by Shandi Boyes
Dust scratches my throat when Marcus seizes his grandma’s guitar from the ground and rests it on my thighs. In silence, he takes a few moments tuning it. Although he seems calm and put-together, I can feel his heart smashing into his ribs. It's so furious, it's pulverizing my back.
I jump, startled within an inch of my life when the amp at our side roars to life. Because I was so immersed in discovering why his heart was erratically beating, I failed to notice his fingers strumming the strings of his guitar. A huge grin etches on my face as I watch Marcus in his absolute element. The way his fingers flex against the guitar strings with ease, and the pure enjoyment radiating out of him, displays how much he loves his music. He is in his prime right now—just like he is in his playroom. It's a beautiful thing to witness, and I’m beyond smitten I get to see this side of him.
I listen with interest, struggling to work out what song he is playing. I’m sure it isn’t one of his band's songs—I’m a diehard Rise Up fan, so I’m sure I’d recognize it. This tune has a familiarity about it, but the actual song title is slipping my mind.
I groan in frustration when I can’t work out the song title. It has a long instrumental opening, one of the longest I’ve heard. If it's the song I’m thinking of, it was out years ago, way before Rise Up was a thing, and way before I was even conceived. I can hear the tune perfectly in my head, but I’m at a complete loss on its title. . . until Marcus starts signing the lyrics. When he reaches the last line in the second chorus, the song title finally clicks.
“’November Rain,’” I whisper to myself.
Marcus doesn’t sing the song in the same rock grunge way Gun N’ Roses does. He gives it soulful edge that has my panties moistening even faster than my heart rate is quickening. He performs it like it was personally written for him to sing. And he performs it well.
If I couldn’t feel his utter happiness beaming out of him, I’d be concerned about why he chose to perform a song about couples needing time apart, but all I’m feeling is gratitude that I’m seeing a side of him I don’t think many people have seen before. It's an incredibly humbling moment.
The longer his impromptu one-of-a-kind performance continues, the more my heart thrashes my ribs. My god this man can sing. His voice melts through my veins like molten lava, slicking my skin with a fine layer of sweat.
When Marcus reaches the extended guitar riff in the middle of the extremely lengthy song, I close my eyes and get caught up in the music. Every chord he plays shreds my body of negative energy, leaving nothing but a twenty-six-year-old woman head over heels in love with a rock star. God—I should pinch myself just to be sure I’m not dreaming.
When the song ends, I break into rapturous applause, not the slightest bit embarrassed I’m fawning over him like a groupie. Hell, I’m so horny, I’ll happily downgrade my high morals to groupie standards if it gets me one step closer to Marcus touching me. His voice was. . .my god. How can I describe something so sexually satisfying it has me on the brink of ecstasy? That's what his voice does to me. I’m panting, hot, and on the verge of climax.
Marcus rests his guitar on the amp and stands from his seat, taking me with him. When he places me on my feet, I spin around to face him. Utter astonishment and glee are all over my face.
“How come I’ve never heard you sing before? My god—Marcus! Your albums would be double triple quadruple platinum if you sang with Noah.” Goosebumps prickle my skin just thinking about their voices singing in unison.
Marcus smiles, humbled by my reply, but he remains as quiet as a church mouse. My heart rate kicks into overdrive when the slightest touch of pink graces his cheeks. Oh. My. God—my praise embarrassed him.
“Why in the world would you be embarrassed, Marcus?”
Marcus’s eyes snap to mine. They grow in anger when he spots my leering grin. His angry glare does nothing to dampen my excitement. I made a Dom blush; tell me one other sub who can gloat about that? I freeze, disturbed by my own statement. I’m not Marcus’s sub, so why do I continually refer to myself as if I am?
Confusing my disgusted expression as being upset over his narrowed squint, Marcus admits, “I’ve never sung in front of anyone before. It isn’t something I generally do. I honestly can’t think of one time anyone has heard me sing.”
Happy to use his admission to push aside my inner conflict, I mutter, “I really like being your first.”
