Let Me Know (3 page)

As Emma and I walk through the mall, I feel all eyes on me, staring through my winter coat and long-sleeved T-shirt. Stripping me down to my dark secrets.

Emma steers me to the adult store, located in a wing that sees the fewest shoppers. A female manikin stands in the window, wearing a white transparent baby-doll outfit with sheer white stockings reaching midthigh.

“This is where you’re getting Liam a present?” I ask, voice part squeak, part awe.

Emma grins, a light blush hitting her cheeks. “More like a joke present. I bought his real gift in Chicago last week.”

I glance at the store again and my heart flutters in my chest, like a thousand butterflies searching for a way to break free. “I’ll wait for you here.” The last thing I want is to have a flashback because I spot a red slip, like the one a Victoria’s Secret model might wear.

Emma tugs on my arm. “You have to come,” she says, her voice as squeaky as mine was a moment ago. “I can’t go in there alone. I’ll feel stupid.”

I look between her and the store, digging my teeth into my lip. I owe her for my being a crappy best friend after what happened with Paul, and I owe her for what Paul did to Trent. “Okay.”

We walk into the store, with Emma practically dragging me in, and draw up short as our virgin voyage takes us into the land of erotic clothing and triple-X movies. My face heats up, and feels as hot as Emma’s looks, her blush now a supercharged red.

Emma giggles nervously as we walk down the aisle, beyond the sexy clothing and movies. She gives them a cursory glance. I focus on her and nothing else.

We end up at the back of the store, at a wall containing everything from the mild to the shocking: multicolored condoms, edible body lotions, vibrators, sex toys. None of which I have a clue how to use. And I’m not about to read the directions to find out.

Emma removes a package containing small balls. She reads the description and her eyes go as wide as her mouth. She shoves it back onto the display rack, almost missing it in her haste, and moves on.

“One of the girls on the team made a sex video for her boyfriend for Christmas,” she says, voice low even though I’m the only person within hearing range.

“Seriously?” I didn’t say it loud, but it feels as though the word bounced around the store at full volume. I glance around to make sure no one’s listening, not that they would know what we’re talking about. No one’s paying us any attention.

“I couldn’t do that,” she says. “What if it ends up on YouTube? She could get kicked off the team.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, but she trusts her boyfriend.”

“But what if they break up?”

“I don’t know. I’ve met him and he’s nice, but it’s still risky.”

I laugh shortly. “Does that mean I don’t have to worry about you showing up on YouTube, other than for something to do with basketball?”

“Definitely.” She goes back to searching through the items hanging on the wall. I select a bottle of strawberry-flavored body lotion, which seems a safe enough gift, and read the instructions.

“What about these?” Emma holds up a pair of pink fur-lined handcuffs.

My wrists and shoulders hurt
,
and my hands feel like they’re floating in the air.
I’m sitting
,
propped against a cold wall
,
the same temperature as the concrete floor.
The cool air wraps itself around me and I shiver.

My breathing comes in fast, lungs fighting to draw in more air, which currently is evading them. The store blurs. I close my eyes and reach for something to steady me. My hand lands on something fairly solid.
It’s only a memory.
It can’t hurt me.
Paul can’t hurt me.

“Can I help y’all?” a male voice says with a faint Texas drawl. Whatever my hand is pressed against moves.

My eyelids snap open and I peer into the deep blue eyes of a good-looking blond man. His jeans, light denim-blue shirt, facial growth, and Stetson spell cowboy. His name tag spells store employee.

I pull my hand from his muscled chest.

“No, we’re fine,” I say, willing my face to not heat up, which of course is already too late. I look at the bottle in my hand. “I was wondering what flavor to get.”

An easy smile spreads on his face. “Strawberry’s the most popular choice, though chocolate’s up there too.”

“I’ll take strawberry.” Marcus once told me he loves the smell of my hair, the result of my strawberry-scented shampoo.

Emma grabs a bottle of chocolate-flavored lotion. “This should be good enough,” she says, eyeing the nearby merchandise.

