill.”

  My heart rate kicks into a canter. “The ride? Or the event that took place after the ride?” I query, my voice full of sass, loving that I’m in the presence of the carefree Marcus I’ve only seen a handful of times since arriving in Ravenshoe.

  Marcus doesn’t answer my question. He doesn’t need to. His eyes relay the entire story.

  A girly squeal ripples through my lips when he plants his foot to the floor. The impressive power of his engine thrusts me into my seat, while his lusty grin hits every one of my hot buttons. His car fishtails in the loose gravel of his driveway before zooming out of the recently repaired security gate. I sling my head back, aspiring to wave goodbye to Abel. Although he is covered by a dust cloud, I can’t miss his bright smile beaming through the gritty fog.

  By the time Marcus weaves his car through the winding roads of Bronte’s Peak, the aggravation gnawing my heart is completely forgotten. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster ride—literally. Not only is my stomach following the ebb and flow of the road surface, but so are my emotions. I don’t know if it's a good thing or not, but I can’t remember the last time I felt so many contrasting emotions in a twenty-four hour period. It’s been crazy. A true rollercoaster ride.

  My brows stitch when Marcus fails to take the exit to the private airstrip where the band’s jet is housed. “Weren’t you supposed to take that exit?” I ask. My words are forced through a gag, hating that I'm one of those annoying backseat drivers. They are the worst of the worst.

  Marcus remains quiet. Even though he isn’t looking at me, I know his eyes are on me. I can feel the heat of his gaze drifting between my barely covered thighs and my face. You can’t hide the heat of desire.

  With my interests piqued, I turn my eyes back to the scenery whizzing by. Just like a majority of Bronte’s Peak, the panorama is breathtakingly beautiful. Marvelous, architecturally pleasing homes scatter the shoreline, nestled amongst a coastline that stretches as far as the eye can see. I’ve always been a city girl, but Bronte’s Peak is growing on me. It's like an oasis in the middle of a bustling world, contending to gobble up every moment of freedom. It's a reminder to stop and breathe, and maybe occasionally smell the roses. It's peaceful but not so overly quaint that you feel claustrophobic.

  The further we travel, the less opulent our surroundings become. The houses go from sprawling mansions to cozy family homes I’ve become accustomed to in Montclair. The manicured lawns aren’t as green or kept as the ones in Marcus’s neighborhood, but the neighborhood has a sense of pride radiating out of it. This area may not be as wealthy as Bronte’s Peak, but it's alive with a richness money can’t buy. It's a community.

  “Where are we?” I ask Marcus, my tone as surprised as my wide eyes.

  Before a syllable escapes Marcus’s lips, he pulls in front of a weather-chapped house. It's identical to many other homes on the street, except its paintwork has recently been done, and the trimmings around the windows are a beautiful sky blue in coloring. It's a cute little house full of old-world charm, but I’m still at a loss as to why Marcus would bring me here.

  “Come, I want to show you something,” he says, unclipping his seatbelt and curling out of his seat.

  My pulse quickens, spurred on by his voice. It's brandishing the same amount of excitement it did when he had his playroom installed in his private residence. Suddenly, I freeze as the breakfast I consumed in a hurry this morning gurgles in my windpipe. Oh god—please don’t let this be his sub house.

  “Thank you,” I stammer when Marcus opens my passenger door and aids me out of his car.

  With his hand on the curve of my back, his eyes sweep the area, ensuring we are alone. Considering it isn’t even 7 AM, the street is unsurprisingly quiet.

  My worry that this is indeed the house Marcus’s subs lived in grows when he removes a key from his trouser pocket and places it into the bulky lock on the front door. A damp smell hits my senses when he swings open the door and gestures for me to enter the humbly sized house.

  With my heart smashing into my ribs, my eyes bolt in all directions, unsure which item to take in first. There is a small, cozy living room on my right; a spotlessly clean, homely kitchen in the far-left corner; and a well-used dining table covered with sheets of paper nestled between the kitchen and living ar
eas.

  Deciding to start at the more welcoming space, I pace into the living area. Although it’s filled with furnishings similar to my home in Jersey, the musty scent lingering in the air conveys this residence hasn’t recently been used. Don’t get me wrong, it's the type of home that gives you the warm and fuzzies; it just hasn’t been occupied enough to harbor that real family vibe a childhood home usually conveys.

