by Shandi Boyes
Marcus grins a smile I’ve only seen on a handful of occasions. “It’s a joint project that has just come to light.”
"Joint? As in for you and me? Or. . ." I leave my sentence open for him to finalize.
"For you and me," he fills in, still smiling.
“Okay. . .sounds good. Although I’m not sure you should trust me with anything in this room. Computers and I aren’t friends,” I reply, waving my hand around his extravagant home studio.
Marcus arches his brow. “So how have you been submitting your freelance articles if you’re not accustomed to computers?” he queries, knowing all too well what my answer is as he’s watched me type them up on his laptop the past week.
I send out a feeler email to a few publishing houses I was offered contracts with when I finished my internship at Global Ten. Surprisingly, a handful remembered my work before I was seconded to the dungeon. After an impromptu phone interview, two have offered to screen any stories I write. If they print my story, I get paid a freelance retainer fee. Although it's a very casual employment arrangement, I'd rather have a laidback approach than none at all.
I answer Marcus’s question with a shrug of my shoulders. “I just magically teleport them my articles.”
Marcus tries to hold in his smile. He miserably fails. My dorky metaphors and goading nature are growing on him—slowly.
“So what’s this joint project?” I ask, excitement in my tone.
Marcus slouches deeper into his chair, so he has an unencumbered view of my face. "What are your thoughts on writing an all-exclusive feature on an integral member of the number one band in the world?"
His showy voice gives away which band he is referring to, but I act stupid, loving his carefree attitude too much to dampen it. “Oh my god! Am I interviewing Twisted Perfection?” I falsely gush. I am a fan of Twisted Perfection’s music, but none of their members hold a torch to the man in front of me.
Marcus snarls, bearing teeth, apparently not appreciating my mention of Rise Up's biggest competition. Although Rise up has had a clean sweep at nearly every award ceremony in the country the past four years, Twisted Perception gave them a run for their money this year. Rise Up may have walked away with Album of the Year at the Grammys, but rumors were it was by the skin of their teeth. Not in my books—just those pesky reporters who love filling the glossy pages of magazines with loosely based factual stories. Although, from Marcus's reaction, I'm beginning to wonder if some of the rumors of a rift between the two world-dominating rivals are true.
A hiss of air escapes Marcus’s stern-snapped mouth when I swivel in my seat to face him front-on. My train of thought is lost when I feel his cock thickening beneath me. From the spark of dominance growing in his eyes, it's clear I’m not the only who has noticed his body’s reaction to my accidental grind up. I smile, loving that he is a defenseless as me when it comes to this crazy lust-filled relationship we have begun.
“I don’t think we should mix business with pleasure, Marcus. That will just make things complicated,” I eventually murmur, my words jittery since they were forced through the lust curled around my throat.
Marcus tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You don’t think it's a little too late for that?” he mutters. His gravelly voice sends shockwaves straight to my pussy. “Things are already complicated.”
He trails his finger down my cheek, along my collarbone, and across my shoulder blade, knocking the sleeve of my bulky sweater off my shoulder in the process.
When his tongue delves out to replenish his top lip, my insides clench. “This would be a different type of complicated.” My shuddering voice gives away my excitement. “I don’t write stories based on half-truths, Marcus. I write exactly what I see.”
“And what are you seeing?” Marcus asks, standing from his chair, taking me with him.
Hundreds of buttons light up on the studio panels when he places me down on them. I try to hold my weight off the technical-looking equipment, but my efforts are fruitless when Marcus curls my legs around his waist and drags my backside closer to him. Not giving me the chance to object—not that I was going to—he whips my one-shoulder knitted sweater over my head. My hair falls halfway down my back in a tussle of curls when he tugs at the elastic keeping my unruly locks at bay.
“I see a man who doesn’t play fair,” I mumble incoherently when he places a peppering of butterfly kisses on my exposed neck. “Who knows he has me at a disadvantage and exploits it at every possibility.”
