Tell Me When

by Stina Lindenblatt

  I tell Trent that I love him and that I miss him, and that I always will. Then I walk over to join Marcus. “Have you been here long?” My voice sounds worn, tired. Wary.

  He shrugs. “Long enough.” He unfolds himself from the ground. The uncertain vulnerability from the other day is back, covering him like a heavy winter coat during summer. He looks away, his gaze going to a nearby gravestone. “I’m not used to having a girlfriend. I’m not used to caring about someone the way I care about you, Kitten. I’m scared of losing you and it’s making me fucking crazy.”

  I nod, unable to find the right words to tell him that I’m scared of losing him too. I might not be new to having a boyfriend, but I’m new to feeling this way. And it terrifies me.

  Marcus looks back at me. “I wish I could tell you I won’t fuck up again, but I can’t. I still have no idea what I’m doing. I only know how to make girls happy in bed. I don’t know how to do this.” He points between us.

  “I need to visit my brother before we leave,” is all I’m capable of saying. I know I should say something more, but I can’t. Not yet.

  I do, though, thread my fingers with his and lead him over to where Michael is located. As hard as it was to visit Trent, it’s even harder visiting Michael. I didn’t see Trent die. I did see Michael’s life stolen from him. Tears well up in my throat, threatening to choke away my own life.

  As if sensing my turmoil, Marcus pulls me to him and holds me, his arms strong and sure around me. He doesn’t say anything. This can’t be any easier for him. Michael might not be his brother, but the situation is the same for both of us. We both witnessed our brothers being murdered. Their lives were cut short because of us.

  I shift in his arms and kiss him gently on the mouth. “Thank you. Thank you for being here with me. And I promise I’ll do better.” I don’t elaborate on what I’m promising. But it’s implied in my words. It goes beyond what I’m doing in the gym.

  “Me, too.” Marcus kisses me back, the kiss slow and filled with hope and a deep-rooted understanding between us.

  It’s noon by the time we arrive at my house. I drive up to the metal entrance gate, which is rarely closed. Tall skinny trees skirt the perimeter, separating the property from the road and the neighbors.

  I continue along the driveway and park in front of the large Tudor-style house. Emma used to say it looked like a home straight out of a fairy tale. If that were true, my fairy godmother needs to review her job description. She failed me when it came to my happily-ever-after, something I no longer believe exists. At least not for me.

  I can’t tell if Mom’s home or not. Usually she’s at the office, even on a Saturday, more so since Michael’s death.

  “You wanna come inside with me or stay in the car?” I unclick my seat belt.

  Marcus’s mouth slides into a mischievous grin. “And miss the chance to check out your room?”

  “You do realize my mom might be home?”

  “Don’t worry, Kitten. Moms love me.” There’s no missing the sarcasm. He’s thinking about his mom. Just the thought of the life he endured before he started college makes me want to take away his pain.

  I cup his cheek with my hand. My gaze drops to his lips. I’m tempted to turn the car around and go back to his apartment, to spend the rest of the day with him there.

  Instead, I give him a quick kiss, wanting to get away from here as soon as possible. The memories of Michael and Trent sit heavy in the air, ready to suffocate me. As it is, when we drove here, I took the longer route so I could avoid the place where I had the flat tire. I haven’t been there since that night. I don’t ever want to go there again.

  Marcus and I walk up the path to the house, holding hands. Even though it’s fall, and the flowers have long since died, the garden still looks great. A bounty of autumn colors.

  “My mom can’t even keep a houseplant alive,” Marcus says, checking out the meticulous garden. A leaf wouldn’t dare be out of place here.

  “My mom can’t either. The housekeeper and gardener take care of ours.”

  “You have a housekeeper and gardener?” he says, stunned.

  I unlock the door and disarm the alarm. The house is silent. Mom’s not home. If she were, the stereo or TV would be on.

