Tell Me When (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Marcus

One minute I’m talking to Amber. The next she’s curled up on the ground, arms around her knees, muttering to herself and crying. It’s like she’s not even here. Her mind is somewhere else.

I crouch next to her. “Amber?”

“What’s wrong with her?” Juan asks.

I touch her arm. She flinches but other than that, it’s like she doesn’t even know I’m here. Shit. “Kitten, tell me what’s wrong.” I don’t know how to help her or what to do. She’s seems so lost and helpless.

“Go get Dave,” I tell the guys.

They don’t hesitate. They both run inside, leaving me alone with Amber.

Another flash of lightning lights up the sky and thunder rumbles, loud and deep, not long after. Amber screams and buries her head in her arms.

I reach out to touch her, but then snatch my hand back. I rub the back of my neck instead. What the hell is wrong with her? I want to hold her, comfort her, but after how she reacted last time, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

The youth center door opens. Dave spots us and rushes over, blanket in hand. He drops next to us and examines Amber without touching her. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. She was talking to me, then she collapsed to the ground and started doing this. I don’t even know what she’s talking about.”

Dave is silent at first, then nods as if answering his own question. The one he never voiced out loud. “Was there anythin’ else that happened before she collapsed? A loud noise perhaps?”

“There was thunder and lightning.”

Dave scoots closer. “Amber, I want to help you. Is that okay?”

She doesn’t respond.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he explains in a slow, calming voice.

Without warning, the sky opens up and pea-sized ice pellets pound us with their stinging touch. I can’t tell if Amber even notices. She doesn’t flinch when the hail hammers her skin.

“We have to get her inside,” Dave yells over the noise. Her T-shirt, shorts, hair are plastered to her skin and she shivers uncontrollably. Dave wraps the blanket around her shoulders, shielding her, then scoops her in his arms and carries her to the building, her head on his shoulders. The entire time, he tells her that she’s safe, no one is going to hurt her, and that I’m here. I’m not sure if the last one matters to her, but I have a feeling the first two are important. Between what happened with the guy at the party and her wanting me to fake being her boyfriend at Nightshade, I sense it’s been a while since she’s felt safe.

And that makes me more than anything want to be the one to help her feel safe again.

A pinched feeling in my gut reminds me that I don’t have a strong track record when it comes to keeping the people I love safe. So far, I’ve failed every time. Me trying to keep Kitten safe is nothing but a joke. The kind with a disastrous outcome.

Once inside, Dave carries her to the common area and settles her on a tired-looking couch. He indicates for me to sit next to her, and an overwhelming desire awakens inside me to cradle her against my body and make her feel safe, or at least attempt to shelter her from her demons.

Even with the blanket, she’s shivering. I sit next to her, and praying I won’t upset her again with my touch, pull her against me. She stiffens at first, but just when I think she’s going to pull away, she relaxes and cuddles closer. I kiss her on the head and hold her tighter.

I’ve never held a girl like this before. Never wanted to. I’ve only wanted one thing from them, and that’s all I’ve ever given of myself, until now.

Dave crouches in front of her. “Amber, do you remember what happened?”

She shakes her head and glances around the room, like she doesn’t remember how she got here. I almost expect her to pull away from me now she’s aware I’m holding her, but she doesn’t. More than anything she seems too exhausted to move more.

“Have you ever been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“No,” she says, voice weak.

“How do you get it?” I ask. I’ve heard of it before but that’s about it.

“What?” Dave asks. “The diagnosis or the disorder?” He pulls a plastic chair closer and sits. His folded arms rest on his knees.

“The disorder.”

“It’s the result of being traumatized. So a car accident, combat, being attacked. Any of those can cause it.”

Being in a burning building.
Amber’s scarred leg peers from the opening in the blanket. A scar that could have been a lot worse.

Her boyfriend’s dead. Was he in that building, too? That would be enough to traumatize anyone.

“Not everyone who is in a traumatic situation experiences PTSD,” Dave explains, “and it’s hard to predict who will suffer from it. Some people can experience a horrendous situation and be fine, and someone might witness something on a smaller scale and end up with it.”

“Why did you ask if she’s been diagnosed with it?”

Amber remains silent. I check to see if she’s awake. Her eyelids are drooping. We should leave so I can drive her back to her dorm, but I’m not ready yet. I want to learn more about what she might have.

Dave studies Amber for a long moment and lets out a slow breath. “A few of my friends have been struggling with it since the Gulf War. The way Amber was acting outside reminds me of a few of them.” He looks at her again, taking in the dark circles under her closed eyes. Or maybe that’s just me who notices them.

“How well does she sleep?” he asks.

“I don’t know, but I know she gets nightmares.” I just don’t know how frequently.

“She’s in college, right?”

I nod.