“You sure?” the guy asks. “I’ve got some sex toys that are bound to get your boyfriends hot and bothered.” He doesn’t say it in a sleazy way. His tone is professional with a hint of teasing.

“Maybe next time.” My gaze falls on a display of whips I hadn’t noticed before. My muscles tense at the memory of thin leather slicing across my back more times than I care to remember.

“Many people find whips result in an intense sexual release.” He reaches for one and whacks it lightly against his palm. I flinch at the sound of it slapping against his flesh.

All I want is for my fight-or-flight instinct to kick in so I can run, but my legs refuse to read the memo. My head feels foggy, not part of this world. I’m not having an out-of-body experience, and I’m not having an “in” body one, either. I’m neither here nor there—and I hate this feeling.

Em calls my name. It sounds distant. Foreign. And I’m unable to respond.

Chapter Two

Marcus

I slap my math book shut. The force of it is hard enough I wouldn’t be surprised if my eighty-year-old neighbor heard it through the thin walls, and over the sound of her soap opera. If it weren’t for that fuckhead, Frank, I’d already be finished with my exams and on the way to Crossfields with Amber. No thanks to him, I wasted several days in the hospital, recovering from being shot, and now I have to take four exams in two days. It was that or dwell on them over the Christmas break.

The only thing I want to dwell on is how great I feel when I hold Amber in my arms. I can almost smell the sweet strawberry scent that lingers on her, almost taste her tempting lips against mine. She’s the one person who can make me feel whole. The one person in my fucked up world who understands me.

I shove my chair away from my desk and retrieve my backpack from the floor, barely missing the stack of books next to it. As I stride out of my room, the buzzer for the building’s main entrance screeches.

I push the intercom button. “Yeah?”

“This is Officer Mitchell from the Chicago Police. I need to speak to Marcus Reid.”

My heart bounces a few extra times against my ribs for good measure. He’s probably here about Frank, but no matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t stop the irritating feeling scraping inside my gut. The feeling I always get when dealing with cops. A situation that occurred all the time in my old neighborhood.

“Okay, I’ll buzz you up.” I push the button below the intercom. Even though I’m on my way out, no way am I discussing Frank where other tenants can overhear.

A few minutes later a sharp knock at the door drags me away from my less than pleasant thoughts about my stepfather. I open the door to reveal a uniformed officer with buzzed hair, and a build that can snap a drug user in half without any real exertion.

He flashes his credentials. “Marcus Reid?”

My eighty-year-old neighbor shuffles past, her hair as white as the dingy walls. Her old woman scent of mothballs and lavender claws at my nostrils. I do my best not to scrunch up my nose and give her another reason to make my life miserable—beyond increasing the TV volume while I’m studying.

She eyes the cop as if he were her favorite actor from
Law
&
Order
. Then her gaze lands on me and her expression changes. To her, I’m nothing more than a worthless piece of shit. That much is obvious.

Fighting back the temptation to tell her where to go, I open the door wider and move aside to let the cop in. He steps inside the doorway but doesn’t go much farther.

I close the door, blocking the woman’s pinched expression. It’s nothing I haven’t witnessed before from her.

“I can’t stay long,” I point out. “I have two exams this afternoon.”

“This won’t take long,” the cop says. “It’s about Frank Wilson. He’s been released on bail, and he and your mother denied the allegations that he raped your brother and sexually assaulted you. Is there anyone else who can substantiate your claims?”

His words are like nails hammered into my flesh, the shame of what my stepfather did to me digging deep. I’d rather let the memory die. I’d rather not admit to this man what Frank did to me, just like every fucking time I’ve had to tell the cops the same fucking details.

“You mean other than my dead brother?” I shake my head even though I do know someone. “I seriously doubt Ryan and I were his only victims. We moved away from home over three-and-a-half years ago. Frank didn’t become an outstanding member of society during that time. If he had, he wouldn’t have tried to rape me the night Ryan was shot.”

Giving no indication of what he’s thinking, the officer glances at his notepad. “You’re twenty, right?”

I nod. What the hell does that have to do with anything?

“You were sixteen when you left home?”

I nod again. “Once Ryan turned eighteen, he moved away and took me with him.”