  The familiar zesty smell of lemons greets me. The housekeeper must have been here this morning. The house always smells this way on cleaning day. It’s one of the things I miss most. The dorm bathroom never smells like this.

  Marcus’s gaze sweeps over the grand foyer and the polished floor, which resemble a black-and-white chessboard. When we were kids, Trent, Michael, Emma and I used to love pretending we were chess pieces.

  “My room’s upstairs.” I point to the spiral stairs in case it’s not obvious enough where we need to go. Marcus follows me, his hands resting on my hips.

  As we walk up the stairs, his fingers slip under my T-shirt and brush against my stomach. A familiar warmth ignites in my lower body, and I have to focus on each step or else risk stumbling. By the time we make it to my room, I almost forget why I’m here.

  “Nice,” Marcus says, taking everything in: the basketball trophies from when I was a kid; pictures of me, Trent and Emma; my black-and-fuchsia bedding that I’ve had since I was twelve. Trent and I spent many hours curled up on it together, talking when we were younger. Making out when we were a couple. Naturally, Mom knew none of this. She never would have approved of Trent being on my bed.

  I turn away from my memories and search through my closet for clothes I haven’t worn in a while. The clothes I turned my back on after my life changed, and I decided hiding in jeans and oversized hoodies was a better idea. If I want to be normal again, it only makes sense that I wear the clothes I used to love. At least the ones I still feel comfortable wearing.

  I remove my favorite sweater dresses and skirts, long-sleeved tops, tights, boots and shoes. A small part of me wants to include my sexier tops, too. The rest of me squelches the idea. That part of me’s dead. I don’t want people to see my scars. Even Marcus hasn’t seen them all.

  “What’s this?”

  I glance over my shoulder to see what he’s talking about. In his hands are scraps of light pink satin. “My prom gown,” I whisper.

  Deep lines form in Marcus’s forehead. “What happened to it?”

  “I cut it up prom night. I was supposed to go with Trent. Then he died. I couldn’t go. I couldn’t face my classmates and pretend everything was all right and that nothing had changed.”

  Marcus rests his hand on my shoulder and turns me around to face him. I tilt my chin up, hinting what I need. Remembering the past makes me feel numb. I don’t want to feel numb. I want to feel alive.

  He lowers his mouth to mine and I let him in, knowing I need his touch more than anything. Knowing this moment, like every moment before it, and every moment after, will help me heal, bit by slow bit.

  Our tongues play together, tasting, teasing, chasing away my pain as Marcus walks me backward until the bed presses against the backs of my thighs.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, Marcus’s lips still attached to mine. Vertebrae by vertebrae I lie back, until Marcus’s body partly covers me. Not once do our mouths break contact, the kisses becoming more intense, more hungry.

  My hands thread into his soft hair. I’ve been kissed many times before, but never has it been this hot or made me feel this alive. Trent’s kisses were great. But Marcus’s kisses go beyond great, to body melting amazing.

  One of Marcus’s hands traces down my thigh to behind my knee. He slides my leg up so it wraps around his hips. His erection presses against the seam of my jeans, taunting the throbbing ache that’s rapidly building. A moan slips from my lips, pleading for so much more.

  Marcus’s mouth moves from mine. “Tell me when to stop. Okay, Kitten?”

  I nod. Righ
t now I don’t want him to stop. I just want to focus on him, on us. This is normal. This is what I want.

  Marcus’s fingers edge along the bottom of my T-shirt and across my exposed skin. They inch their way up my stomach, my ribs, to my breast. I tense at his touch.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, voice husky, yet there’s a tenderness in his words that I hold on tight to as his spicy scent wraps around me, reminding me I’m safe. Marcus is my safe.

  All remaining tension evaporates as molten lava fills every cell, and I melt into the bed, not wanting this feeling to end. “I’m fine,” I murmur.

  His hand cups my breast, still covered by my bra, and his thumb strokes across the nipple. His intense gaze never leaves mine. I swear I’m going to combust just from the way he’s looking at me.

