Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  “Could I please grab a bottle of water?” I ask the smiling waiter manning the bar.

  After dipping his chin in acknowledgment, the waiter snags a chilled bottle of water from under the bar, cracks the seal, then pours it into a wine flute. I lift the glass to my mouth, my scorching throat too dire to wait a moment longer.

  Water sprays out of my mouth when the waiter says, “$13.99.”

  I frailly swallow the obviously gold-flecked water before connecting my eyes with the waiter. “$13.99?” I query, certain I’ve heard him wrong.

  I didn’t. His smile enlarges as he nods.

  Ignoring the disdainful huff of the lady standing next to me, I dig my hand into my purse to fish out some loose notes— notes I had planned on putting toward my electric bill due next week.

  "It better be made out of angel tears for that price," I grumble under my breath as I slide a twenty dollar bill to the waiter.

  The waiter’s hearty chuckle rumbles some of my irritation out of my body. His reaction is playful and sweet, and displays I’m not the only one out of my league tonight.

  My eyes bounce between the waiter’s dazzling blue eyes when he pushes my crumpled-up note back across the countertop. “It’s on me.”

  "No, I can't let you do that," I reply, shaking my head. I lean in closer to the bar, ensuring the opulent-looking lady glaring at me won’t hear me. "You could get fired."

  The waiter’s dark brow slants high. "It's a bottle of water they sell at my corner store for 50 cents a bottle. I'm sure they’ll recoup the loss. Besides, staff drinks are on the house, and I'm mighty thirsty." He lifts the half-empty bottle to his mouth to take a hefty chug of the liquid inside.

  Once all the water has been consumed, he crunches up the bottle, then throws it into a bin at his side, his aim perfect. When I remain hesitant to accept his generosity, he crosses his arms in front of his broad chest and gives me his best “don’t mess with me look.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask quietly, hating that my stinginess could compromise his position.

  When he nods without pause for consideration, I whisper, “Thank you.”

  "You're very welcome.” His tone gives no indication he feels sorry for me. "Have fun tonight, just be wary of the tigers; some of them bite." He gestures his head to the mass of people congregating in the lavish ballroom.

  I take a sip of my drink, hoping the wine flute will hide my roguish smirk. I have a fondness for biters. Well, one man in particular.

  My efforts are utterly pointless. The instant my lips curl, the frisky spark brightening the waiter’s eyes doubles. Thankfully, I am saved from answering the questions his eyes are relaying when another patron requests his service.

  After gesturing to the snarling woman that he will be with her in a minute, he turns his eyes back to me. “It was a pleasure meeting you. . .” He leaves his question open for me to fill in.

  “Cleo,” I reply, offering him my hand to shake.

  “Cleo,” he repeats, testing my name out in a long, throaty purr as he accepts my friendly gesture. “Very nice.”

  “And you are?” I query when he doesn’t offer an introduction.

  He smiles so widely, a small set of dimples pop onto his tanned cheeks. "Andrew, but my friends call me Andy."

  The patron dressed head to toe in Gucci snarls, annoyed our greeting is delaying her service.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Andy,” I say cordially.

  We finalize our exchange with a smile before parting ways. Andy assists the scowling benefactor while I go in hunt for a place to sit and scope the area. Although I've always wanted to attend a ritzy party, my nerves aren't allowing me to enjoy the experience. This event would be nerve-wracking for the most confident person, much less participating in the festivities unaccompanied.

  I find the perfect location at the end of the bar Andy is working. There is a vacant padded stool perched high enough I have a view of the entire ballroom. The separation of groups is blatantly apparent from this vantage point. The band members and their wives are congregating near a small, intimate bar in the far left-hand corner; rich, middle-aged benefactors take up a majority of the dance floor, even though none of them are dancing; and Marcus and a vast group of women and men of ranging ages fill the remaining floor space.

