Say You Love Me : a novel of romantic suspense and forbidden love (Reclaiming Heaven Book 1)

by E. R. Whyte

  A few more documents—nothing major, random billing statements, insurance paperwork, a photo of Shiloh and her family. A pang hits me and I rub absently at my chest. I remember them. Mrs. Brookings, with the same deep reddish hair with burnished honey highlights as Shiloh, is smiling widely into the lens. It’s not easy to see in the photo, but if I remember correctly, she’s the source of those hazel eyes that I watched glinting down at me last night. Mrs. Brookings was a hoot, always laughing about something with this kind of high-pitched laugh. She ran a private dick company, investigating cheating spouses, running down lapsed child support, stuff like that. I remember thinking it was the coolest thing around, that she was a real badass. Then there’s Shiloh, sitting on a nearby fence with her legs crossed at the ankles. She’s laughing over at Sammy. He looks just like I remember and is leaning up against her on the fence.

  It’s a nice picture, and it makes me smile.

  I hate all the after, all those smiles wiped carelessly away by a car accident. Mrs. Brookings: gone. Sammy: just messed up. And Shiloh… Jesus, I can’t even imagine what all of that did to her. I remember it happening during my and Sammy’s sophomore or junior year. More than likely it’s the reason for everything—the stripping, the major change.

  The next document I pull from the envelope is an article clipped from the city paper of a nearby town detailing the multi-car accident on a Virginia interstate. Seeing the incident details reported so clinically is jarring. The driver of a semi glanced at an incoming text and swerved just enough into the next lane to clip the Brookings’ vehicle. They spun off the highway and flipped into oncoming traffic. Shiloh’s mom was killed instantly; her brother, Samuel, airlifted to a nearby trauma center. The clipping did not report on his progress. I flip through the contents until I find more.

  Traumatic brain injury. Spinal injury. Fuck. My heart sinks in my chest and I flip back until I find the dates, pausing to hit speaker when my cell rings. It’s Miles.

  “Hey, man. What are you doing today? I was checking to see if you wanted to hang—”

  “Hey.” I interrupt. “I’m working on figuring out why Shiloh Brookings is working in a strip club. You know, we know what happened to Sammy and his mom. I never thought too much about how it affected Shiloh, though.”

  “What do you mean? Of course it affected her. Her mom died.”

  “Yeah, but she was at college at the time. Just starting on a photography degree.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me that’s what she was going to do at her graduation party. And I got Twiggy to dig some stuff up for me.” There’s silence on the line and I keep going. “Anyway, when she declared her major after Sammy’s accident year, it wasn’t photography. It was English. And it was the following summer when she started at Kendrick’s.”

  “Maybe she just changed her mind about photography?” Miles said.

  “I don’t think so. You remember her room? Covered in her photos. She was serious about that stuff.” Miles is quiet. “Hang on a sec.”

  I pull the next sheaf of papers from the envelope. It’s a record of home visits, care center visits, medical documentation… a mind-numbing array of documentation from a bunch of suits, basically. It takes me a minute to make it all make sense, and when I do, I’m aggravated as hell.

  Sammy lives in a long-term residential care center, I guess because of the brain injury. In order to gain access to his medical guardianship following the death of her mom, since he was a minor, Shiloh had to jump through hoops to prove her competency. Didn’t matter that there was no one else and that he was being cared for by trained professionals. Didn’t matter that she was bending over backwards to make sure she’d be able to take care of him. It pisses me off on her behalf that she was doubted and questioned simply because she was young.

  More papers—loan documents. Shiloh is paying back student loans and has several years remaining on her mom’s mortgage. It looks like she took out a second mortgage to finance her business, and because their business was privately owned, had no life insurance or decent health care to speak of.

  “Yeah. I’m looking at a pile of bills, Miles. School, hospital, mortgage… what on earth?”

  “Shit. Hospital bills? You mean she’s been taking care of Sammy?”

  “Looks like it. But there’s more. She’s covering her dead father’s bills, too. From what I can see, he had some huge second mortgage when he died that went to his beneficiary, who was Sammy and Shiloh’s mom. So then when Shiloh’s mom died, she ended up with that, as well as the one on her house here.”

  “Is that even legal? And I always just assumed that Sammy ended up a ward of the state. That’s what my mom said would most likely happen.”

  “Me, too. He’s in some long-term care facility, though, around thirty miles away. An expensive one, judging from the statement.never”

  “Damn. How did we not know this?”

  “We didn’t look very hard. We should have pushed, Miles. Found out what happened once we heard he came out of the coma.”

  I’m more certain than ever that this is why she declared an English major instead of photography and got certified as a teacher. Teaching is a steady, reliable job. Even if her heart isn’t there, it shows that she was willing to do whatever it took to make sure her brother was taken care of.

  Whatever it took—like taking her clothes off for cash.

  I can’t help feeling guilty. Four years ago I was just turning fifteen. I remember being all kinds of messed up after Sammy’s accident. I went to see him a couple of times in the hospital, but it was rough. He was in a coma, Shiloh was a mess, and being in that environment had me so uneasy and on edge, for some reason. I remember feeling like I was trying to claw my way out from under my own skin.