Before Marcus can announce his disgust or pleasure over my declaration, a commotion outside the garage secures our attention. When the garage door rattles, like someone is attempting to pry it open, I stand motionless in fear.
Marcus mutters something under his breath when the distinctive noise of multiple cameras clicking breaks the silence surrounding us.
“Jesus. . . mother of lord.” I barely hold my curse words when a large brute of a man suddenly steps into the garage. When my eyes rake the length of him, my first instinct is to arm myself with a weapon. The only reason I don’t is when his smiling face registers as familiar. He is the man who opened the car door for me yesterday.
“How many are there?” Marcus asks the unnamed man, his tone clipped.
The brunette gent shrugs. “Around a dozen or so. If you want to wait thirty minutes, I can get a few guys here to move them on.”
“Thirty minutes?” Marcus asks, his tone hinting at his annoyance. “You can’t get them here any quicker? My plane is already on the tarmac.”
“Depends.” The man pauses, soundlessly building the suspense. “On how you want to explain her.” He nudges his head to me.
Marcus’s jaw ticks. I’m assuming his anger is due to the unnamed man referring to me as “her.”
I feel the crazy beat of Marcus’s heart through our conjoined hands when he curls his around mine. “Cleo, this is Hawke, head of Rise Up’s security. Hawke, this is my girlfriend, Cleo,” he introduces, his tone not as wrathful as the glare he issued Hawke moments ago.
Just for reference, hearing Marcus call me his girlfriend a second time didn’t lessen the impact. It was just as magical as it was the first time.
“Nice to meet you, Hawke.” I accept the hand he is holding out.
“Likewise.” Hawke’s twinkling-with-amusement eyes shift back to Marcus. “Girlfriend?” he queries with astonishment smearing his deep tone. “Gemma heard some talk between the boys last week; I thought they were playing tricks on her.”
Marcus cocks a brow and glares into Hawke’s eyes, not appreciating the ghost of a smile cracking on his twitching mouth. A tense stretch of silence passes between us. Not long enough we forget the paparazzi are moments away from breaking down Marcus’s garage door, but long enough for a beading of sweat to form on my nape.
“Alright,” Hawke gives in to Marcus’s wrathful glare, holding his hands out in front of his body. “But maybe next time you unwillingly drag a man across a porch, you might stop to consider your actions first.”
The tension drains away from Marcus’s face. “Unlikely. If it weren’t for Jenni and me that night, you’d still be watching Gemma from afar.”
Hawke grumbles something under his breath as he steps out of the garage. He returns not even two seconds later grasping a hideous floral hat, a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses, and a yellow raincoat with pink polka dots.
“I hope they’re for Marcus,” I protest before I can stop my words. I’m not a fashionista by any means, but I wouldn’t let my snooping neighbor Mrs. Rachet be caught dead in that horrid ensemble, much less myself.
My eyes snap to Marcus, informing him I wasn’t joking when his breathy chuckle trickles into my ears. He stops smiling as the apprehension in his eyes brews. “It's either that outfit or you travel with Hawke to the airport hangar,” he informs me, wiping the smile straight off my face. “Until things cool down with Global Ten Media, we can’t be seen together.”
Although I should be mad Global Ten’s investigation into Chains is still influencing my relationship with Marcus, gratefulness pumps into me. I’
ve been in so much of a lust-filled bubble today, I completely forgot the world surrounding us. Thankfully, Marcus has his head screwed on straight, or who knows what type of mistakes we could have made. I’m not being facetious when I say I am lost to this man. When I’m with him, it's as if the world, and anything trying to drag me down, no longer exists.
My bottom lip involuntarily drops into a pout as I accept the horrendous clothing and accessories from Hawke. Although my mood has taken a significant nosedive, I’d rather have my picture snapped in this outfit than be separated from Marcus. For the past week, he has been my lifeline. He boosted my confidence when worry dragged it down, and reeled in bad behavior when I was being overly bratty. He truly balances me out, making me a stronger and more determined woman.