Marcus smiles against my neck. “I see a beautiful woman who can’t take an opportunity presented to her because she is too stubborn to acknowledge it was her talent that secured it.”
“My talent?” I murmur, my words barely audible when his hand slips under my cami to cup my aching-with-desire breast. Even though there is satin material between his hand and my breast, his touch scorches my skin as if there isn’t. “How would you know what writing talent I have?”
My bottom lip begrudgingly drops into a pout when Marcus pulls away from my neck. If I knew my question was going to cause him to retreat from lavishing me with his affections, I wouldn’t have asked it.
With his sentiment-filled eyes arrested on mine, he secures his wallet out of the back of his trousers. My brows furrow when he pulls out a folded-up scrap of newspaper. Suddenly, my heart lurches into my throat. I really hope that isn’t the story I printed on Noah being in rehab.
After carefully opening the short newspaper article, Marcus recites, “Phillis Brooks will always be remembered as a loving mother, grandmother, and pillar of the community. After retirement from the textile industry in 1990, her greatest passion merged with helping others. With four grown children, and grandchildren by the dozens, her kitchen was never closed, much like her heart. Phillis’s tireless charity efforts ensure her memory will forever live on in those fortunate enough to have known her. A service will be held for Phillis at St. Augustine Memorial Chapel on August 2nd at 3 PM. If you wish, donations may be made to the Augustine Shelter Foundation, or a charity of your choice in lieu of flowers—”
“It's sad to know my story is over, but when I look back, I see more than a lifetime of memories,” I quote, reciting part of an obituary I wrote nearly six months ago.
I stare at Marcus, dumbfounded and confused. Why would he carry around the obituary of little old lady who lived in some random town in Florida? It doesn't make any sense. Unless. . .
My breath snags in my throat when reality dawns. “Phillis was your grandmother?”
“Yes,” Marcus replies, his lips curling into an apprehensive smile. “What you wrote was true. By the time she passed, she had lived the equivalent of two lives.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I sympathize. “From the little dossier I was given, she seemed like a wonderful lady.”
"She was," Marcus confirms, "but no one was interested in that when she passed. Every one of her obituaries failed to mention her charity work or other family members. All they cited was her association with me—all but yours. You kept it about her—exactly as I had requested."
Nothing against the other journalists, but if that's true, it’s terrible. I'm sure Phillis was incredibly proud of her grandson, but the effort she put into numerous charities the last nineteen years of her life was mammoth. She raised millions of dollars for a homeless shelter in her final two years with nothing but hard work, and I'm sure plenty of tears, so wouldn’t that deserve a worthy mention in her final chapter?
After storing the cut-out of Phillis’s obituary back in his wallet, Marcus lifts and locks his eyes with mine. Tears prick in my eyes when he discloses, “The verse you wrote at the end of her obituary is scripted on her headstone.”
"It is?" My two short words are incapable of concealing the barrage of emotions slamming into me.
Marcus tugs a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and hands it to me before nodding. Lucky, as I need it to catch a handful of tears rolling down my cheeks.
After
waiting for me to mop up my tears, Marcus pinches my chin and lifts my head. “Is that proof enough I believe in your writing ability?”
Not wanting him to hear my snivel, I merely nod. "But I still don't think this is a good idea, Marcus. I've just stepped away from one investigation involving you, so it wouldn't be wise to dive straight into another."
The crackling of my voice displays my wariness. Although I'd never share Marcus's secret with anyone, even writing a pop-culture piece on the band's upcoming tour could stir trouble. Mr. Carson accepted my resignation without requesting a three-page dossier on the reason behind my sudden exodus from his company, but I don't see Delilah being so accommodating. Skeptical controversy will rise the instant my name shifts from the hidden depths of obituaries to a front-page exclusive on a world-dominating group.
My focus reverts to Marcus when he asks, “What if I said the hard-hitting story wasn’t about me?”
