Let Me Know (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

Marcus

I push the shopping cart down the vegetable aisle, scanning the possibilities.

“What about cooked baby carrots?” Chase asks. “Who doesn’t love those?”

“I guess so.” Amber’s never said she doesn’t like them, so they should be a safe enough choice. I think.

Chase tosses the small package into the cart. “Does she like Indian food? ’Cause my mom started buying kits for making butter chicken. It’s really good. Plus it’s easy to make.”

Easy to make? I can deal with that. “We haven’t discussed foods she likes, other than she loves pizza and chicken noodle soup and chocolate ice cream.” I shrug, feeling a little lame at not knowing these things about the girl I love.

The look he throws me confirms he’s thinking the same. “Butter chicken it is. Frozen pizza isn’t very romantic, and the deli pizza here sucks.” He grabs the shopping cart and leads me to the Asian food aisle. Several minutes later, I have a box of butter chicken mix and a small bag of basmati rice, then he drags me to the meat section to find chicken breasts. Next, we pick up a bottle of white wine and candles...all at Chase’s insistence.

“Dude, you need a girlfriend,” I say, laughing.

Before he can argue or agree or whatever he’d planned to do, a tall brunette, who would leave most men panting at the sight of her, steps up to my cart and smiles at me. Her bright green eyes glow with an edge of seduction.

Relief that Amber isn’t here rushes through me. I don’t recognize this woman, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve slept with so many girls in the past, their faces are all a blur. Though I doubt I’d forget this one.

“Marcus Reid.”

“Yes,” I say even though it was a statement not a question. I glance at Chase but see no hint of recognition on his face.

“I’m Angelina Mathews from Channel Four News.”

Chase looks over my shoulder and groans. I don’t have to look to know why. She’s not here alone. She’s got her cameraman with her.

“Whatever you want, I’m not interested.” Whatever it is can’t be good.

“I want to talk to you about your girlfriend.”

“No comment,” I snap.

“Is it true the two of you participate in more violent forms of sexual activity?”

“What kind of fuckin’ question is that?”

A mother pushing a cart down the aisle with her two young kids glares at me as she hurries past.

Chase steps in between me and the reporter. “Unless you want us to file a complaint against you for sexual harassment, I suggest you leave. C’mon,” he says to me under his breath, “let’s get out of here.” He nudges me forward and pushes the cart toward the self-serve checkout.

“Can we really file a sexual harassment complaint against her?” I ask, intrigued at the idea but at the same time suspecting he was bullshitting.

“Who the hell knows? I just had to get you outta there before you did something both you and Amber will regret.”

* * *

I turn on the TV. The spicy scent of butter chicken fills the small apartment as the chicken, rice, and carrots cook on the stove. Smoky jumps onto the couch, then flops against my thigh. I scratch him under the chin. He misses Amber as much as I do.

I’m about to flip channels when the anchorman says, “The story surrounding Amber Scott and her alleged kidnapping earlier last year has taken a new turn. In light of the love letters she wrote to Paul Carson that have recently surfaced, the Chicago Police have been interviewing anyone who can provide additional leads.”

The news cuts to the outside of my apartment building, to the eighty-year-old woman from next door. Chase sits on the beat-up recliner and we exchange confused looks.

She tells the reporter about hearing Amber screaming on more than a few occasions. “I’ve been close to calling the cops several times, because the young lady has been quite disruptive with that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers who the police frequently visit.”

“You bitch,” I hurl at the TV. “She screams because of the fuckin’ nightmares that the fuckin’ asshole caused.” I’m ready to storm down the hallway and repeat it to her face, but Chase’s don’t-even-think-about-it expression glues me to the couch.

My cell phone rings from my bedroom. Still cursing the stupid bitch, I retrieve it and check who’s calling. Amber?

“Hey, Kitten. You’re still coming over, right?”

“I can’t. A cop is taking me in for questioning.” Her voice is so small, scared, my heart breaks just hearing it.

“Why? You haven’t done anything wrong.” I don’t give her a chance to respond. “I’m on my way.”

Hanging up, I stalk into the living room and grab my keys from the kitchen table. “The cops are dragging Amber in for questioning.” Smoky meows at her name.

“Is she okay?” Chase asks.

“I don’t know.”

I arrive at the station to find it swarming with media. What the fuck?