  The wealth of the people in attendance is also obvious. Designer dresses, flashy custom-made jewelry and the poignant aroma of affluence ensures I cannot mistake that this event is only for the extremely rich. It also displays how you can't categorize wealth into the one box. It's clear not everyone in this room is friendly. With the second most prominent smell being that of competition, I highly doubt many people in this room could state they are here solely to raise funds for an incredibly worthy cause.

  Most are here to gloat.

  24

  The past hour has flowed precisely how I thought it would. Every sneaky glance, flirty wink, and prolonged stare shared between Marcus and me has increased the silly giddiness fluttering in my stomach. They have also added an edge of naughtiness to our exchange. Like it could get any more risqué.

  "He is quite the specimen, isn't he" says a throaty female voice at my side, startling me enough I jump. Although I could have construed her statement as a question, the smoothness of her tone ensures I don't. She was stating a fact. A very obvious one.

  After gathering my heart from the floor, I swing my eyes to the voice. My curious glance meets with a lady with stark white hair and piercing blue eyes. Her waist-length locks have been pulled back in a low side-sweeping braid, and the diamante droplets weaved throughout the intricate design are nearly undetectable with how brightly her hair shimmers under the fluorescent lighting of the ballroom. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, but the mature huskiness of her voice gives away her real age, which I'd say is closer to fifty.

  “Cartier, darling. It's a pleasure to meet you,” she introduces, extending her hand in greeting.

  Slipping off my seat, I accept her offer, mindful not to squeeze her hand too tightly. Her translucent, wrinkle-free fingers are covered in jewels the size of rocks. I'm afraid if I press too firmly, I may harm her.

  “Cleo,” I reply. I inwardly sigh, grateful my voice comes out with the confidence I was aiming for.

  “Come,” Cartier says, waving toward a sparkling gold bar at the back of the dance floor. “Jimmy understands my desire for quality.” Her eyes skim the crowd. “Thank goodness, as I need a stiff drink in my hand to tackle the highfalutin’ snobs in this room.”

  Not giving me a chance to object, Cartier loops her arm around my elbow and heads for the bar. Shockingly, I don’t put up a single protest. After waving goodbye to Andy, I allow Cartier to guide me through the throng of people swelling in size for every minute that ticks by.

  Although Cartier and I appear on opposite ends of the spectrum, the twinkle in her eyes tells me her polished exterior is nothing more than a ruse. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying her insides aren’t as glamorous as her head-to-toe designer outsides, her face is just void of the disdain the other elaborately dressed patrons have been directing at me the past hour. She looks as if she sees me as a person, not judging my value on the fake diamond studs in my ears. She reminds me a lot of Marcus—in a more feminine way.

  My curiosity about Cartier's true identity grows when the patrons part so she can glide across the room without hindrance. Although I still acquire the occasional narrowed glare, it isn't issued until after Cartier’s focus is diverted. She is either an incredibly influential person, or she has most of the crowd running scared. From the vibes her aura privately conveys, I'd suspect it's a bit of both.

  “Is Cartier your real name?” I query, jogging to keep up with her long strides.

  She smiles a wicked grin. "No, darling, don't be silly. You never give them your real name. My choice in name tells them what I want to be lavished with. Last year, I was called Porsche. This year, I wanted something easier to store. Storage has always been ri
diculous in New York, but last year my storage bill was outrageous."

  “Them?” I ask with arched brows, starting at the most baffling part of her statement. I commute to work every day just to avoid the costly parking bills, so I’m acutely aware of the pressing issues of garage spaces in New York; it’s just not something I’ve ever had to worry about.

  When we reach the bar, Cartier runs her hand down my locks, smoothing the frazzled pieces caused by our swift cross of the room. I stare at her in utter shock—partly confused but mostly in awe. Cartier has that type of personality that just draws you to her. She is clearly wealthy, the ten-carat pink diamond nestled in the curve of her thin neck ensures there is no mistaking this, but she seems playful and hip at the same time. Even with our vast difference in age, I’d love to see her outside of this mood-suffocating environment.

  After ordering two champagne glasses from a handsome African American bartender, Cartier returns her attention to me. “This is very pretty,” she praises, delicately running her hand over the diamond pendant of my choker. “Your Master chose well.”