My cheeks protest about the sudden incline of my smile. "Nothing against your band members, but I doubt they have any hard-hitting news left to share. Unlike you, their entire lives have been played out in the public eye. Anything I write about them will be old news before the article hits the printers."
My smile grows when Marcus doesn’t attempt to negate my claims. There is no use denying the truth.
Marcus arches his brow and says, “Off the record?”
My interests are piqued. Accepting the hand he is holding out, I reply, “Off the record.”
We've barely shaken hands when he blurts out, "Noah and Emily are having a baby in April. A son."
"What?!" I cringe when my ear-piercing squeal bounces off the soundproof walls and shrills into my ears. Soundproof, my ass. “I saw Emily last month; she didn’t even have a bump.”
I straighten my spine as memories of our one and only meeting filters into my mind. Understandably, I was dazed that night. I just discovered the man I had been conversing with online wasn't just a BDSM club owner and member of a world-famous rock group, but I'd also endured one of the most earth-shattering climaxes I've ever experienced in my life after discovering he was the man I’d been searching for the past four years, so I guess lack of attention could be excused.
I lift my baffled eyes to Marcus. “Why would they want me to write this story? Emily is their publicist; shouldn’t she share their news?”
Marcus shrugs. “We figured Rise Up negatively contributed to your career, so why not let the band positively impact it as well?”
My heart warms over his admission, but I didn’t tell him the story of my demise last week for career advancement. I wanted to share with him the many little connections we have. When you sit down and evaluate all our near misses, it's like the universe was aligning for us to meet, but life events we never saw coming kept shifting the timeline. Although I’d happily forgo years of heartache, part of me thinks we didn’t meet until now as it wasn’t the right time for us earlier. Neither Marcus or I would be the people we are today if we hadn’t experienced the life we have.
“Rise Up didn’t contribute to my fall from grace, Marcus,” I admit, my pitch laced with unwarranted snark. “It was your record company’s publicist.”
I scrunch up my nose, hating that I'm still placing all the blame for my fall from grace on Rise Up's old publicist. Some of the culpability does belong to me. I did sign off for the articles to be printed before researching to ensure the stories were true. Although I could say my job wasn't a research assistant, with each article having my name associated with it, I should have made sure the stories were factually based—or at least partially for the glossy magazines.
“What happened to your old publicist?” I ask, failing to hide my snarl.
Although I know I shouldn’t harbor ill feelings for Rise Up’s ex-publicist, I’m still hoping her fall from grace was as unpleasant as mine.
A massive line of wrinkles indent Marcus's usually smooth forehead. He looks the most confused I've ever seen him. After running his hand over his clipped afro, he locks his eyes with mine. "I thought you knew, that's why I didn't say anything."
“Knew what?” I ask, confused as ever.
Marcus’s throat works hard to swallow before he says, “Rise Up’s old publicist was Delilah Winterbottom. Your—”
“My old boss?” I fill in, my tone shocked as hell.
Holy hell. How did I not know this?
My wide eyes dance between Marcus's when he nods.
“Is that why she is so infatuated with the Chains story? Does she know your secret?”
“No,” Marcus replies, shaking his head. “I wasn’t part of the lifestyle back then. I joined after she was fired by Destiny Records.”
I cross my arms over my chest to ward off the iciness of his words. I watch him in silence. Although I’m tempted to prompt him for more info on his immersion in the BDSM community, I’ll never push him to share anything about his personal life he isn’t willing to give. I pried enough into his life the two weeks following our initial meeting at Chains, I won’t invade his privacy any more than I already have.
Besides, I can barely wrap my head around another bizarre connection we have, much less the fact the lady who was the catalyst of most of my problems the past three years is partially to blame for my first fall from grace. Delilah irked me from the moment we met; now I know why.
A touch of a smile graces my lips when Marcus shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. Even though my sweater is mere inches from me, I accept his kind gesture, preferring to be wrapped up in his warmth.
"Do you remember the uproar four years ago when Rise Up canceled a whole heap of concerts on the West Coast?" Marcus asks as he sits in the chair in front of me.