  His body rocks against my jeans. The throbbing ache between my legs grows more intense, sending me higher and higher. I’m almost going insane with wanting him. Wanting him more than I ever thought would be possible.

  The shattering of glass from downstairs jerks me out of the moment, and sends me careening back to earth.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Marcus

  My entire body tenses. “Your mom?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “I don’t know,” Amber whispers and scrambles off the bed. “It could be the housekeeper.”

  Shit. Did someone break in while I was seeing how far Amber trusts me? While I was determining where the invisible boundary had been placed after she was raped? I clench my teeth. Anyone could have walked in on us. Including Amber’s mom.

  “Did you reset the alarm?” I ask.

  “I don’t remember.” Her lips are swollen from my kisses, and it takes everything I have not to press her against the wall and kiss her again. She doesn’t realize how tempting she is.

  “It’s probably just my mom.” She drops her arms to her side, as if each weighs a thousand pounds, and a sudden sadness seeps from her pores. “I’ll be right back.” She starts walking toward the door.

  I grab her arm. “You’re not going by yourself. What if it isn’t your mom?”

  “I have to get Michael’s suitcase. I’m just going to his room. It’s next to mine.” I let her go and watch her slip into the next room. If anyone comes up the stairs, they’ll have to get past me to get to Amber.

  I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, keeping an eye on the stairs. She returns a few minutes later with a large suitcase, which she fills with her clothes and shoes. I take it from her and we walk down the stairs, cautious not to make a sound.

  A woman’s voice floats up from somewhere at the back of the house.

  “It’s my mom,” Amber says, still whispering. At the bottom of the staircase, she indicates for me to stay put and walks in the direction the voice came from.

  I stay in place for a few seconds, so she thinks I’m going to listen to her, then stride after her.

  Even though I move quietly, she must have either heard me or realized I wasn’t planning to stay where she left me. She looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes, then pushes the door open and steps inside the room.

  I follow her inside the kitchen. The room is bigger than the house I grew up in, and is filled with stainless steel appliances, all shiny and new. At the kitchen island, a woman with the same dark blond hair as Amber pours whiskey into a glass. From the way her hand’s shaking, it’s obvious this isn’t her first or second drink of the morning. I recognize the look all too well from Frank.

  “When did you start drinking again?” Amber doesn’t sound upset, just defeated.

  “I don’t have a problem, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” the woman says.

  “You’re upset about what happened to Michael. I get it. But drinking isn’t going to bring him back.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” the woman snaps. She takes a step toward Amber, narrowly missing a shard of glass with her stiletto shoe. Whereas I would have held my ground if it were my mom, unless she had a gun aimed at me, Amber steps back. “I have to get to work.” With the glass still in her hand, her mom walks unsteadily past, knocking into Amber on her way out.

  “Mom....” Amber slumps against the kitchen counter.

  Unable to bear seeing her in such pain, I pull her to me and hold her securely in my arms.

  She rests her head on my shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her.” Sighing, she bends down and picks up the shards of glass.

  Remembering doing the same on more than one occasion with Ryan, I help clean up the mess. She doesn’t speak the entire time. She doesn’t need this. I can tell she blames herself for what happened, like she does for everything else.

  “It’s not your fault, Amber. She’s an adult. If she’s drinking, it’s her choice. You had nothing to do with that.”

  Amber doesn’t look too convinced.

  Once we’re finished, we drive to her grandmother’s house. The place is much smaller than Amber’s home. A lot friendlier, too. It doesn’t look like it stepped out of an issue of some fancy-ass house-decorating magazine. Unless high class now includes a village of gnomes sitting on the lawn and in the flower beds.

  Amber parks her car in the driveway and smiles. It doesn’t take much to realize she has happy memories here. She’s lucky. I’ve never met my grandparents. I’m not even sure they’re alive.