After parking my car, I push through the crowd. Thank God the reporter from earlier isn’t part of this lot. That’s the last thing either Amber or I need. As it is, I don’t know how the woman even found out that Amber’s my girlfriend. While we haven’t been hiding the truth, we haven’t painted it on a billboard, either.

I enter the building. Not a single reporter harasses me. Most look bored, either talking to other reporters or texting.

I tell the cop behind the counter that I’m here for Amber, and I’m directed to the plastic chairs along one wall. I don’t bother sitting. I pace back and forth, restless, like I’m the one locked behind bars. This isn’t the place I was dragged to when I was arrested for shoplifting, but it might as well be. Everything about it, including the stench of desperation and power is in this place.

I’ve been pacing for at least an hour when Amber emerges, pale and more broken than I’ve seen in a while. I silently curse everyone responsible for that look and gather her in my arms. Her usual strawberry smell, with a touch of mint this time, engulfs me, along with the urge to hold on to her tighter.

“Are you Marcus Reid?” The woman’s gaze moves to Amber and I see the concern in it.

“Yes.” I keep holding on to Amber, afraid if I let go for even a moment, she’ll disappear.

The woman smiles softly, but it’s not enough to erase the concern. “Take her home and take care of her. She’s been through a lot.”

“Is this about the fake letters the psychopath is claiming she wrote?”

The smile fades away. “I’m afraid so.”

“But you know they’re fakes, right?”

She nods. “I believe Amber when she says they are.”

Amber pulls away and I reluctantly let her go. “But what about the cops?” she says, voice heavy, as though she’s carrying the weight of several buses on her shoulders. “They don’t believe me, do they? I mean, with the evidence they’ve got against me, I’m not sure I’d believe me either.”

“Amber, they’re doing their job,” the woman says. “They believe you. It might not seem like it, but they do believe you. They know you’re the victim. But they have to gather all the evidence so the D.A. can prove without a doubt that Mr. Carson is guilty of everything he’s been accused of. If they don’t, it could put the trial against him in jeopardy. We just have to hope they turn up something soon to prove the letters are fake.”

The woman hands me her business card and we leave the building, my arm around Amber’s waist. The two cops with us do their best in keeping the media from getting too close. You’d think Amber was a rock star and they were the paparazzi the way they’re acting.

Whenever one of them asks a question, Amber’s lawyer tells them no comment. Amber doesn’t look at them. She focuses on the ground, her face even more pale and wary than when she first stepped out of the interrogation room.

I drive Amber back to the apartment. While she describes what happened during her interrogation and about the evidence against her, my hands tighten on the steering wheel, coming close to snapping it in two. I avoid mentioning the reporter at the grocery store and my neighbor’s need to destroy me, to destroy us.

And all I want to do is hit something or someone.

Chapter Thirteen

Amber

I wake up in Marcus’s bed, his arm keeping me close. This is the only time I feel truly safe, even though it’s when I’m at my most exposed. I snuggle closer to him, absorbing his safety and warmth. No one has ever made me feel this way, not even Trent. I loved Trent, but what I feel for Marcus goes beyond that. I might have had doubts about him after I misinterpreted his reaction to the news report, but he came through for me, exposed himself by coming to the police station.

Eventually I wiggle out of bed, needing to go to the bathroom. Marcus doesn’t stir, and looks more at peace than he has for a while. He won’t admit it, but he suffers from nightmares, too. Nightmares based on the horrors he went through as a kid.

I silently slip out of the room. Smoky meows from his tree-house scratching post, jumps down, then rubs against my leg.

“You hungry?” I scoop him up in my arms and smile as he butts his head under my chin. He used to do it a lot, along with kneading my arm, during the time when Paul held me captive and tortured Smoky to force me to cooperate. It was Smoky’s way of keeping me alive. It was like he knew that once I allowed myself to slip into unconsciousness, we were both dead. I was the one thing saving him from an early grave, and he was the one thing saving me from mine.

Once he’s fed, I check my phone. Mom called and wants me to phone her right back. She phoned over two hours ago. She must be frantic by now. I’m sure she’s already spoken to Sheryl, her lawyer friend, and I’m not ready yet to discuss what happened with anyone. Not even Mom.

Emma also left a message:
I
saw
the
news
.
Are
you
okay
?
I
can’t
believe
that
old
witch
said
those
things
about
you
.