  My eyes bug as air traps halfway to my lungs. “Master?” I blubber out, feigning ignorance.

  Wrinkles pleat the corners of Cartier’s eyes as she smiles a broad grin. “He taught you well, darling.” Gathering the champagne glasses the bartender just set down, she hands one to me. “Well done. You just passed your first test.”

  I'm tempted to rocket my eyes to Marcus to see if he has noticed my exchange with Cartier, but realizing her remark could be another test, I keep them locked on her glistening-with-mischief eyes. It's an immense struggle, even more so when she clinks her glass against mine before taking a sizeable mouthful of the aromatic-smelling champagne, seemingly relishing my deer-trapped-in-headlights stance. The expression on her face is smug, but not in an egotistical type of way. It seems as if she is happy to enjoy my awkwardness, as long as it's her making me uncomfortable.

  Hoping to settle the panic flaring through me, I take a sip of my champagne. My nose screws up when the strange taste graces my taste buds. It isn't disgusting, but it certainly isn't to my palate.

  "Ah," Cartier accentuates in a long, throaty purr. "I knew you weren't his standard kettle of fish." She raises her hand in the air, gaining the attention of the bartender serving patrons at the other end. "Two virgin margaritas. Hold the virgin." She drops her eyes to me. "I don't know about you, but I lost that tag a long time ago. I'm not interested in getting it back."

  I smile at her immature eye roll. With her words muffled with laughter, I notice a slight accent I missed earlier. It’s an odd combination: part British with a hint of a southern slur.

  When the bartender serves us our drinks, Cartier waves her hand to a scattering of booths tucked away in the corner of the room. "There will be fewer snoops over there."

  Just like they did earlier, the crowd parts when they notice Cartier sauntering toward them. With every one moving out of our way, we reach the booths in record time. While sliding into my seat, I take a sip of my drink. My nostrils flare when tequila burns my nose hairs. Cartier was not deceitful when she said Jimmy understands her desire for quality. This is the most potent margarita I've ever had—and I've had a few.

  The heart-warming concoction traps halfway to my stomach when Cartier straight-up asks, “How long have you been Master Chains’ sub?”

  I lick the salt off my lips while shrugging my shoulders. “Who is Master Chains?”

  Cartier smirks, ostensibly amused by my response. “Shouldn’t you be telling me? You're wearing his collar, darling.” She drops her eyes to the chain link nestled in the middle of the dramatic diamond pendant Marcus draped around my neck earlier tonight. “Chain links are Master Chains’ signature. Like every community, signatures are trademarked to their rightful owner. No one would dare collar their sub with Master Chains’ signature. That's not only a big no-no in this lifestyle, it's highly disrespectful.”

  “Perhaps I work in the. . .” Come on brain, think of something associated with chains. “. . .fencing industry.” Really, that’s the best you could come up with?

  Cartier’s breathless laugh eases the panic boiling my blood. She isn’t laughing because she thinks I am an idiot; she is laughing because she assumes I’m trying to be comical. I’m not—I’m just endeavoring to keep my relationship with Marcus on a strictly need-to-know basis. Cartier is lovely, but I don’t know her from a bar a soap, so there is no possibility I’ll share guarded secrets with her just because she purchased me an overpriced cocktail.

  Spotting the conflicting emotions pumping out of me, Cartier assures, “Darling, it's okay, truly. I am friend of Master Chains. Anything you say is safe with me.”

  My pupils widen to the size of saucers when she yanks one of the diamond chains my nipple clamps are attached to. My body spasms when her sharp tug sends a pulsating buzz to my needy sex. My body is already heightened beyond reproach from Marcus's flirty glances the past hour, and she just thrusted my lust-driven heart's desire to the forefront of my mind.

  "No fencer I've met has a fascination with delayed gratification. Come to think of it, there is only one friend I know who believes postponed satisfaction isn't a form of atonement." Cartier connects her eyes with mine. "The darling Master Chains. My very dear friend."