  After a few visits, I didn’t return. Shiloh went back to school and Sammy was non-responsive. There wasn’t much point.

  “Miles, let me ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m torn. On the one hand, we have this woman who’s obviously in a tight spot. She’s sacrificing to make sure her brother, our friend, is taken care of.”

  “Right.”

  I draw in a breath. “On the other hand, I have an opportunity here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m flunking English right now. And I need to graduate.”

  I hear a steady thump and know Miles is tossing a tennis ball against the wall in his room. It’s his classic thinking routine.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I think you need to be creative with the opportunity that has fallen into your lap,” he says. “Use it, but don’t use her, you know?”

  I drop my head back against the seat with an audible thump and exhale, tossing the envelope to the side. “Yeah. I get it.” After seeing all of this, I know I have to help her, somehow. Like all those years ago, we made a connection in that closet, and I have to honor it.

  Shaking my head at myself, I put the truck in gear and continue down the gravel road. I have plans to make.

  The stuff I’ve learned won’t leave my mind as Sunday wanes. I keep thinking about her on that stage in front of me, moving sinuously through her routine.

  And now she has some freak calling her? Watching her?

  The hell with that.

  I go to Kendrick’s website and look at their menu of services. A few clicks later, I’ve booked a private peep show with none other than Miss Cherry Pie. The website states that they are one hundred percent anonymous, the dancer and client separated by a glass partition that is lit in such a way to create a one-way mirror effect.

  That’s good. I don’t want Shiloh to know that I’m aware of her private life just yet. I’m still considering my options.

  When I enter the peep show box later, Shiloh is already waiting on the other side of the glass, her back to me. I seat myself in the dark red chair, stroking my hands along the soft fabr
ic on the arms as I take her in.

  I had checked the ‘no preference’ option on the online form when asked which fantasy dance I’d prefer. Shiloh is dressed simply in some kind of filmy cream-colored lingerie set that makes her skin glow and her hair flame. It is complete with thigh highs, garters, and a short, transparent robe. I can just make out the cheeks of her ass peeking from beneath the lace-edged panties she has on.

  As she hears me enter and sit, she turns her head so her profile is to me.

  “Hey there,” she says, the words low and seductive. I don’t like that voice on her. It’s not hers.

  I clear my throat. “Hi.” Smooth. Real fucking smooth. I try again. “You look—” Words fail me and I suck in a breath.

  I catch a dimple flash in the cheek turned my way before music begins to play and she starts to move.

  “And special requests?” she asks.

  “No. Just dance for me.” I try to relax into the chair. I’m wound tight, though, every muscle feeling like it could spring into motion. I watch as she moves sinuously within the confines of the dancer’s box, her lashes dark smudges on her cheeks and face tilted down as she removes her filmy robe.

  Beneath the robe, she’s wearing some kind of lacy white number with laces up the front and back. I think it’s called a corset. It looks like something a bride would wear. Her cleavage plumps over the top and a two-inch strip of her stomach is bared by the tight top.

  My fingers twitch on the arms of the chair, restless, as her hands move to the bow at the top of the corset, and with excruciating slowness she begins to pull one end of the ribbon.

  Suddenly the sheer wrongness of this overwhelms me. “I can’t do this,” I mutter, standing up and shoving the chair a few inches as I do.

  Shiloh’s hands pause at the laces of her corset and she grows still. “Is something wrong”

  “No!” I jam my hand through my hair. “Yes. I’m sorry.” Her hand is still on the ribbon and she’s staring at the glass, a frown between her brows. “Shit. Can we just talk? You can keep your clothes on.”

  She arches one brow. “You want to talk? Usually people come here to see me take my clothes off, but it’s your dime. You have me for the rest of this dance.”

  “Actually, I have you for the next five dances. I would have booked more, but that’s all you were scheduled for.” She tenses, and I curse under my breath. “Sit,” I add. I lower myself to sit on the floor by the glass, and tap on it so she’ll know I’m sitting, as well.

  Shiloh hesitates but sits, folding her legs beneath her and drawing the robe back on. “Five dances, huh? Do you like to watch me, or something?”

  “No.” Too late I realize how that could be taken and back track. “I mean, I don’t come here to watch you. This is my first time.” I pause. “Although I did see you on stage the other day.”

  Her mouth forms an ‘oh.’ “I see.” She looks down, twisting her fingers in her lap. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Anything. Why do you do this?” I started to sweep my palm out to encompass the rooms we were sitting in, but then remembered she couldn’t see me.

  “Strip? It’s a paycheck,” she answers. When she looks back up her eyes are flinty. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

  “No! No, that’s not at all what I meant. Damn, I am fucking this up. I was just curious.”

  She leans back on her hands, getting more comfortable. “Okay. Why so curious?”

  I’m not sure how to reply. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I decide to stay as close to the truth as possible. “You’re young. Gorgeous. Talented. I would just think there’s so much you could do.” Faint red stains her cheeks, but I can’t tell if it is at the compliment or if she thinks I’m being critical.

