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

by E. R. Whyte

  I’ve never watched anyone gather control, but that’s what Shiloh does as we stand in her doorway that afternoon. She pulls control around her like the folds of a cloak, drapes herself in it until only the flame in her eyes is visible. “You have quite an imagination, Gunner. I’ll see you—”

  Shiloh’s brow creases suddenly, and she cocks her head toward the interior of the house.

  “Wha—”

  “Shh!”

  We’re both silent, listening, and then I hear it. Water.

  Leaving the door open behind her, Shiloh walks inside. I follow behind her, the sound growing louder as we move closer to the kitchen. “Oh, my God.” She stops short in the doorway and I stare over the top of her head at the water spraying out from under the sink.

  “What the hell—” I move her gently out of the way and stride toward the sink, dropping to my knees face first in the gush of water. Hands outstretched and head turned to avoid the spray, I feel around for the cutoff valve. Dimly I’m aware of Shiloh beside me, pulling bottles of cleaning solution and other objects out of the cabinet. I find the valve and twist until the flow of water trickles to a stop, then reach in to inspect the faucet hose, where water is dripping to a sluggish stop from a vertical gash.

  We are both soaking wet, kneeling in a good inch of water covering the old hardwood planks. Shiloh’s hazel eyes are wide and amber-hued in the afternoon light slanting through the window. A droplet clings to her spiky lashes, hovering on the end with a trembling fullness that catches and holds my attention.

  “Did the pipe burst?” Shiloh asks, looking around the flooded room. She blinks, and the drop of water falls, shattering the spell. I rise, water squishing in my shoes with the movement, and extend a hand to help her up.

  “No.”

  “What happened then? Water doesn’t just spray all over the place for no good reason.”

  “Your valve was opened, and it looks like your faucet hose is damaged.” She looks at me blankly and I mime a twisting motion. “The handle that cuts the water on and off. It was opened, and there’s a gash here in the hose.” I hold it up.

  “But how did the valve get open?”

  She’s not connecting the dots. “Someone would have had to open it, Shiloh.” I run a hand through my hair, and water sprays outward in a fine mist.

  Shiloh covers her face with her hands, rubbing streaks of mascara down her cheeks as she drags them downward. Weariness is thick in her expression and I feel helpless. “Hey.” She doesn’t look at me, her focus on something behind me. Twisting, I see a woolen rug folded on the counter. “What’s this?”

  “It was on my floor,” she replies dully. “He must have picked it up to keep it out of the water.”

  “So we have a conscientious burglar—”

  “Stalker,” she corrects. “I have a stalker.”

  “Someone is stalking you?” I hate playing dumb, but Shiloh has no idea that I already know about the things happening to her.

  “Yes. Other things have happened.”

  Taking her by the upper arm, I lead her out of the kitchen and toward the bedrooms. “I’m calling the police. Get yourself into some dry clothes.”

  She nods. “I’ve spoken to them a couple of times, but I guess I need to report this, too. I’m sorry, I don’t have anything you can change into.”

  I wave it off as she goes in her bedroom and closes the door behind her. “Don’t worry about me.”

  She keeps speaking through the door. “Detectives came the other day. Name’s McCall… I don’t remember the other one. There’s a card on the counter.”

  “Got it.”

  Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I find the card Shiloh indicated and dial the detective. He answers on the first ring and I give him a brief rundown of the afternoon’s events, including the car trouble.

  “Okay. I don’t think we’ll get any prints, but I’m sending a crew, anyway, to try to recover some evidence. Don’t touch anything. And the car…where is that now?”

  “I had it towed. Sanson’s Garage.”

  Static sounds as he covers the phone’s mouthpiece, probably with his hand, and asks someone to call Sanson’s asap.

  “Can we lay some towels down on the floor?”

  “No—we’ll take care of that after.”

  Hanging up, I hover in the doorway to the kitchen and wait, unsure what to do with myself. Shiloh’s still back there talking, providing a litany of all of the things this sicko has done thus far. Then she falls silent. Several minutes pass, and the back of the house remains still. “Shiloh? You all good in there?” Her voice is muffled in response, and when she finally emerges, I can tell she’s been crying. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her nose is shiny and devoid of makeup. I hate to think it, but Shiloh is not a pretty crier. “Hey.” I pull her into a hug and hold her loosely. “Try not to worry, dolcezza. We’ll figure this out. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

  She pulls away and sits down on the couch while I stand before her, not wanting to get her furniture wet. “I’m staying here, Gunner.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.” She tucks her feet beneath her. “I appreciate the help, but I think it’s probably best if you leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until the police arrive.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine.” The word is a huff of annoyance, but the tension in her shoulders relaxes infinitesimally, and I know she doesn’t want me to leave. “But keep your mouth shut when they get here.”

  I give her a finger gun salute. “No problemo.”

  The visit with the detectives is quick and to the point. McCall, clearly in charge, sends a team of technicians to the kitchen to try to salvage any evidence possible. Shiloh gives her story to his partner, while I run down mine to him.