Like my crashing-back-to-reality temperament could get any shoddier, its plunge switches from a forty-five-degree decline to a heart-shattering ninety-degree descent when I pop on my disguise, huddle under the nook of Marcus’s arm, then run through the gauntlet of paparazzi lying in wait for us outside Marcus’s grandma home. It isn’t being photographed in a pre-eighties getup that has caused my drastic decline. It's the questions the paparazzi hammer Marcus with as we weave through them that has my heart sitting in my throat.
“Marcus, are you aware of the murder of a former Rise Up bodyguard?”
“Marcus, would you like to express your condolences to Stephen’s family?”
“Marcus, do you wish to comment on the rumors you were a key witness in an FBI investigation yesterday that resulted in the death of a New York resident?”
“Marcus. . . Marcus . . . Marcus!!”
The endless stream of questions continue until I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Marcus’s car. With the paparazzi pushing their lenses in close to tinted windows, vying for the money shot, Marcus’s car rolls down the street at a painstakingly slow 5MPH. With the media’s interests at an all-time high, even a big burly bodyguard like Hawke is having a hard time dispersing them. I keep my head down low, not just ensuring the paparazzi don’t capture my image, but so I can hide my shameful face from the world.
By the time Marcus maneuvers his car into the isolated airstrip on the outskirts of Ravenshoe, my rollercoaster ride of emotions comes to an end, stopping at a devastating low. I can’t believe I’ve become so callous the past four years that discovering two men somewhat related to me lost their lives didn’t affect my composure in the slightest. I spent my night being adored by a man I’m in love with before swooning in a garage that has enormous sentimental value to him without a single smidge of remorse passing through me.
I know the power Marcus has over me is strong, but I had no clue it was so powerful, it completely wipes away my empathy.
I am a truly terrible person.
10
Remaining quiet, I shadow Marcus out of his vehicle and toward the private jet. Just like when we arrived five days ago, people scatter around us, removing jackets, handing over keys, and aiding me out of my disguise. When Marcus curls his hand around mine, his eyes drop to our intertwined fingers. My hand is so clammy, there is no way he could miss their ghastly stickiness. Forcing a smile onto my face, I ensure him I’m fine, even when I’m not. He returns my smile, although it's nowhere near as big as the one I’m used to seeing.
We climb the stairs of the private jet in silence, glide past the two attractive flight attendants with a brief dip of our chins, then stroll down the empty aisle. Although my eyes still bug in awe of the beautifully rich cabinetry and opulent leather seats of the private jet’s cabin, my dour mood isn’t fully registering it. It's like everything in life, the highs are awe-inspiring, but the lows are genuinely crushing.
While Marcus and Cameron discuss air nautical procedures and precipitation, I pace to a set of white leather recliners at the front of the galley. Although Marcus’s flow of conversation continues without pause, he didn’t need to voice his protest to my withdrawal. The fact I had to practically yank my hand out of his firm grasp is all the indication I needed he wasn’t pleased with my decision.
After plunking into one of the two leather chairs at the front of the cabin, I reach for the unopened water bottle sitting on the table tray in front of the seat. Marcus's eyes drift across the room when he notices the rattle of my hand. I’m shaking so much, water sloshes over the rim of the glass I’m attempting to fill.
My glass isn’t even half full when Marcus crouches down in front of me. He seizes the bottle from my grasp, fills my glass, then dispenses of the empty bottle into a waste receptacle on his right. He cautiously watches me as I take a sip on the chilled water I’m hoping will eradicate the bile sitting in the back of my throat. It does nothing to ease the fiery burn of regret.
Marcus tucks a strand of hair behind my ear before lifting my chin, accessing my soul without a word spilling from his straight-lined lips. I want to tell him I’m fine and he can continue doing pre-flight checks with Cameron, but no matter how hard I fight my mouth to relinquish my words, they remain entombed in my throat. I’m not fine; I feel horrible inside and out.
Marcus sighs heavily before he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. His minty-fresh breath settles some of the unease swirling in my stomach. “Give me a few minutes with Cameron, then I’ll get you settled in.”
