Never Gonna Tell

by Sarah M. Ross

  Mr. Slater, my neighbor, stares at me from across the street as he walks his dog, Coco. Marco steps in front of me, glancing around nervously. “Um, can we go inside and talk?” The question is more of a statement, and as he steps around me to get inside, his jeans brush up against my legs, causing me to glance down.

  Sweet. Jesus.

  I’m not wearing any pants. I only have an oversized “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?” tee shirt on. That’s it. All the blood drains from my face and now I’m sorta wishing I was dead too. Or at least that this is some horrible nightmare.

  I dare to glance up at Marco and am further mortified to see him staring down at my legs appreciatively. The small smirk is back at the corner of his mouth, and suddenly the fiery look he was giving me makes sense. Great, he’s a pervert to boot.

  “I’ll be right back.” I don’t offer any additional explanation as I rush for the stairs, taking them two at a time to get to my room and away from the look in Marco’s eyes.

  I take my time while I’m upstairs, not really in a hurry to go back down and face Marco. The first thing I do is search for my phone to see how close Charlie is. He texted me five times.

  “My mom flipped when I tried to leave. She took the keys. U Ok?”

  “Ugh. This sux. I h8 being stuck here.”

  “Tell me UR ok. Do I need to get a bus ticket? U know I will. She’ll get over it. It’s not like she hasn’t left me before.”

  “Worried about you! Call me!”

  “I swear Rea if I don’t hear soon from U I am calling UR mom”

  The last text was forty-five minutes ago. I can’t call Charlie now, not with Marco downstairs. I just need to get rid of him. I type out a quick text telling Charlie that I overreacted and I’ll call him later to explain everything—my watered-down, lying-out-of-my-ass version of everything anyway. I throw on some jeans and a bra (great googly moogly, I hope I wasn’t flaunting any nippage when we were outside. That’s worse than no pants!). I brush my teeth and hair before deciding I’ve wasted enough time and Lord knows what he’s doing alone in my house.

  The smell of coffee permeates the downstairs, and I follow it into the kitchen like it’s the Pied Piper. Marco stands at my kitchen counter, tapping his fingers impatiently as the Keurig works its magic. A second, already-brewed cup of coffee sits next to him. “I didn’t know how you took it, so I just left it black.” He holds the steaming mug out to me.

  “Um, black is fine. Thanks.”

  “Ahh, a true connoisseur, I see. Girl after my own heart.”

  I’m not exactly sure how to respond, so I don’t, sipping my coffee instead. We stand in an awkward silence for a few minutes. I’m not sure how to start this conversation. What am I supposed to say? “So, about that murder…” Yeah, unlikely.

  “Um, here. I found this on the counter.” Marco hands me a piece of paper folded in half.

  I take it and read it. “Reagan, I hope you’re feeling better this morning. I didn’t want to wake you as I heard you tossing and turning all night. I left some medicine on the counter in the bathroom if you need it. Take it easy and I’ll check in on your periodically throughout the day. Love, Mom.”

  I fold the note and tuck it into the pocket of my jeans before making my way to the couch in the family room. If we were going to discuss my fate as a witness to a mob hit, I wanted to at least be comfortable.

  Marco follows and chooses a seat across from me and props his ankle up on his knee, coffee firmly in hand. “So you’re an only child?” he asks, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “You were snooping around my house while I was upstairs?”

  His face turns from mildly worried to irritated. “I wasn’t snooping. The family photos sort of give it away. I was just trying to make polite conversation.”

  “Polite conversation? And then what, somehow segue from my childhood memories to the guy who got offed last night?” I know I’m playing with fire, but I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut. My brain is telling me to shut the eff up, but my mouth doesn’t seem to care. What is wrong with me?

  Marco sighs, scrubbing his forehead with his hand and pushing his hair out of his face. It’s only then do I even notice that his hair isn’t tied back like it usually is; instead his raven locks are loose, slightly tucked behind his ears with a few stray pieces brushing his face. If he was hot with it tied back, this look is downright panty dropping. Thank God I put on pants already. I take a sip of my coffee, hoping both that it’ll scald my tongue as punishment for misbehaving and serve as an excuse if drool starts appearing at the corners of my mouth.