  “And you happened to be driving by when Ms. Brookings was experiencing the car trouble?” he asked.

  “I was driving by to get to my home, but yeah. And I’m friends with Ms. Brookings’ brother. I couldn’t leave my friend’s sister out there on the road.” I sound defensive.

  McCalls snaps his notepad closed and turns to Shiloh. “Okay. We’re going to ask your neighbors if they saw anything, and we’ll put a patrol car here tonight.”

  Shiloh nods. “Thank you, detective.”

  “I’m going to recommend that you have your locks changed, as there’s no sign of your current lock being tampered with.”

  Shiloh pales. “So, he can just unlock the door and come right in?”

  “That’s the theory I’m operating on.”

  Shiloh throws her hands up and stalks from the room. A minute later I hear her on the phone with a locksmith.

  When she returns McCall and his partner are gone; the technicians on their way out the door.

  “When will the locksmith be here?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You still want to stay here tonight?”

  Her chin tips up. “Yes.”

  “You know as well as I do, that’s dumb as shit. Why don’t you just open the door for this jackass so he doesn’t need to use his key?”

  Anger flares in her eyes and she takes a half step toward me. “Fuck you.”

  “Oooh. Lay it on me, Shiloh. Get it all out.” I step into her personal space, knowing on some level that she isn’t angry at me. She’s angry at feeling helpless. Angry at not having a target to direct her fury toward.

  She hits me in the chest, the contact with her fist feeling like someone tapped politely on my shoulder. “That the best you got? My nonna can hit harder than that.”

  “Fuck you and that white horse you rode in on, Gunner Ford!”

  I laugh, and Shiloh growls. “I’ll be back later. I’d prefer the couch, but I’ll sleep on the porch if necessary.”

  Her screech follows me as I leave, ringing in my ears as I drive home and stuff a clean set of clothing into my backpack. I grab my sleeping bag, just i
n case, and a bottle of wine from the cellar. Also just in case.

  Then I drive back toward Shiloh’s house, determined to stay in the event this sicko returns. I was dead serious when I told her it was the couch or the porch, and I don’t put it past her to slam the door in my face.

  I love that this girl doesn’t make things easy for me, that she’s constantly giving me shit and making me work for it. Work for her.

  I need to come clean, though, about the fact that it’s not Esme with the dyslexia, but me. And she needs to know that I’ve seen her at Kendrick’s, that I know about her other life. I’m lying to her, and what was it she said she hated more than anything? The word she whispered when I sat inches away from her, separated by only a pane of glass? Liars.

  19

  Shiloh

  W

  e have a school wide assembly today in every English class. With homecoming approaching, the topic is substance abuse and peer pressure. I remember sitting through this assembly several years ago, being bored out of my mind by the outdated video footage and preachy tone. The producers tried to soften it with popular music, but it was still a massive fail.

  I’m not anticipating today’s assembly being any different.

  I trail my class through the hall, resigned to a wasted day.

  That’s a good thing, though, because I can’t concentrate for shit.

  All I can think about is Gunner Ford.

  I look at him as he struts down the hall ahead of me, head tossed back as he laughs at something Miles has said. Faded Levis cup his ass like a beloved’s hand, and I have to drag my eyes to something more appropriate.

  As if he feels my brief perusal, he turns and and winks.

  I squint and curl my lip.

  Gunner Ford slept on my couch last night. I almost didn’t let him in when he knocked just before supper time, but then I thought about it would look to have him camping on my porch and reluctantly opened the door. I toyed with the idea of arguing his presence but ultimately turned silently away as he entered, closing the door behind himself. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite as persistent as he is and knew as surely as I know my own name that he wasn’t going anywhere.

  I ignored that tiny part of me that was glad.

  “I’m not making you supper.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “That’s a relief. I make an amazing grilled cheese sandwich.”

  I rolled my eyes and walked away, but true to his word, Gunner made two grilled cheese sandwiches and paired them with tomato soup that I was pretty sure was homemade.

  He brought the food to me in the living room, where I sat reading essays and trying to remind myself that I was a teacher. “Not hungry,” I muttered, not looking up.

  “Suit yourself.” He made himself comfortable on the other end of the couch with his own plate. “Mind if I turn the game on?”

  “Yes.” I marked through a particularly poorly composed sentence and scribed a suggestion in the margin. “Go ahead.”

  I sighed. I was being a bitch. Gunner hadn’t done anything. Setting the stack of papers aside, I picked up the plate of soup and sandwich he’d brought in for me and took a bite. “This is good. Thank you.”

  I felt his shrug. “No big.”

  I ate a few more bites and then set the plate to the side. “Look. I appreciate you wanting to help me. I appreciate you worrying about me and wanting me to be safe.”

  “Why do I feel like there’s a but in there somewhere?”

  “I’m really uncomfortable with you being here, Gunner.” He just looked at me. “As in, I’m over here freaking out a little.”

  “So stop freaking out and get comfortable.”

  “Does it even bother you that I could lose my job if anyone were to find out?”

  Gunner finished his meal and set his own plate down in the coffee table in front of us. “Honestly? No.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “You have to be kidding.”

