Tell Me You Love Me: A Novel

by S. Ann Cole

  He picks up a marker and scribbles a date on the board. “Next Wednesday, I will be testing you based on the questions on this sheet.”

  The class is silent, with just the sound of papers flipping.

  “Are you alright, Dave?” Kholton asks someone.

  I follow his gaze to a pimply boy who looks seriously stressed out and on the verge of tearing out his stringy blond hair.

  “I—I just—” the kid stutters. “Is this what a finals exam looks like for real?”

  Kholton chuckles. “I’ve got you, Dave. Just stick to what I show you, steal a few of my tricks, practice every chance you get, and I promise you will pass with flying colors.”

  And trust me, he has a lot of tricks. The man is a freaking genius. Numbers used to bore the heck out of me, but he made it mad fun and easy. So I believe in my heart that these kids, if they take his lessons in, will indeed pass with flying colors.

  “Let’s begin.”

  An hour and a half of fun, laughter, and Kardashian jokes later, the class is dismissed.

  Kholton, however, keeps Omari and a girl with rainbow-colored hair and gage earrings behind, informing them that they would be doing the test before everyone else. As in, right now.

  Neither seem surprised, as if they know to expect it.

  After setting the timer to one hour, Kholton strides down to where I’m still slouched behind a desk and slides into one of the empty seats beside me.

  “You good?” he asks.

  “You’re an amazing teacher,” I tell him. “I wish mine were as fun as you in high school.”

  He smiles. “Mine weren’t either. Private school. They were such prissy ass kissers.”

  “Those were a lot of kids,” I say. “Is it because the class is free?”

  “Partly.” He reaches across to play with my fingers on the desk. “But I have this thing I do every year. Quietly. I observe the students, have frequent one-on-one conversations with a few of the less fortunate, see where their heads are at. And after the finals, I choose the two with the most potential, drive and ambition, and sponsor them through college.”

  “Wow. That’s…wow.”

  “I’m discreet with it and I never admit to doing any such thing, but I think word gets out and my class just keeps getting bigger.” He shrugs. “Those are kids from various different schools. Not just here.”

  “So these two students right now,” I say, “They are your picks?”

  “Hopefully,” he answers. “They’re both from poor, single-parent homes. Sally has the potential to be a whizz kid, but her mother is verbally abusive, constantly telling her she isn’t worth shit and she believes it. Omari, he’s a dreamer. A family man. A determined provider. He wants to win and he’s willing and eager to put in the work to get there. Never backs down from a challenge. His mother, unlike Sally’s, does her best to provide a clean, safe home for him and his siblings.”

  I watch him as he tugs at my fingers and play with my nails. He seems abashed, eyes downcast, as if regretting divulging that to me.

  What a man. Next to my father, he’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.

  I think, it was in this moment, that I started to fall in love with Kholton Sharpe.

  “You hungry?” Kholton asks as we’re leaving the school grounds.

  “A little peckish, yes.”

  “Good. Because it’s Aunty Reba’s birthday,” he says. “The family’s throwing a small surprise party at her Roti House and the oldest son just texted me in all-caps, reminding me that I’m late.”

  I’m laughing. “She has a roti house?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is it far from here?” I flex my fingers entwined with his. “Will we make it in time?”

  “Nah, it’s close.” He holds out his free hand for a cab, but it doesn’t stop. “But we’re too late to go by foot.”

  I step out waving my free hand and a cab stops. With a winning smirk, I gloat, “Looks like I’m the lucky charm today, playboy.”

  He opens the cab door and waves me in. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  I stick my tongue out at him and climb in.

  “SURPISE!!!”

  Eyes wide, heart palpitating, I jump out of my skin from the chorused shout that’s aimed at us when we walk through the door and into complete darkness.

  “False alarm,” Kholton half-shouts over the noise. “False alarm.”

  Someone switches on the light and swears. “Goddammit, Khol! Misses. Get your asses over here.”

  Laughing, Kholton tugs me into the small crowd. People punch his arm and jokingly curse him for being late.

  “Turn the lights off,” someone orders.