  I need to get him out of here before I do or say something I’ll regret. “There’s bound to be DNA evidence everywhere. The police are going to catch your uncle.” Like that, for example. I cringe at my outburst.

  Marco looks down at his hands before replying softly, “It’s been taken care of.”

  “What does that mean?” I press.

  He stands, his temper flaring. “It means just what I said.”

  I shrink back on the couch, suddenly not so confident that he’s not here to hurt me after all.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.” Marco takes a tentative step, coming to a stop in front of me. He drops down, his legs bracing mine as he grabs my hands, rubbing soothing circles between my thumb and forefinger like he did in the alley. It’s sensual and nerve-wracking at the same time, and I simultaneously fight the urge to pull him closer and push him away.

  His icy blue eyes lock with mine, and I couldn’t look away if I tried. “Look, Reagan, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you got mixed up in this whole thing. I’m sorry you had to witness what you did. I’m sorry my family is so royally screwed up that I had to play any part in it at all, even if I didn’t want to. I hate that you’re afraid of me, and that you’ll never be able to look at me like you did last week. Because, trust me, I want that more than you could know.”

  He pauses, his eyes closing briefly as he leans in closer, the stubble on his chin rubbing my cheek as his lips hover at my ear. I hold my breath, anxiously awaiting whatever happens next. His eyes remain closed as he softly whispers, “I promise you, Reagan, you’re going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. My family will never find out you were in that alleyway, and I won’t let them do anything to you. You have my word.”

  I lean forward, allowing another brief moment of contact before he pulls away, dropping his hands from mine and lifting his own toward my face, but stopping before he touches my cheek. Just as quickly, he stands and heads for the front door. His hand is already on the knob as I squeak out, “What am I supposed to do now?”

  Marco pauses, turning back to face me. “You don’t have to do anything. I’m going to take care of it. Take care of everything. Just … just don’t do anything for now. I’ll be in touch.”

  I don’t get a chance to reply before he’s gone. The entire morning has been a roller coaster of emotions, and I am left wondering if I should trust my gut and go to the police, or trust Marco and keep quiet.

  I SPEND THE rest of the day putzing around the house, trying to keep my mind occupied and off the events of this morning and last night. I also finally get a chance to call Charlie. I try to downplay the situation as much as possible and tell him not to worry, but he doesn’t buy my “I PMSing, so I’m extra hormonal and overreacted” excuse and is set on finding a way to get down here. I know he’s happy for any excuse to come back home, and while I’m sad I won’t see him today, I’m grateful he wasn’t here when Marco showed up. That would have been a disaster.

  I clean both my room and Charlie’s in case he does show up, scrub the bathroom, watch a movie, bake a dozen cookies from a tube (but eat half the dough before it even makes it into cookie form). Even though my body is busy, my attempts to keep my mind from going back to what happened last night and to what Marco said to me this morning are unsuccessful. He seems to be occupying all of my thoughts.

  I need to take a
walk, get some fresh air to clear my head and focus my thoughts. Tossing my hair into a ponytail, I slip on a pair of Toms and walk out the front door¸ grabbing my phone and keys as I go. I don’t have a destination, so I randomly turn up and down streets while I try to make a plan.

  Every instinct tells me that I should go to the police and spill my guts. Sing like a canary. Squeal like a pig. I’m no good with secrets, and the man who was murdered and any family he had deserve to know who did this to him. They deserve justice.

  But another, more nagging piece of me wants me to trust Marco. And that piece grows the more I think about it. After all, he could have hurt me yesterday or this morning if he wanted to, yet both times he simply reassured me instead. If he’s protecting me from his family, then maybe he has very good reason to. He knows them better than I do, and if he thinks my best bet is to keep quiet, then maybe I should listen to him.