“How’s she doing in her classes?” Obviously Dave thinks Kitten and I are closer than is the case. I don’t know any of these answers, and that leaves me feeling strangely empty.

“She was failing her math class. That’s how I know her. I’m tutoring her.”

“What about her other classes?”

I shrug. Kitten and I have never talked about how she’s doing in her other classes. We haven’t talked about a lot of things. Until now, what a girl did or didn’t do outside the bedroom hasn’t been of interest to me. Amber is the first girl I’ve talked to in which the conversation goes beyond trying to seduce her into my bed. But even so, we’ve kept away from more personal topics.

“I don’t know about her other classes. She’s smart. I do know that.” But now that Dave has brought it up, I plan to ask her, once she’s awake.

“I’m no expert on PTSD, but I do believe she needs to talk to someone about it. If she does have it, it’ll continue eating her up inside until it destroys her.” The way he says it makes me wonder if the condition has destroyed someone he cares about.

An unexpected boom of thunder shakes the building. Kitten snuggles closer and mumbles, “Bad things happen in storms.”

I gently nudge her shoulder. I feel bad about waking her so we can go, but I don’t have a choice. “Kitten, it’s time I get you back to the dorm.” She doesn’t stir, and I’m not sure how I’ll get her into her dorm if she’s half—passed out when we get there.

I thank Dave for his help, and after promising to keep him updated on her condition, I carry her back to my car, then get her settled on the passenger seat. Dave hands me her clothes and I drive to my apartment.

Kitten wakes up on the way, but when I ask if she wants me to drive her back to her dorm or if she wants to come to my place, she mutters “my place.” Her head lolls to the side on the headrest. I’m beginning to think she hasn’t slept for at least a week, given how exhausted she seems.

At my apartment building, I carry her into the elevator and make it to my apartment without bumping into anyone. I’d hate to have to explain the sleeping girl in my arms. The girl who looks like she could be drugged.

Chase’s sneakers aren’t in their usual spot when I enter the apartment. I head for my bedroom and lay Kitten on my bed. She stirs then falls back to sleep.

I study her for a moment, and the tattoo on her arm. It’s not the kind of thing I’d expect to see on her body. She doesn’t seem the type to get inked. Especially not with the names of her past boyfriends. But there they are—Trent’s name, along with the name of another guy.

I trace my finger over the tattoo, as if the simple act will bring me answers. All I come up with is a blank. And a girl in my bed who remains a mystery to me. A girl I want to learn more about. A girl I don’t want to run from.

A definite first.

Chapter Nineteen

Amber

“Am-ber,” a singsong voice calls out, echoing around the concrete room. I hold Smoky closer; his warm body against my chilled one is the only thing keeping me alive. The moment I give up, he dies. I love him too much to let that happen, though I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. My body hurts. My mind hurts. My spirit hurts. I want to let numbness consume me, but the last time I tried that, Paul tortured me a hundred times worse than before.

I barely survived.

“Am-ber.” The voice is much louder than before. I want to block it out but I can only do that if I put Smoky down, and I don’t dare. “Am-ber, I want to make love to you again.”

My body starts shaking and it has nothing to with the cold room. I glance at the bruises from the last time he “made love” and the shaking becomes a violent tremor. Smoky lets out a soft meow and tears cloud my vision, turning him into a blurry gray furball.

“Am-ber.” I blink, clearing my vision. I’m back in the room with a thousand mirrors, except this time the mirrors aren’t the only things here. In the center of the room is a table covered in various torture devices—straight from the Spanish Inquisition. Just one glance at them and the memories of the last time he “made love” claw their way in.

I scream.

* * *

Someone shakes me and the nightmare fades. “Amber.” Unlike the voice in my dreams, this one’s filled with concern, not cruelty. “It’s okay, Kitten,” Marcus whispers. “You’re safe.”

I open my eyes. Marcus is leaning over me fully clothed on the queen-sized bed. The only light comes from the streetlight leaking through the blinds. Like in my dream, I begin shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Kitten.” His words are soft but not soothing enough to erase the nightmare and the memories of the torture now flooding in. “Are you cold?”

I nod, barely holding in a sob as some of the more vivid memories haunt me.

Marcus brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, then his thumb skims from my temple down along the side of my face. His eyes never leave mine. “Do you trust me?”

I nod again, even though I’m not sure if I do. But it doesn’t matter. He can’t do any worse to me than what has already been done.

Marcus lifts the covers and slides under them to join me. Until then, I hadn’t realized he had been lying on top of them. He scoots over to me.

His heat wraps around my body and his arm shifts to rest across my stomach. I roll onto my side, so my back is against his hard chest and stomach, and sink into his warmth.

Outside his window, the storm is blowing full force, but for once I feel safe.