  Once we’re out of the car, she takes my hand and we walk along the cobblestone path to the house. The garden isn’t meticulous like at her home, but I can tell it’s cared for by someone who isn’t paid to do it.

  “My grandma loves to garden,” Amber says, and for a second I wonder if I said my thoughts out loud. Pride beams on her face.

  She opens the front door. My palms grow clammy but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. She just keeps smiling like she’s finally home.

  “Smoky. Grandma. I’m here.” She steps into the house and I follow.

  The place isn’t much bigger than my mom’s home, but instead of cheap-looking furniture from garage sales, the furniture is made of real wood, painted in white, yellows, and blues. Everything about the place makes me think of sunshine and spring. I just hope her grandmother is as welcoming as her furniture.

  A chubby gray cat limps around the corner and rubs against Kitten’s legs, purring.

  “There’s my baby.” Grinning, Amber scoops up the cat. She cuddles it in her arms and nestles her face against its fur. A streak of jealousy shoots through me. Right now, I’d do anything to be that goddamn cat.

  I’ve always thought cats were aloof, believing they’re better than humans. But this cat is nothing like that. You’d think it worships Amber the way it responds to her.

  “He misses you.” A woman, who I can only guess to be Amber’s grandmother, joins us, warmth radiating from her face. Until she see the stitches above Amber’s eyebrow. Amber has bangs that sweep to one side, but she didn’t bother to sweep them to the side with the cut.

  The woman’s eyes widen. “What on earth happened?” Her cutting gaze jumps from Amber to me, lingers on me before jumping back to Amber.

  “It’s nothing. I had a flashback and hit my head.”

  The woman frowns. “You’re still having flashbacks?”

  “It’s the first one I’ve had in a while. It was no big deal,” Amber hastily adds.

  “What about the nightmares?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Her grandmother’s eyebrow rises. “Is that so? And you’re still going to therapy?”

  Amber nods. I bet even the cat can tell she’s lying.

  Her grandmother, who looks nothing like I expected in jeans, a Rolling Stones T-shirt, and white chin-length hair, returns her attention to me. “Hi, I’m Kathryn. You must be Marcus.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”
>
  The earlier warmth returns to her face and she smiles. “Why don’t we all go into the living room? I have a feeling Amber and Smoky want to catch up. Would you two like some lemonade?”

  We both say yes, and I follow Amber while Smoky butts his head against her chin.

  “He sure likes you,” I say.

  “He’s the only reason I survived Paul.” At what is no doubt a confused expression on my face, she continues, “With Trent dead and after I watched Michael shot to death”—she squeezes Smoky but the cat doesn’t seem to mind—“I lost all will to live when Paul kidnapped me. He punished me, but it didn’t change anything. I wanted to die.” Her voice cracks at the last word and she sits on the couch.

  I sit next to her, wishing more than anything I could hold her close and take away her pain. The only thing stopping me is the cat. It’s eyeing me as though it’d be willing to scratch my eyes out to protect Amber. And I can’t say I blame it. I’d do the same.

  “Because I worked with Paul at the animal shelter, he knew my kryptonite. He brought me Smoky, who was just a defenseless kitten, and punished him in front of me. I was already dying inside, but seeing him abuse Smoky was the worst form of punishment he’d come up with yet.” The tortured expression on her face warns me I only know a fraction of what she endured. I want to ask her, but not now, not with her grandmother in the recliner, watching us.

  “I did what Paul wanted without complaint after that, and did everything I could to keep both me and Smoky alive. I knew once I died, Paul would kill him.”

  My opinion of the cat skyrockets. I reach out and scratch it behind the ears. It leans into my hand and for now we have a truce, a shared understanding that Amber means everything to both of us. Neither of us is willing to hurt her. Only, Smoky has an advantage over me. It saved her.

  “The D.A. called yesterday,” Kathryn says. “They had the competency hearing last week and Paul Carson was found fit to stand trial. The court case will be in the New Year.”