  On the other hand, what if he’s not protecting me so much as he is his family and his own ass? He was there, too; he’s an accessory. Is all of his concern really just for himself, and I’m too hypnotized by the way he looks at me to realize it?

  A car horn blares, taking me out of my thoughts. Looking around, I don’t recognize the street I’m on. Thank God for GPS on my phone. Holy crap! I’ve walked over two miles! I turn around and step into the crosswalk, pausing to let a black Cadillac Escalade pass. My mouth practically drops to the floor when I notice who is in the passenger seat. It’s Marco’s dad. He is talking animatedly to the driver and takes no notice of me.

  The car slows and pulls into a driveway a few blocks down. I do an about-face and head toward the house. I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get there, but the journalist in me is compelled to find out more about the Calottas. And make sure they don’t know about me.

  The house is typical for the neighborhood and doesn’t stand out in any way. I don’t know what I imagined it would be like, but plain and ordinary wasn’t it. The house is painted a sunny yellow and has navy-blue shutters on each of the front windows. The upstairs window is open, and a white lace curtain blows in and out with the breeze. There’s a white wicker porch swing and a flower box filled with pansies and geraniums. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume a nice grandmother lived here, not a mob family.

  The screen door squeaks as Mr. Calotta—Frankie I think his name was—and the other man walk in. They don’t close the door behind them, letting the cross breeze spread through the house. It also allows their voices to carry, giving me a chance to listen in on the conversation inside. I walk up the sidewalk and duck behind the air-conditioning unit on the side of the house and sit on my knees before focusing on what’s happening inside.

  “What do they know?” The menacing voice belongs to Nicky. Just hearing it makes a cold sweat break out on my skin.

  “Not much, but that’s going to change soon.”

  Nicky sighs. “They’ve got nothing. They can’t connect it back to us. I got fifteen people who will swear I was at the club playin’ cards when it happened. Sure, they’ll probably try to pin this on us, but there’s no way they’ll even have enough to charge me.”

  “What about the Feds? You really think they have somethin’ on us and were tryin’ to get Danny to turn?”

  “Alex’s lookin’ into it, but my gut says no. If the Feds had anything, I’d be hauled in already.” A chair scrapes across the floor.

  “We’ve got a cop on the payroll,” Frankie admits. “So we’ll stay up to date with what they know.”

  “Good, good. Tell him he’ll get a bonus if we are apprised of any new information or developments before anyone else. I don’t want this turning into another Chicago situation.”

  “You got that right!” The refrigerator door opens before I hear the telltale hiss of a can opening. “I just wish that damn body would’ve sunk. I could strangle Alex for not weighing it down enough.”

  “Want me to deal with him?”

  Nicky sighs. “You know I hate even talkin’ about it since he’s family and all. But I can’t let this slide. People will think I’m gettin’ soft, and I can’t have that. Family or no family, actions have consequences.” There was a pregnant pause before he continued. “Do it. Just a beatin’. Not the face. And make sure he doesn’t need a ventilator. He is my nephew after all.”

  I’ve heard enough. Creeping along the side of the house until I reach the back bushes, I move as slowly as I can to not make any noise until I’m back on the street. Walking home, I’m more confused than ever. Clearly, Nicky is psycho. I mean, he’s willing to seriously hurt his own family. That gives serious doubt to Marco’s motives. If his uncle finds out that he protected a witness—a witness who can put him away for life—there’s no telling what he’d do. No wonder Marco is anxious to keep me quiet.

  And what will Nicky do to me if he finds out? He’d probably skip the ventilator and go right for the body bag.

  I’m in such deep shit.

  “ARE YOU SURE you’re feeling up to school today, Reagan?” Mom places the back of her hand to my forehead.

  “Yes, Mom. I’m fine. Really.” I brush her hand away and make a beeline toward the espresso machine, bypassing the Keurig. Today, I need something much stronger. Sleep has not been my friend recently, and that five-thirty alarm this morning came way too quickly. I’m going to need all the extra help I can get to make it through the day.