“Even though you were underage?”

“He knew if he left me with Frank, I would be his next victim. I would’ve rather died than have Frank rape me like he did my brother.”

“Why didn’t you and your brother contact the authorities?” His tone lacks any hint of compassion, but it’s not judgmental, either. He’s doing his job and beyond that he doesn’t care. Just like the cops in my old neighborhood.

I push away the anger snaking its way in, and repeat what I’ve already told the cops. “Because what would they have done? Take us away, split us up, and put us in another hellhole? Ryan didn’t want that, so he made me promise not to say anything to anyone. And yes, I might have been underage, but I can guarantee no one filed a police report. It’s not like our mom and stepdad were worried and wanted us back.”

The cop jots a brief note in his book.

“So what now?” I ask.

“Now you keep away from Mr. Wilson and we wait for the courts to decide how to proceed.”

Fuck.
“You’re not looking into the possibility of other victims?”

“We’ve asked around, but until someone steps forward, there’s nothing we can do.”

My fingers curl into a fist, ready to slam into something, most likely the wall. Nothing has changed. No one cares about victims. Not when they come from my old shitty neighborhood. It’s easier to ignore the problem than deal with it.

Before I can say anything, the apartment door opens, almost slamming into the cop’s back. He steps away from the doorway, hand on gun.

Eyebrows drawn together, Chase looks between me and the officer. “Is this a bad time?”

“No,” I say. “We’re talking about Frank, and how everything Ryan and I went through means nothing. Like last time, when he killed Ryan.”

Chase glares at the cop. “You mean that shithead gets to walk again?”

The cop doesn’t so much as flinch at Chase’s thorn-filled tone. “Mr. Wilson wasn’t charged for the murder of Ryan Reid. It was ruled self-defense.” Some self-defense. I had gone home to talk to my mom last summer, and Frank had surprised me by being there. Unfortunately, dear old mom wasn’t there. Frank had pressed himself against my back and held his gun to my head—his way of convincing me to have sex with him. If Ryan hadn’t picked that moment to show up, thanks to Chase telling him where I’d gone, I would have been the one who died. No way would I have let Frank rape me. He would have had to kill me first. But instead of killing me, he killed Ryan when my brother tried to protect me.

“For someone who goes around abusing and shooting his stepsons,” Chase says, “the shithead sure gets a lot of get-out-of-jail passes.”

Wariness creeps into the cop’s eyes but his posture remains rigid, cool. “There are no records that Marcus and Ryan were abused. Now if they had complained to someone, we would have a record of it and things would be different.”

“Marcus and Ryan aren’t the complaining type,” Chase says, tone verging on a new territory for him. Dangerous.

“Other than a couple of hospital reports, none of which raised any alarms at the time, there’s nothing to substantiate Marcus’s claims.” The cop nods at me when he says the last part.

“Broken bones and the need for stitches doesn’t raise any alarms?” Chase steps forward. The cop holds his ground.

Worried Chase will do something we’ll both regret, I place my hand on his shoulder. “Not when Ryan and I told the hospital we got them skateboarding,” I say, mostly for Chase’s benefit. We didn’t have a choice. We knew the consequence if we didn’t lie.

Chase huffs. I can’t tell if it’s because Ryan and I kept silent about what happened or because he had, too. He hadn’t wanted to keep quiet about the beatings, but I hadn’t given him much choice. He was young and we were best friends. He knew once we were removed from our house, he and I would never see each other again. And that was asking a lot for a pair of eight-year-olds.

The cop gives me his card in case there’s anything else I can add; otherwise, the D.A. will contact me when Frank goes to trial. At least, for now, the asswipe isn’t getting away with shooting me. They haven’t patted him on the back and walked away. Yet.