  My eyes rocket to Marcus when I spot a photo sitting in prime place on the mantelpiece. It's an exact replica of the picture Abel showed me last week: the one of Marcus and his three sisters. The mad beat of my heart slows as I walk over to the mantle to secure the photo in my hand. Marcus hovers close by, but remains quiet, allowing me to absorb the space at my own pace.

  I shift my eyes to Marcus. “Is this your family home?”

  Marcus’s brows furl. “Not particularly, but it was as close to a home as I had at the time.”

  Although confused by his riddled reply, I can’t tear my eyes away from the family treasures scattered around the living room. I love stuff like this. Nothing can replace memories, but photos are a very close second to capturing a lifetime of stories.

  As I remove a small coat of dust from the frame, my eyes absorb the other pictures proudly displayed on the mantelpiece. All feature Marcus and his sisters in some light. My chin dips down low when a pair of twinkling eyes capture my attention. Even though the photo looks very well-worn, there is no way I could mistake those worldly eyes. After setting down the photo of Marcus and his sisters, I pick up the photo of Abel and another handsome African American man. Abel is wearing a full military uniform. One lapel is entirely covered with shiny medals.

  “How long ago was this taken?” I ask Marcus.

  Apprehension strains his face as he mutters, “Well before I was born.” His mouth carves into a panty-wetting smirk. “Don’t let Abel ever catch wind you were drooling over his photo. He’ll never let you live it down.”

  I giggle. “He’s very handsome.”

  My giggle turns into a full chuckle when Marcus playfully growls. Well, I assume he is playing; it's hard to tell from the expressionless mask he is wearing.

  “Who is the man standing beside Abel?”

  Marcus coughs to clear his throat before he answers, “That's my father, Josiah.” His deep tone is a clear warning that I’m not to ask any more questions in regards to his father. It was stern, clipped with unbridled anger, and, if I’m being honest, pussy-quakingly delicious.

  Not wanting our conversation to merge into uncomfortable waters, I place the frame back onto the mantel before pivoting around to face Marcus. Our relationship has had too many ups and downs the past week to add any more bumps in the road. We are barely holding on as it is, so I’m not willing to throw more obstacles in our path.

  We stand across from each other in silence. I wouldn’t necessarily say it's awkward, but there is a tinge of restlessness.

  Marcus ends our tense standoff by waving his hand to a door on my far right. “In there is my real home,” he informs me, his voice not as riddled with anxiety as the one he was using earlier.

  Guided by my curiosity, I pace to the door. Marcus shadows closely behind me, his steps so quiet they are barely heard tapping on the well-used carpet. The smell of soot, dust and wood filters through my nose when I swing open the door. My heart goes into a tizzy when my eyes rake the room. Even if I weren’t a fan of Rise Up’s music, I’d still know what this room is. This is where it all began for Rise Up. This is Marcus’s grandmother’s garage. It's so well known, it had its own two-page spread in Rolling Stones magazine three years ago. Although its exact location was never disclosed, every inch of this double garage was digitally archived. It’s just as important as the scraps of paper Noah and Marcus used to pen their first album. I won’t lie, I’m totally chuffed he brought me here.

  Striving to ignore the stupid sentimental tears looming in my eyes, I pace deeper into the room. “Is that the actual microphone Noah sang his first full-length song on?” I ask, recalling an article I read years ago that said Noah never knew he could sing until the day he belted out a tune in Marcus’s grandma’s garage.

  “Yes,” Marcus replies, his lips curling into a smirk. “And that’s the drum kit Slater learned to play on.”

  A giggle topples from my mouth from the horrified expression on his face. From his grimace alone, I gather the rumors about Slater not having a musical bone in his body before he met Marcus must be true.

  I slowly saunter around the makeshift studio, taking in all the unique details with the same set of keen eyes I used when inspecting Marcus’s playrooms. In all honesty, this room is just as impressive as his playroom, because it shows who Marcus was before he became Marcus—bassist of Rise Up. I could just imagine him and his bandmates hanging out here every weekend, playing riffs and dreaming about the day they would be big stars. I wonder if they had any idea it would turn out the way it did? They not only accomplished greatness; they also proved that four men from a little no-name town in Florida can achieve anything they set their minds to. It's truly inspirational.

  Rolling my eyes at my gushiness, I shift on my feet to face Marcus. “Would you look at me acting all star-struck. You must get sick of seeing stars in the eyes of your fans?”