  Mom tsks in between putting files in her briefcase. “I don’t know, sweetie. You were crying and thrashing in your sleep again last night.”

  “It’s nothing, Mom.” I try. But her scowl says she’s not buying it.

  “It was bad enough to wake your father and me. When I went to check on you, you were covered in sweat.”

  I cringe, turning my body away so she can’t see my face. “I’m okay. Really.”

  Mom’s like a dog with a bone. “Something’s going on with you, Reagan. Maybe I should call Dr. Miller and try to get you an appointment.”

  “No, Mom. That’s not necessary. Besides, I have a group project that I need to work on and I can’t afford to miss another day.” I measure out three teaspoons of grounds—and a fourth for good measure.

  “Fine,” Mom sighs, searching frantically for her car keys. “But I want you to come straight home. No library for you tonight.”

  Stirring cream into my coffee, I replace the lid on my stainless steel to-go cup and grab an apple, shoving it in my bag. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on going there today.” Or ever again. “And here, you might need these,” I tease, handing Mom her car keys that were hiding under a banana in the fruit basket before kissing her and heading out the door.

  I pull my jacket tight and flip the hood up on my head to fight the morning chill. As I walk past Kally’s house, I frown. It really sucks that she’s not here to give me some affirmation or some quote from Gandhi about how everything is going to be okay. I could really use her optimism right now.

  The streets are quiet this morning, but I still feel a sense of unease. A dog barks behind me, drawing my attention as I whip my head around, but I don’t see anything. I could have sworn I heard someone… Shaking my head, I pick up my pace, anxious to get to school. I can’t get rid of the feeling of being watched. The hair on the back of my neck rises, causing me to shiver.

  Turning the corner, I catch some movement out of the corner of my eye. I spin around. “Who’s there?” I yell, but the street is empty. Quiet.

  I know I saw something. Every instinct in my body is telling me someone was there. Is there. I shiver again, and not from the brisk chill in the air.

  I finally reach school and never stop moving. I bypass my locker, dodge my homeroom teacher, and descend down to the newspaper office. Once there, I shut the door behind me and let out a deep breath. At least I know no one will find me down here.

  I switch the power on the old desktop to “on,” ready to delve into more research on the Calottas. Yesterday only made me more confused as to what I should d
o. I don’t think I can take Marco at his word. He’s got just as much to lose as I do, and besides, I don’t want to make the biggest decision of my life based off my damn feelings for a boy, no matter how cute he is. No self-respecting journalist hits publish on her story without double and triple checking her facts. This decision is going to affect my entire future, and probably my family’s future as well. I need to make an informed decision, be a hundred and ten percent positive about every detail.

  Two hours later, I’m surrounded by notes, articles, and printouts on everything I can find that even remotely mentions the Carlotta name. Most of it is from the crime blotter in Chicago and Atlanta, and nearly all of it focuses directly on Marco’s uncle, Nicky.

  “You’re not an easy person to find.” The voice startles me, and I jump, sending notes sprawling across the floor.

  Marco is standing in the entranceway, his arms crossed as he leans casually on the doorframe. He’s wearing a long-sleeve maroon Henley that highlights his toned frame and jeans that fit snug on his luscious ass. His hair is pulled back and a baseball cap sits atop his head, pulled down low, giving him a dark and mysterious vibe—like he needs any help there.

  “You scared the pants off me!” My hand covers my chest, feeling my heart pounding.

  Marco grins wickedly. “Mmm. Is that so?” He’s standing strangely, with his body angled away from me. “How loud do I need to say ‘boo’ to scare the rest off you?”

  I want to be offended, but his voice is low and husky, warming my body without trying. Damn my hormones! Wait, what was I going to ask him? He turns, giving me a perfect view of his ass. Good Lord…

  “That’s…” I clear my throat. “That’s not what I meant.” I’m staring at him, imagining things I have no business thinking about. Imagining him doing things…

  No! I shake my head to get rid of the inappropriate thoughts and distract myself by straightening the papers on my desk. “What are you doing here? How did you even find me?”