What old witch?

Curiosity and fear pulse painfully through my veins, and I reluctantly turn on the TV. I flip through the channels until I find the local news. A minute or two later I discover what Emma was talking about.

Once again, in the eyes of the media, the evidence makes it appear as if I get off on violent sex and I seduced an emotionally unstable man. But even if it were true, what about Michael and Trent? Even if Paul is found innocent of his crimes against me, there’s no way he can talk his way out of what happened to my brother and boyfriend. He can’t pin their deaths on fake love letters.

Unless there’s something in them you don’t know about
, a voice in my head taunts. I didn’t read all the letters. The ones I skimmed were bad enough.

I stare at the television, vaguely aware it’s on. All I can think about are my options. The media is painting me as someone I’m not, and Marcus’s neighbor hasn’t helped. Maybe I should talk to them. Tell them my side of the story. Maybe explain that the screams she heard are because of my nightmares.

But would they buy it? What does more for their ratings: me screaming because of nightmares, or me screaming because Marcus and I are VIP members of the S&M fan club?

The footage of Marcus leading me from the police station flashes on the screen. I look like hell. Worse than hell. But what do I expect after puking? At least the media didn’t get footage of that...or maybe it would help me if they had.

I pick up the remote and mute the volume, then call Mom.

“Sheryl told me what happened yesterday,” she says. “Are you all right?” It’s clear from her tone that she knows I’m not. There’s no point lying.

I skip the answer and bulldoze forward. “The media is telling nothing but lies about me. Isn’t there something we can do to stop them?”

Mom sighs heavily. “I wish there were, but they aren’t exactly lying. They’re reporting the evidence as they see it. Whether or not you wrote those letters, Amber, it doesn’t matter. They do exist, and Rosemary Carson sent copies of the earlier ones to the media. Right now our concern is proving they’re fakes.”

“But if they can’t prove they’re fakes, he can at least be charged for statutory rape, right?”

Mom doesn’t answer right away, and dread fills me with each millisecond of silence. Her voice is weary when she finally responds. “The age of consent in Illinois is seventeen.” Which means they can’t charge him for statutory rape because I was seventeen when I had sex with him.

“Shouldn’t I at least issue a statement?” I whisper.

“The D.A.’s office will do that. Amber, I can’t stress enough how important it is that you don’t talk to the media.”

“But doesn’t that make me look guilty?”

“What will make you look guilty is when they reveal things taken out of context. Anyway, the media isn’t the court of law. And you’re not going on trial. Paul Carson is.”

It only feels like I’m being tried by my peers. It’s my reputation that’s being destroyed. I’m the one who has to put up with guys thinking they have the right to sexually harass me, all because Paul’s sister is doing whatever she can to save her brother.

I flop back on the couch. A large part of me is relieved I don’t have to talk to reporters, even though I want to clear my name as soon as possible. Speaking in front of a class is bad enough. I shudder at the thought of doing so in front of the camera and in front of everyone at Paul’s trial. One I can avoid. The other I can’t.

There’s one other reason why I need to avoid reporters. “You used to say the media drove Dad away. Is that true?”

The line is silent, and for a moment I wonder if Mom’s hung up. “Yes,” she eventually says. “It was too much for him. He couldn’t handle the attention from having a wife who was a high-profile defense lawyer. I think it scared him, too.”

“That’s what I thought,” I say, no longer talking about my father. How long will it take before Marcus has had enough and also walks out of my life?

Chapter Fourteen

Marcus

I check through Alejandro’s math equation and grin. Around us, a smattering of college students sit around the food court and joke with their friends now that classes are done for the day. “Looks good. I think you’re gonna get another A on your next quiz.”

Alejandro fist pumps the air. “Now there’s no way coach is kickin’ me off the team.”

“As long as you don’t mess up your other classes.”

“Not a problem. I’m good in those.” He packs away his books so we can head to the gym to play ball. I desperately need to blow off steam after the last few days, and this was my way of bribing Alejandro into talking to me.

The redhead from lunch the other day approaches, wearing tight jeans and an equally tight T-shirt. “Hi, Marcus.” Her eyes flick to Alejandro. “Is this your brother?”

The only things Alejandro and I have in common is we’re both tall and have black hair. Smiling at her, he rattles off something in Spanish. I might not understand everything he says, but I know enough to realize his comments would get most guys slapped.