  The lights go out and a hush falls over the room. Somehow, Kholton manages to grab my ass in the dark. I know it’s him because his body is shaking with suppressed laughter behind me. Asshole.

  “This is her, this is her!” someone whispers after a while.

  A complete moment of silence. A whoosh of the door opening, the city noise stealing in. And then, “SURPRISE!!”

  Even as I shout this, Kholton grabs both my asscheeks and squeezes and I can’t help giggling.

  The lights come on again and I can see Reba, her hand pressed to her chest, shock on her face. “You lil’ rassholes tryna give me a heart attack, or what, eh?”

  Everyone laughs, and one by one they go in to hug her, wishing her a happy birthday.

  “White boy, Khol, that you?” she calls she when spots him.

  Kholton shrugs as he goes to her. “I’m just here for the cake.” He pulls her in for a hug and plants a kiss on her forehead. “Happy birthday, Aunty Reba.”

  “I see you holding on to this one,” she says, pointing to me with her chin. “That mean I can expect a wedding invitation soon, eh?”

  Kholton shoots me a glance and something fleeting crosses his face, too quick to tell what it is. “I’m gonna need one of your strong prayers for that, Aunty. Will you say one for me?”

  Reba’s shrewd eyes shift to me, to Kholton, to me again, and then back to Kholton. “I got you, boy.” She pats his arm. “I got you.”

  Someone else comes up and steals her attention.

  Kholton returns to me and tugs on my cap. “Let’s get you something to drink. You won’t find any of that bourgeois aloe vera water here, though. Strictly Caribbean cuisine at Aunty Reba’s Roti House. If you look around, you’ll notice we’re the only white fuckers here.” He takes my hand again and leads me over to the food bar.

  Glancing around, I realize we really are the only two white people here, but everyone is so high-spirited, welcoming, and loud that I didn’t even realize it. By now, I’m familiar with the Trinidadian accent, but I hear others, too. How is Kholton even part of this group?

  Aunty Reba’s Roti House is a ground level food bar, painted red, white, and black. The interior is pretty basic, with various flags of different islands jutting from the back wall. But it’s not the place that makes the place, it’s the people, boisterous and full of laughter.

  Kholton slaps his palm on top of the bar. “John-John. I need something refreshing for my friend here.”

  John-John, an older man who looks almost Indian, nods and smiles wickedly at me. “Hi, Friend.”

  “Serena. Her name is Serena,” Kholton corrects. “Nosy bastard.”

  John-John winks at me as he goes to get our drinks.

  Kholton faces me. “I’m getting roti—God bless my abs. Sure you’re not hungry?”

  I shake my head. “Just peckish.”

  John-John returns with two bottles of red drinks and shoves them at us. I pick up the ice-cold bottle and scan the label. Jamaican Sorrel.

  Kholton orders, “A Curry Goat Roti for me and some pickled mangoes for Serena, John-John.”

  I open my Sorrel and take a sip. It really is refreshing. I drink half in one go. “So,” I begin, licking my lips. “How did you become part of this tribe?”

  He takes a sip of his own drink. “Reba’s
daughter. Met her when I first moved here. Loud, vivacious, rebellious, crazy. We grew close fast.” His lips twist to the side. “We made out a time or two, but she didn’t want to ruin our friendship so we left it at that. I know now that it’s because she knew she was gonna die.”

  Huh? “What do you mean?”

  “She was sick and didn’t tell me. They all knew and didn’t tell me. It was only after she died that Reba told me the truth. That Vashti was in love with me and cried all the time because she knew she’d never get to be with me. Before she died, she begged them to do whatever they could to make sure I stuck around or she would haunt them.” He laughs at the latter. “By that point, I was already loved by the family so I wouldn’t have gone anywhere anyway.”

  Jeez. This is so sad I can’t even be jealous of this girl. “Vashti? That was her name?”

  “Yeah.” He smiles fondly. “I called her V.”

  I place a hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

  That’s only half true. If he hadn’t lost her, they probably would have fallen in love and he wouldn’t have gone on a blind date and we wouldn’t have met.