  “You don’t want to be teaching.” I shook my head and he continued. “You forget that I know you—pretty well, actually. You wanted to do something with your photography, not teach a bunch of jackasses like me. And you loved to dance. You’d be happier doing something with that than teaching.”

  I snorted. If only he knew.

  “I’m serious. You could open a studio—dance or photography, or hell, do both. But you need to do what makes you happy.”

  “One, it takes capital I don’t have to do stuff like that. Two, I need an actual steady income to pay Sammy’s medical bills, Gunner. Three, you’d make a great guidance counselor.”

  He ignored my jibe. “I know Sammy wouldn’t want you working in a job you’re not excited about every morning, Shiloh.”

  “I agree with you, but that doesn’t negate reality.” Standing, I gathered our plates. “Just keep your mouth shut about being here tonight, please.”

  I set the dishes in the sink and turned away. I’d have to clean them after I got the hose repaired. One more thing to call about. This guy was yanking the chains I was tethered to, one link at a time. Time, money, my sense of security...what would be next?

  All I knew was that I was getting tired of reacting. I needed to be proactive. Tomorrow I’d make another phone call, see about getting my own cameras installed.

  “Good night, Gunner.” I started making my way down the hall toward my room.

  “This early?”

  “It’s not a slumber party. Let me know if you need anything.”

  I left him sitting on the couch, the game turned on low.

  That’s where I found him in the morning, bare chested and entirely too appealing for my level of comfort.

  And that’s the image my mind keeps drifting to today, leaving me thankful I don’t have to teach anything.

  Once in the auditorium, I gesture to the assigned rows. Since my students are seniors, they’re assigned the back rows of the auditorium. I position myself in a seat on the aisle, Miles sits in the seat to my right, his girlfriend Sherry in the seat beside him. I look around and see Gunner sitting in the seat to my left and across the aisle.

  “Gunner, do you want to switch with me so you can sit beside Miles?” I ask.

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  The lights go down and the huge video screen descends from the stage ceiling. Music starts to play, and the assembly begins.

  My phone buzzes with a text notification and I lift it to see a message.

  Gunner: this is boring

  Me: It just started.

  Me: And don’t text me.

  Gunner: why not?

  Me: You know why.

  I shoot him a sharp look, but he’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s smirking down at his phone.

  For a few minutes there’s nothing. Just when I relax my tense posture, though, my phone buzzes again.

  Gunner: u look really hot today

  Me: Inappropriate!

  Gunner: true!

  “Jeez, Ms. Brookings. Watch the assembly.” Miles’ voice is teasing.

  “I’m so sorry... Sammy’s doctor,” I mutter and stand to walk to the back of the auditorium. Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes as the phone vibrates again.

  Gunner: running away? We need to talk about yesterday.

  Me: You mean my stalker? There’s nothing to talk about. Under control.

  Gunner: no, but that too. We need to talk about u being attracted to me. And a coward.

  Me:

  I know Gunner can see those three dancing dots on his screen as I struggle with what to say. In the row in front of me, he turns his head so he can lock eyes, then turns back around. Finally, I respond.

  Me: I made it clear last night that I will not do this with you. Drop it.

  Gunner: give me one good reason

  Me: You’re my student. That’s the only reason I need.

  Gunner: I’ll switch classes.

  Me: I’ll still
be a teacher at your school. It just doesn’t work like that.

  Why am I even discussing this with him? He’s not stupid. He knows we can’t see each other.

  Me: You know I’m right.

  Gunner: I’m trying to pay attention to this assembly, Ms. Brookings.

  I snort-laugh before I can help myself and a teacher sitting a bit down from where I stand turns and gives me a look. There’s movement in front of me, and I see Gunner exchanging seats with Miles and Sherry.

  Gunner: come sit down

  Me: I’m fine where I am.

  Gunner: you’ve been standing for 20 mins. I don’t bite.

  Me: Why did you switch seats?

  Gunner: miles and sherry wanted privacy

  Me: Just great.

  Gunner: they’re just holding hands

  Me: thumbs up

  Gunner: come sit.

  After another minute I give in and go sit in the seat Gunner left empty beside him.

  Gunner: what r u doing tonight? Is the locksmith coming 2day?

  I bite my lip as I wonder how to respond.

  Me: Nothing. And text properly or I won’t reply.

  Gunner: not working? This is proper texting

  Me: No; I needed a break, so I called in. And yes, locksmith will be there this afternoon.

  Gunner: I like how u follow grammar rules ms brookings.

  Gunner: come to game 2nite

  Me: I don’t think so.

  Gunner: I’ll throw a touchdown for u

  Me: If I come to the game, it will not be to see you.

  Head bent over my phone, I feel his gaze touch my face.

  Gunner: whatever u need to tell yourself

  Face red, I shove my phone under my thigh and focus forward for the remainder of class.

  Later that evening, I tell myself sternly that I am absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not at this stupid football game to see Gunner play. I flash my faculty badge and enter the stadium gates, taking in the crowd as I make my way down the paved access road to the stands.