He waits for me to nod before he stands from his crouched position. His feet remain planted on the ground, unsure if he is coming or going. While scrubbing his hand over his chin, his eyes dance between the cockpit and me. His indecisiveness at leaving me breaks through the heavy cloud attempting to swallow me whole. I know I’m being childish, but no amount of scolding can stop the pain gnawing my chest. It's so tight, it feels like it's crushing my heart.
“Go on; I’m fine,” I stammer out. “I’m just zonked after our activities last night.” I inwardly cringe, praying he didn’t hear my deceit as loudly as I did.
Thankfully, he doesn’t. After a final kiss on my temple, he ambles back to Cameron.
I snuggle deeper into my chair before securing a popular gossip magazine out of the rack attached to the bulkhead. If I can keep my mind occupied, the silence of the cabin won’t let my mind stray to more gruesome thoughts.
I’m not surprised when I discover a picture of Rise Up graces the front page. Ignoring the headline screaming a possible rift between front man, Noah Taylor and his wife, Emily, I aimlessly flick through the magazine. Usually, I’d gobble up every gossip article I could find on the band, but this time I don’t even bother reading the loosely factual story. I watched Emily and Noah very attentively two weeks ago; if they are close to separating, there is no help for the rest of society. They are as in love now as they were when they married six years ago.
I’m halfway through reading my eerily accurate horoscope when a deep voice booms out of the speakers. “Cabin crew, prepare for takeoff.”
My brows scrunch. That didn’t sound like Marcus.
The heavy groove marring the middle of my brows deepens when Marcus steps out of the cockpit and takes the empty seat next to me. Remaining quiet, he secures his lap sash around his waist before leaning over to strap me in. Images of him restraining me last night rush to the forefront of my mind, pushing away some of the dread festering there.
My mouth gapes opened and closed like a fish out of water when the plane lurches forward to taxi to the runway. “Who’s flying the plane?” I ask, my words forced through the solid lump in my throat.
Marcus removes the magazine splayed across my thighs. He places it into the rack and curls his hand around mine. His surging pulse rages through our conjoined hands.
“Cameron will first pilot today,” he explains, his neutral tone not giving me an indication of whether or not it was his choice.
“Doesn’t he need a co-pilot?”
Marcus grins a smile that clears away my nerves. “No. This type of plane can easily be flown without a co-pilot.”
I arch my brow and glare into his eyes, demanding further
explanation. When he fails to give it, I say, “If you don’t need a co-pilot, why did you have one last week?”
My heart does a weird flippy thing when Marcus growls, “Because it was a requirement Cormack had included in my contract.”
“Cormack?” I query, recalling Marcus mentioning his name during our Dom/sub negotiations two weeks ago.
“He’s the manager of our band.” Marcus’s brows furrow down low. “Well, technically he owns Destiny Records, but when we negotiated for him to remain our manager, he added his own stipulations. Hence my requirement to fly with a co-pilot.”
Ignoring the snip of anger in Marcus’s tone, I reply, “It's a pretty smart move. It not only ensures his talent remains safe, but it also means his company’s revenue continues to improve.” I elbow him playfully, hoping to lighten up our conversation. Although he’d never say it, I can tell my negativity is rubbing off on him.
He remains quiet, his focus fixated on the tarmac whizzing past the large oval windows of the jet.
“Did you not want to fly today?” I ask. My tone relays I know the reason behind his decision, but I would prefer for him to express it.
Marcus turns his eyes from the window to me. “I love flying; it’s the one time my mind is void of any thoughts.”
“I don’t know if you should admit that to someone who has flown with you when you're behind the. . .” My words trail off when I can’t think of what the driving mechanism pilots use is called.
“Control column,” Marcus fills in.
“Yeah. Don’t admit your mind is empty when you’re in control of the entire plane. Or I might not fly with you again.”
Marcus’s brief chuckle eases some of the tension sitting on my chest. “Duly noted,” he murmurs under his breath.