  “Never,” Marcus replies without pause for consideration. His deep timbre increases the heat on my cheeks. “That’s what music is about.”

  I laugh. “What? Making all the girls go ga-ga?”

  The huge grin on my face morphs onto Marcus’s. “No, it’s about making them feel. That’s what I love about music. The fame, the screaming fans, the groupies. . .”

  I giggle at his disgruntled expression.

  “. . . They aren’t what started Rise Up. It was the opportunity to voice ourselves through lyrics. To express what we were never game to say out loud. It was a chance to be ourselves.”

  My face goes deadpan from the hurried mutter of his last sentence. I bite on the inside of my cheek, praying it will stop my immature squirming when Marcus steps closer to me, filling the small portion of air between us with his impressive frame. “I wanted to show you this when we first arrived, but the band's security detail wouldn’t agree with my request—not with an unknown threat on the loose.”

  I attempt to interrupt him, wanting to know how long he knew I was being stalked and if they knew all along it was Richard, but before a word escapes my mouth, the entirety of his statement crashes into me.

  “You wanted to show me this when we arrived? Days ago?” I ask as my widening eyes dance between his.

  Marcus nods. “Yes. If I hadn’t promised your sister I’d have you on the first flight home yesterday, I had many things I’d planned to show you. But since I’ve seen how Lexi operates when I don’t adhere to my promises, that must wait until we return to Ravenshoe.”

  Blood rushes into my heart more quickly than it can be pumped out. “Oh, Marcus, don’t ever show your fear. If Lexi gets one sniff of your hesitation, you’ll be a goner.” I inwardly sigh when my voice comes out sounding more risqué than the stuttering idiot I feel like on the inside. My heart is dancing with so much glee at Marcus’s admission he wants to bring me back to Ravenshoe, I can’t be sure I’m not having a heart attack.

  The chances of merging into coronary failure territory triples when Marcus curls his hand around mine and paces us to the corner of the room while mumbling, “I’m already well past gone,” under his breath.

  My attention reverts from divulging the inner secrets his eyes are relaying when he says, “This was the real thing that brought Rise Up together.” He nudges his head to a white electric guitar leaning on an amp at the side of a makeshift stage. “My grandma sold this guitar so she could buy me a laptop to create music with.” His eyes twinkle as his lips twitch. “For years, my dad thought the school had lent me this ‘fan-dangle computer’ so I could improve my studies. It didn’t even have a word processing program on it.” The smile on his face melts
away. “Shows how much attention he paid.”

  After running his hand over his recently shaved chin, he continues with his story, “When we were at the music store, we ran into Noah. He was there gawking at a Gibson acoustic guitar. I swear nearly every instrument he eyed that day was sitting in my grandmother’s garage, collecting dust. When I told him that, he straight up called me a liar.” His smile returns, stronger than ever. “I, of course, had to prove him wrong.”

  My heart thwacks against my chest, adoring that Marcus is sharing stories with me no one in the public knows. Although it was disclosed he and Noah met in a music store, the articles were never this in-depth.

  “So how did you know Noah could sing?” I ask, tracking Marcus as he moves across the room to collect a seat from a stack of chairs leaning on the garage door.

  “I didn’t. I asked him to sing so I could test out the music producer my grandma had the owner of the music store download onto my laptop,” Marcus answers, laughing. “I had planned on altering his voice with a high caliber voice adjustment stimulator, wanting to prove to him that anyone could be a singer with the right program.” He pauses for a moment like he is recalling a fond memory. “I didn’t adjust anything about his voice that day, and I never have since.”

  He sets the chair down in front of me, sits, then drags me into his lap like he is my own personal chair. My playful giggle switches to a moan when my backside brushes against his impressive groin. I don’t know if he is hard, but try as I may, I can’t ignore the heat of his thick flesh nestled on my backside. Clearly, since I grind against him not even two seconds later.

  “Don’t, Cleo,” Marcus warns. “My grandmother may have passed, but she still lives in this house.” His sweet breath tickles my earlobe when he whispers, “She isn’t as forgiving as Abel.”

  Blood rushes to the surface of my cheeks. It doesn’t last long, only as long as it takes for Marcus’s brief chuckle to hit my eardrums. Although I love hearing his laugh, I swear, I’m never moaning during sex again. The little voice inside me stomps her feet before crossing her arms in front of her chest, denying my silent pledge with an edge of confidence Marcus’s devotion has bestowed her with.