As he snags my wrist and pulls me into his lap, I nod.
“We did that because a friend of the band passed away.”
I gasp in a shocked breath. Four years ago was when the rumors of the band dismantling first surfaced. A death of a friend was never reported.
The heaviness on my chest lightens when a ghost of a smile cracks onto Marcus’s lips. “You would have liked Melanie; she had a lot of similarities to Lexi. Loud. Opinionated. Beautiful.” He murmurs his last word.
“What happened to her?” I keep my tone low, hoping he won’t see my desire to know him better as being intrusive.
“She had acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” Marcus answers, his tone gruff.
“That what Kylie had, wasn’t it?” I ask, recalling an article written on Slater’s wife undergoing IVF because of complications associated with ALL.
Marcus nods. “Yes. Twice.”
I remain quiet, too shocked to articulate words to express my condolences that Kylie had to go through that twice. Leukemia is a horrible disease no one should be subjected to once in their lifetime, much less twice.
"That's how Melanie and Kylie met; they were participants in an online ALL support group." Marcus adjusts my position, so I am facing him. His body reacts with the same amount of intensity it did the first time, but the strong sentiment in the air keeps my mind on track.
“Melanie was the one who introduced me to BDSM,” he discloses, his tone low.
"Oh. . ." I try to think of something better to say, but I can't. My mind is spiraling with morbid jealousy to form a rational thought, let alone articulate it.
"She was the only person who saw my need for control and discipline for what it was," Marcus continues, misconstruing my silence as eagerness for him to continuing sharing. Although I'm grateful he is opening up to me, half of me wishes he would stop. My throat is closed up tightly, strangled by merciless jealousy curled around my neck.
"During a spate of concerts near her hometown, Melanie introduced me to some people in the community."
I swallow harshly, fighting hard to eradicate the bitter taste in the back of my throat.
“After one concert, we attended a club similar to Chains.”
"Please stop," I breathe out heavily. "I don't want to hear any mor
e."
I feel terrible for cutting him off, but I can't hear details of him and another woman. Just the thought of him with anyone but me feels like it's tearing my heart straight out of my chest. I know it's insane to think he wasn't with anyone before me—I have resounding proof he was—but that doesn't mean I want to hear all the ghastly details. Some things are better off being left unsaid.
I clear the nerves from my voice before saying, “I want to know everything about you, Marcus, but I don’t want to know this.” If the devastation in my tone isn’t convincing enough I’ve that stepped out of my comfort zone, the expression on my face is a sure-fire indication.
When Marcus cups my quivering jaw in his hand, my eyelashes flutter excessively as I battle to hold back my tears. It's a pointless effort when he says, “Nothing happened between Melanie and me.” His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “Well, we kissed, once, but that was Melanie’s last stance of defiance. She knew at that stage she only had days left.” His last sentence is so quiet, I’m not sure he wanted me to hear it.
“Was she too bratty for you?” I force out through the solid lump in my throat. I am hoping a little bit of playfulness will ease the tension in the air.
Thankfully, it does.
“Melanie would have been the very epitome of a brat,” Marcus replies, chuckling. “If she were a submissive.”
My eyes rocket to Marcus, certain I didn’t hear him right. The curt nod of his head strengthens the honesty his eyes are relaying.
“Melanie was a Domme?” I ask, shock in my tone.
Marcus nods. “Not fully. She didn’t immerse into the lifestyle as much as I have the past four years. She was just dabbling in it, more for recreation and fun than anything.”
Confusion bombards me. “Then why did she introduce you to the lifestyle?” My words stop to make way for a long, exasperated exhale when reality dawns. “She wanted you to be her sub?!” I don’t know why I am smiling like an idiot, but Melanie must have been one hell of a woman if she thought she could make a man like Marcus kneel.
Giggles shudder my frame when Marcus nods. “She misread my need for control and discipline as if I needed to be controlled and disciplined.”