  The throaty chuckle her words are laced in comes to an immediate end when I blubber out, "Friend or. . ." I leave my question open, not having the gall to confront a woman like Cartier. She has been nothing but friendly, but she still has an aura that commands respect.

  Cartier’s painted red lips purse high. “You think I’m one of Master Chains subs?” she asks as her dazzling eyes dance between mine.

  With my brain too fried trying to work out what she means by “one of Master Chains’ subs,” I merely nod.

  “Oh, darling, I’m flattered you think so highly of me. But no, I’ve never been Master Chains’ sub,” she replies, her tone as adulatory as her facial expression. “Good gosh, I’m nearly old enough to be his mother.” She stops talking as her hand creeps up to clutch a thin white gold necklace hidden by much chunkier ones. “I am older than his mother.” She locks her eyes with mine; the humor in them has completely vanished. “But if you tell anyone that, even a man as protective as Master Chains won’t be able to save you.”

  I swallow harshly.

  Cartier laughs at my grim expression. "I’m joking, darling." Her firm eyes don't match her admission. She looks like a woman who wouldn't hesitate to slice me ear to ear if I shared her secret. "But I wouldn't test my patience anytime soon. I've been told my fuse is quite short."

  I nod, agreeing with her recommendation.

  We sip on our margaritas in silence for the next several minutes. I wouldn’t necessarily say it's an awkward time, but there is undeniable tension thickening the air. I feel bad for shutting down our conversation so quickly, but I’m too overrun deciphering half the things she said to encourage more cryptic statements. Cartier has been open and honest with me, but there are snippets of our conversation that have irked me the wrong way. Like her automatic assumption I am Marcus’s sub.

  I sip on my recently replenished drink, hoping it will alleviate the bitterness in the back of my throat. With Cartier's presence so influential, the bar staff has resorted to table service, meaning we are rarely without a drink. It's only been twenty minutes, and the buzz of alcohol is already warming my veins.

  Although the refreshing coolness of my beverages are doing wonders for the burn scorching my esophagus, it does nothing to ease the contempt swishing in my stomach. I don’t know what I find more concerning: the fact Marcus collared me without permission, or that Cartier disclosed he has subs—plural. Surely she meant previously—right?

  Deciding there is only one way to get answers, I swing my eyes to Cartier. My hasty movements cause a rush of dizziness to cluster in my head.

  “Did you know Serena?” I ask, gesturing my hand to one of the many banners lining the ballro
om that display whom the fundraiser is for. I figure if I start at a less controversial topic, I can work my way up to more hard-hitting matters.

  Cartier shakes her head, sending blonde tresses falling into her eye. "No, but I've attended every gala the past seven years." Her eyes flicker like she is recalling a memory. Clearly, that's the case when she adds on, "I remember the first time I attended an event of this caliber; I was as wide-eyed as you. Oh, the smell. I'll never forget that smell. It was the smell of—"

  "Money," I interrupt before I can stop my words, the alcohol in my veins making me more brazen than usual.

  Cartier’s poised chuckle gains us the attention of the elegantly dressed patrons around us. “No, darling. That scent you're smelling is not money. It's arrogance and entitlement. Men and women who think they are better than you. They are envious, because you, my dear, are the most priceless gem here. You not only captured the attention of a man with a fine eye, but you also stole it from him."

  I slant my head to the side as my curiosity rapidly increases. Her saying is very similar to what Marcus said earlier tonight. About how my hair secured his attention before my face ultimately stole it. Maybe she truly is a friend of Marcus’s.

  Wanting to test the theory, I ask, “How do you steal someone’s attention?”

  Cartier raises her finger in the air, signaling to a gentleman at the side of the room that she will be with him in a minute before devoting her attention back to me. "When you steal a man's attention, he loses the ability to notice anyone else in the room. Look."

  She gestures her hand to a gathering of women mingling at the side of the bar. Although they appear deep in conversation with one another, their constant eye movement to the other side of the room ruins their ruse. Something—or someone—has their undivided attention.