  Lord, please forgive me for thinking this, but, thank you for dying, Vashti.

  John-John returns with my pickled mangoes and Kholton’s roti.

  Ignoring the food, Kholton looks at me for a long, long moment—so long that John-John grunts and walks away. Then, he leans over, brush his lips against mine, and whispers, “I’m not sorry.”

  I smile big. Because this is, without a doubt, the Lord’s confirmation of forgiveness.

  The pickled mangoes are hot. Hot. And Kholton laughs at me the whole time because I can’t help making an ugly face each time I eat a slice. Also, I end up eating almost half of his curry goat roti because it’s so damn good!

  We drink Pina Colada next.

  When tipsiness hits, we hit the dance floor together and gyrate to Caribbean beats.

  We laugh, we tease, we gaze only at each other like nothing or no one else exists.

  At the end of the night, as we’re headed home in the back of a cab, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder, a loopy smile on my face, I tell him, “I have the best days with you.”

  Though, what I truly want to say is, I want to spend all my days with you.

  Because I do.

  I really do.

  Thirty - Four - Serena

  “Say yes.”

  Kholton comes home and finds me in the kitchen.

  Four days. That’s how long I’ve been here, yet I hardly see the man. He pops in and out like a jack-in-the-box, changing outfits at least three times a day. In for a few minutes before rushing right back out. Even with my stalker folder on him, I didn’t realize how busy he truly is.

  Eying the kitchen counter covered in baked goodies, he drops his backpack. “What’s all this?”

  “I was bored,” I explain as I tug off the cleaning gloves. I reek of bleach and Pine Sol. “You guys should really consider hiring a housekeeper. There was mold in places mold should never be.”

  He approaches carefully, as if uncertain he wants to be in here. “You…cleaned?”

  “From top to bottom.” I shoot the used gloves into the bin, hands in the air like a basketball player.

  Kholton watches them go, his gaze lingering on the bin.

  “Ooh! Ooh!” I squeal excitedly. “Come see what I made.”

  Like a pleased kid, I skip over to the stove and remove the cover from the saucepan filled with thick chickpea sauce, and I sniff. So good.

  I fetch a plate from the cupboard and place one of the fry breads I made onto it. I then scoop a big spoon of the sauce onto the bread before dousing it with hot pepper sauce.

  Kholton is right next to me now, surprise on his face. “You made Doubles?”

  “YouTube tutorials.” I grin. “They never let you down. Here, taste it.”

  He watches me as he takes a bite into the treat. His eyes flutter closed as he chews. When they open again, he says, “Not saying this to make you feel good, but, babe this is good. Not as good as Aunty Reba’s, but…yeah, you nailed it.”

  Pride tugs my lips upward. “You’re welcome, Mr. Sharpe.”

  Leaning back on the counter, he jerks his chin at all the baked goodies before he takes another bite of Doubles. “Are you gonna eat all those yourself? Thought you were a health nut.”

  “Well, those pigs-in-a-blankets are for Brian—he requested them,” I inform him. “But everything else, the muffins, banana bread, cookies, brownies, are all made from Oat Flour and Stevia, so they’re one hundred percent healthy.”

  “We can take some to the soup kitchen,” he suggests.

  “Hmm. I never thought of that. Great idea.” I get out the saran wrap and begin covering the goodies one tray at a time. “How was class?”

  “The usual.” He licks sauce from his fingers. “Taught traumatized women how to kick ass so they’ll never be victimized again.”

  “Your self-defense classes are free, too, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” he answers around a full mouth. “You should come. Learn how to defend yourself.”

  “Nah, I’m good.” I pluck a raisin from one of the muffins and toss it in my mouth. “I already have you to defend me.”

  I swear, this man is amazing. He dedicates so much of his time to helping others and he does it with so much heart and joy. It’s his high. He’s both an asshole and a Samaritan. Kind and cruel. A walking, talking, breathing oxymoron.

  Slowly, surely, fearfully, I’m falling for his unbelievable soul.