  “Like I said. It’s a paycheck. I have bills like anybody. What do you do to pay the bills?”

  “I’m a student.”

  She snorts. “So your parents pay the bills.”

  Silence rules the small room and I study her closely, glad for the chance to do so without her knowledge. I want to touch her more than I’ve ever wanted anything else. See if her skin is as soft as it looks. Make goosebumps rise wherever my fingers trail.

  “This talking thing isn’t working out too well,” she says, shifting as if to rise.

  “No, wait.” My palm slaps the glass and her progress halts. “Just a little longer. Let’s play a game.”

  She huffs out a laugh. “What are we, ten? I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “Humor me. Twenty questions.”

  “Twenty questions.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the point? Isn’t the goal of Twenty Questions to guess something?”

  “Not this time. It’s just to get to know someone.”

  “Look, I’m not going to give you a bunch of personal information that you can use—”

  “Nothing like that. I swear.”

  “Then what is this about?” Frustration tinges her words.

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I just want to get to know you. Like… I can’t just watch you take your clothes off. It’s rude.”

  “You are a different breed.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Fine. First question?”

  I think for a second. “Favorite ice cream.”

  “Vanilla. Yours.”

  I can tell from her flat tone that she doesn’t care about my answer but responds, anyway. “Strawberry. Biggest pet peeve.”

  “Liars. What’s your name?”

  “No names. Ask something else.”

  “Do I know you?”

  Shit. “Yes.” I ignore the parting of her lips and the faint gasp. “Fondest memory.”

  She closes her eyes. “Baking with my mother.” Opens them. “How old are you?”

  I want to lie, but she hates liars. I can’t. “Almost nineteen.” I see her rear back a little, a wary expression crossing her face.

  “That’s young,” she says. “How’d you even get in here?”

  “That’s two questions. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one. Now, how’d you get in here?”

  “I know people. Favorite movie?”

  “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she says without a pause. “So, when you say you’re a student, do you mean high school or college?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “I guess that’s my answer. Look, I’m out of here. It makes a difference—”

  “Because you’re a teacher?”

  She goes still, her eyes searching the darkness beyond the glass. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing bad. I promise. I just want to know you.”

  After a minute she stands. “I’m sorry.” She walks to the door, opening it without looking back. “That can’t happen.”

  7

  Shiloh

  I stand at my podium and study my cell phone as my first period class arrives in tune with the bell tones, sinking into desks and chattering non-stop. Twiggy still hasn’t returned my call, and I’m starting to worry that the number is defunct. Tossing the phone down, I turn my attention to my students.

  I started teaching at my former high school around seven weeks ago, my sense of nostalgia high as I walked the halls as a teacher rather than a student. It’s the only high school within miles of home and Sammy’s rehabilitation center, so I was fortunate a position opened up.

  Although I’m not sure if nostalgia is the right word. It was a mere few years ago that I graduated. I fast tracked my way in and out of college, using the credits I’d earned in our early college program to propel me past the typical freshman and sophomore years. I earned a degree and teaching certification in half the time it typically takes.

  There were the same beige tile floors and black metal lockers, the same scent of disinfectant and body odor lingering in the air. I was working with many of the same people that had taught me several years earlier and teaching the siblings of frie
nds I’d graduated with. It was jarring in some ways. With tastes leaning toward binge-watching Netflix on the weekends and the irresponsible consumption of Snickers Minis, I don’t feel like the adult in the room most days, but a kid playing dress-up.

  I never wanted to be a teacher, a fact that shames me some days. I definitely didn’t want to be teaching seniors. I’m not the best with little kids, but had hoped there would be a middle school, or at least ninth grade, position open. Teacher turnover was not in my favor, and I ended up with kids just two to three years younger than I am. Since I was hired this past summer, I’ve found myself wondering if there’s someone out there with a genuine passion for the job, and I took that from them.

  I needed the job, though. At the end of the day, that’s what it all comes down to: need. I need something steady and safe, something that provides insurance, something that pays the bills that keep on stacking higher.

  Teaching may not be a pot of gold, but it’s reliable.

  “Yo, Miss B, looking good today!” Miles Kendrick flips my ponytail as he walks by, earning him a look from over the top of my glasses and a smack from Sherry Jane, his longtime girlfriend. Miles is a towering football player and Sherry a busty redhead who tutors elementary students. Miles hung out every now and then with Sammy when they were kids, and was always a total goofball. He hasn’t changed. After getting to know her these past few weeks, Sherry’s not what I would have expected for Miles… too sassy and smart. She doesn’t let Miles get away with anything.

  “Boundaries, Miles,” I murmur mildly. “Locate them. Good morning, Sherry.”

  More hellos are exchanged as the class fills and I check attendance off rapidly, preferring to do it as students enter and get settled than to spend a lot of class time calling roll. The bell finishes its final tone and I’ve finished marking attendance when I notice there is a new student sitting front and center beside Miles.