My insides freeze as I remember how Frank touching me led to my man-whore reputation. I was looking for a way to deal with the numbness and for a way to prove I wasn’t like him. Having sex with any girl eager to spread her legs seemed the perfect solution.

Shit, I hope Alejandro isn’t headed down my old self-destructive path. It won’t drive away the pain. It will make things worse.

The girl smiles at him as if he’s an adorable puppy, then looks back at me.

“Is there something you need?” I glance around, making sure Amber isn’t nearby. She’s supposed to be with Emma, Brittany and Jordan in their self-defense class, but I don’t want to risk her leaving early and seeing me with this girl. I don’t need any more of my sexual past coming back to hurt her.

“I saw the news the other day about your girlfriend. You know, that blonde you were with.” Her gaze drops to my lap. I scoot forward so the table covers her view. She licks her lips. “I know she doesn’t share—” she leans down. Her breath brushes my ear “—but I can do things that’ll make you both feel good. Make you both come screaming. I’m especially talented with whips.” I don’t doubt it.

I push her away. Alejandro eyes are about to pop across the Marketplace. “Not interested,” I say firmly.

She laughs. “From what I’ve heard, you’re more than interested. Both of you.”

Alejandro’s mouth flops open.

“One, don’t believe the lies you hear on TV,” I tell her. “Two, neither my girlfriend nor I are interested, so quit harassing me. Apparently you and I had sex once. It’s a mistake I won’t be repeating.” I know when I say it I might as well have slapped her. And judging from her wide eyes, my words stung as if I had.

She walks off in a huff.

Alejandro doesn’t watch her leave. He’s watching me, the shocked expression still on his face. “You don’t even remember having sex with her? How can you not remember? I mean, did you
see
her?”

“Look, I thought by having sex with girls—a lot of girls—it would erase what Frank did to me. That it would erase the pain. And maybe it did for a while. But that was all a lie. I didn’t realize it till I started dating Amber.” I look him squarely in the eyes. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did, Alejandro. Don’t let Frank win.”

Alejandro glares at me. “I’m not telling anyone what happened, so don’t even go there.”

I open my mouth to say something but slam it shut as a man approaches our table. The smell of garlic lingers on him.

“Marcus Reid?”

“Cop or reporter?” I grunt.

Alejandro’s gaze jumps from me to the man and back, a million questions written all over his face.

“I’m a reporter with the
Chicago Post.
I want to ask you about—”

“I don’t give a damn what you want. What
I
want is for you and the rest of your idiotic friends to leave me and Amber alone.” I stand and grab my books, hinting to Alejandro to do the same.

“It will—”

The look I give him causes him to step back. “Do I need to report you to security?”

“No.” He says something else, but Alejandro and I are walking away. Now more than ever, I need to play ball.

“What was that all about?” Alejandro asks.

“It’s nothing,” I grumble.

He stops abruptly, his eyes dull with fear. “It wasn’t nothing. Did he want to talk to you about Frank?”

I glance around, checking no one’s within earshot. Fortunately my threat about security was enough to keep the reporter from following us. He’s skulking in the opposite direction. “No. It’s about Amber.”

“What about her?” The fear turns to concern and protectiveness, and my heart swells that he feels that way, even if he doesn’t know her very well.

“She was kidnapped last year by a stalker and badly hurt. Now his sister claims Amber wrote love letters to him, and everything he did to her Amber wanted. The media’s been twisting things around.”

“That was Amber? ¡
Meirda!
I heard my parents talking about it. They said her name should never have been mentioned. Now everyone knows she was raped.”

I cringe at his unspoken thoughts. “The reporters haven’t said anything about her being raped. And just because Amber’s name was leaked doesn’t mean yours will be.”

He narrows his eyes. “How can you be sure?”

“Because Amber’s name was released when she went missing. The media stopped using it once she was found, ’cause she was a minor, but her name was already public record. Your name won’t be.”

“But if I tell the cops what happened to me, people might figure out what he did to me.”

“They’re not gonna figure it out.”

“How can you be so sure?” he says in a voice loud enough to gain us a few curious glances.

I want to give him the answers he’s looking for, but I can’t. I can’t be sure the media isn’t going be sniffing around, searching for their next story.

Alejandro walks toward the exit, his next words soft, spoken more for his benefit than mine. “That’s what I thought.”