  He chuckles, and I shiver when he comes up behind me and circles his arms around my middle. “Sounds like you’re expecting me to be around for a while. Last I checked, we were through.”

  Not for a while. But forever. I want him to be around forever. Protecting me. Kissing me. Hugging me like this. Letting me cook and clean for him. Letting me love him.

  “Are we?” My smile is dopey. “Because you sure kiss and feel me up an awful lot for someone who no longer wants me.”

  He sweeps my hair aside and licks my neck. “Never said I don’t want you. I said I don’t want you unless I’m getting all of you.” His fingertips skim along the hem of my crop-top, eliciting a sharp breath from me. “I’ll always want you, Serena. You’re my Delilah.”

  Nipples hard, core tight, I turn in his arms and grab his shirt with both fists, arching to take what I want from him. He’s willing, eager lips descending…and then his phone rings.

  With a whispered curse, he digs it out and scans the screen. His expression sobers as he backs away from me. “Sorry. I have to take this.”

  That’s fine.

  No problem.

  But why does he have to walk right out the front door to take the call? He’s never not taken a phone call in front of me and even allows me to use his phone unsupervised, so I find this strange.

  I finish wrapping up the goodies and transfer them from the counter to the island where there’s more space.

  My hard nipples, flushed skin, and tight core aren’t going anywhere. I want Kholton. Badly…enough to remind me that I’ve been cooking and cleaning all day and stink of bleach. Eek. I can’t believe he licked my neck with me smelling like this!

  Hoping his call is a long one, I bound up the stairs, stripping out of my clothes as if they’re on fire. Without even waiting for the water to heat, I hop into the shower and begin lathering to kingdom come.

  As the water goes from cool, to tepid, to hot, to scalding, my skin only blushes more, my clit heavy, my nipples sensitive. I’m tempted to touch myself.

  No. I want him to touch me.

  Turning off the shower, I turn to open the door, but before I’m able to touch the shiny, steam-coated handle, it opens.

  A tall, naked frame silhouetted by billowing steam steps inside. “That was rude, Serena.”

  “I smelled like bleach and all-purpose cleaner.”

  The ghost advances. “Did I seem bothered by it?”<
br />
  I back up. “No, but—”

  “What did you want?”

  My back hits the wall. “Huh?”

  “Downstairs,” he says. “When you turned around and grabbed me. What did you want?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “Sex.”

  He reaches out to turn on the shower again. Water sprays us both, flattening his hair. “Be more specific.” He presses his palms to the wet tiles on either side of my head and licks the side of my face. “Tell me, Serena.”

  Heart-rate elevating, my nipples are like granite now, my core tight. I reach down and take his rock-hard shaft in my hand, rub the swollen head against my pounding clit. A relieved sound escapes me.

  “This,” I gasp out.

  His gaze is cast down between us, watching as I use his bulbous head to circle my clit again and again, breaths escalating with each circle.

  “Nah. That’s not what you want,” he says, right before he drops to one knee and lifts my left leg over his shoulder. He flicks my swollen clit with his fingers, teases it, cajoles it. And then he goes in. He covers my sex with his mouth and beats my clit with his tongue.

  “Oh God, yes!” The back of my head hits the wall. “Yes, this is what I want.”

  Pinching my own aching nipples, I undulate in his mouth. This is it. This is totally, absolutely, most certainly what I want. My skin is hot. So hot. Like I’m in the middle of a furnace.

  He plunges two fingers inside me and in no time, I’m coming on his face. I’ve been wound too tight, deprived for too long. I grind into his face as my body is wrung free. Echoing cries bouncing off the walls.

  Straightening, he lifts me off the ground, my legs wrapping instinctively around him, arms around his neck. Without pause or hesitation, he buries himself to the hilt, so deep it knocks the air out of me.

  Our lips crash together, hot water scorching our skins.

  He thrusts into me without care or apology, and I throw it back at him without cowardice or uncertainty.

  We screw each other like we mean it, like we’re in a race, like we’re about to end an affair and this is the last time. Deep grunts and soft cries, pain and pleasure, clashing teeth and warring tongues.