And not for the first, second, or hundredth time, I kick myself for letting Ryan’s and my pride and fear and shame keep me from telling the truth about what Frank did to us for all those years. Our silence came at a cost. A cost that Alejandro—and possibly other boys—has had to pay. The only reason I even know about Alejandro is because the night I was shot, I had gone looking for him, thinking he was getting tight with a gang. It would have explained why he had been acting weird lately. Not once had I realized the truth: my stepfather had slithered his way into my fourteen-year-old friend’s life and was doing to Alejandro what he had done to me—or maybe even worse. The night I was shot, I found them together, and in my attempts to protect Alejandro, I fought Frank. Being the coward that he is, Frank shot at me. But unlike my brother, I was able to duck out of the way. I was only wounded. And unlike my brother, I’m not willing to let Frank get away with what he’s been doing, and I’m not willing to let him get off on self-defense, again.

At the thought of Frank’s trial, my mind shifts to Amber and her upcoming ordeal. The Frank situation pisses me off, but she’s my bigger priority. Although she hasn’t said anything yet, it’s easy to see she’s scared. And even though she’s seeing a therapist to help her deal with everything she’s gone through, I want to be there for her and help her move on.

For us both to move on.

Together.

“What was that all about?” Chase asks once the cop is gone.

“He came to tell me that, big surprise, Frank’s denying he raped Ryan or touched me. And since there’s no proof, he’s going to get away with it.”

Chase frowns. “What kind of proof are they looking for? Videos? Fuck, this is ridiculous.”

“I know, but without witnesses, their hands are tied.”

Chase’s expression turns thoughtful then his frown deepens. “You and Ryan aren’t the shithead’s only victims, are you?”

“No, there’s someone else. But he won’t tell the cops. I think he’s scared.” I don’t blame him. Alejandro’s fourteen, and only a year older than when Frank first sexually assaulted me. He doesn’t want anyone finding out what Frank did. Before Amber, I spent the past six years screwing any hot girl willing to spread her legs for me, to prove to myself I’m not Frank. To prove to myself I wasn’t messed up like Ryan—except, I was equally messed up. It took Amber for me to realize that.

“You need to convince him to talk.” Chase releases a long, deep breath. From his stiff stance, it’s obviously not enough to ease the tension building in him. “Look, I never knew about what Frank was doing to you and your brother, not until you told me. But I knew something was up with you. I’ve known for years. You’ve been set on self-destruct for quite some time. At least you were until Amber came along. But if you don’t convince the other guy to step forward, he could wind up like you and Ryan, except a lot worse.”

“I thought your major was engineering.”

A puzzled expression crosses Chase’s face. “It is.”

“Then why do you sound like a fucking psych major?”

He laughs, erasing the last of the tension. “I guess that’s from hanging out with Jordan.”

A smile quirks on one side of my mouth. “So, what’s going on with you two anyway?”

He backs away. Then turns and walks toward his room. “Nothing,” he calls back. “We’re just friends.” Jordan might have started off as Amber’s closest friend when they began college last semester, but she and Chase have been spending a lot of time together lately, beyond when the four of us hang out as a group. Either those two are in denial about their feelings for each other, or they’re lying to me and Amber.

“Whatever.” I check my watch. “I’ve gotta get outta here unless I want to be late for my exam.” I leave the apartment and head for the stairs. Before I get far, the eighty-year-old from next door emerges from the elevator.

“What did the police officer want?” she asks, eyeing me as though I’m a dangerous criminal, except she’s the one who looks ready to attack me with her overstuffed purse and rolled up newspaper.

I don’t bother with a reply. Why can’t she be one of those sweet grandma types you see on TV?

“We don’t tolerate your kind in the building,” she calls after me, her voice paper thin from years of use yet loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway.

Sighing, I turn. “And what kind is that?”

Her gaze sweeps over my body, taking in my scuffed military boots, jeans torn at the knees, and the ski jacket I bought at a thrift store three years ago. It’s not ratty or anything. When I got it, it looked as though the previous owner had worn it maybe a handful of times.

She slits her eyes. “Trouble. That’s your kind. Trouble and heading nowhere in life.”

I could tell her she’s wrong. She’s describing my parents, not me. I’m going to be an engineer one day, which would have made my brother proud. I plan to make the most of my life, something he never had the chance to do.

I could say all that, but I don’t. Walking backward, I call out, “I guess there’s nothing else to say then.”