I vaguely remember Marcus bringing me here, and helping me into a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants, because the clothes I was wearing had been cold and wet. I also vaguely remember him looking unsure where to put his hands when he helped me change, a concept I’m positive isn’t normally so foreign to him. At that point, though, I was too tired to care if he saw me in my bra and underwear. I just wanted to sleep. Still do. I close my eyes and fall asleep with Marcus protecting me.

* * *

Trent nuzzles against my neck, his lips soft against my skin. His familiar spicy scent wraps around me and I let out a satisfied sigh.

With my eyes still shut, I turn my head and find his lips. It doesn’t take much convincing for him to open up to me, to let me taste him, to want him. He welcomes me in and my tongue explores his. Dancing. Touching. Stroking.

Feeling.

Trent’s calloused fingers slide under my T-shirt and trace their way up, up, up to my breasts. His thumb brushes against a nipple and I whimper in his mouth. Desire builds between my legs, begging for the release I know Trent can give me. I shift and press against the thickening length in his jeans. We haven’t gone all the way yet, but we’ve played this game many times before.

The hand on my breast moves and drifts to the waistband of my pants. Moisture pools between my legs and dampens my underwear.

Still kissing me, Trent slides his fingers under the waistband of my underwear, and continues until he finds the throbbing ache between my legs. As his finger swirls over it, I arch my back, turning my head slightly and breaking our kiss.

“Oh, God. Trent!” I moan.

The finger stills for a fraction of a second before pulling away. Then the light flicks on and I realize I’m dreaming.

Except, I’m not.

Marcus is staring at me, like he can’t believe I’m lying next to him. That makes two of us.

“Fuck!” He scrambles off the bed and shoves his fingers through his hair. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He looks at me one more time, then storms out of the room, flinging the door shut behind him. A few seconds later, the shower turns on and water hammers the bathtub.

I pull my knees to my chest and drop my head forward, resting my forehead against my folded arms. The realization of what just happened hits hard, and a sob bubbles up in my chest. I wanted that dream, the one with Trent, to be real. I can’t believe I let myself think he was alive.

Tears escape. I do nothing to hold them back.

The bathroom door eventually clicks open, and the soft tread of feet against the carpet approaches, then stops. I wait for Marcus to return to the room and explain what happened. Comfort me like he did after the flashback. But he doesn’t. Instead, I’m met with silence for a minute, then the apartment door opens and slams shut.

And I’m left here alone, abandoned.

Too exhausted and shocked and broken to do anything, I crumple on the bed and cry.

* * *

Sunlight streams through the blinds when I finally open my eyes. Last night’s storm is a distant memory, but what happened between Marcus and me isn’t.

Without turning to look, I can tell that Marcus never returned to bed. It feels like an invisible hand reaches in and squeezes my heart tight in its grip, even though I don’t have the right to feel that way. It’s not like we’re dating. At least not for real.

And I shouldn’t be surprised that he left last night and didn’t come back. He’s a guy. A guy with a reputation of sleeping around. A lot. He didn’t get what he wanted from me, so he went somewhere else to get it.

The hand reaches in my chest again and fists once more around my heart. Anger knocks it away. Anger at Marcus for pulling that stunt last night. Anger at myself for not realizing what was going on. Anger at my body for responding that way, for betraying Trent.

Though I can’t be too pissed off at my body. Until last night, I never thought it would react that way again after what I went through last spring.

Sighing heavily, I peer at the alarm clock on a pile of books next to the bed. My eyes widen. Crap. It’s already 8:10 a.m. I still have to get back to my dorm without anyone noticing—especially Jordan—and shower and change before chemistry. In less than an hour. And I have no idea where I am. All I remember is Marcus drove us to an apartment off campus.

Embarrassment flares through me at the memory of him witnessing my flashback. Now he thinks I’m some crazy girl who can’t keep herself together. And maybe he’s right.

I spot my jeans, T-shirt and hoodie draped over the back of Marcus’s desk chair and put them on. The bed, desk and chair are the only furniture in the room. He doesn’t even have a bookshelf, other than a single shelf attached to the wall above his bed, with a dozen or so Matchbox cars lined up on it. His textbooks are on his desk and piled in small groupings on the floor. His white walls are empty of photos, posters or any other artwork. The only picture in his room is the small framed photo on his desk with him and a man who must be his older brother or another relative.

I open the door and slip out of the room. I find the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. My eyes are red from crying. Nothing I can do about that.

I leave the bathroom, grab my sneakers, and escape out the front door.

I’m tying my shoelaces when a surprised male voice says, “Hi?”

I look up to find Chase gaping at me. My face heats a hundred degrees. Geez, how could I have forgotten Chase and Marcus are roommates? And now Chase thinks I’m just another girl Marcus had sex with. The thought angers me, but it’s too late to worry about that now.

“Where’s Marcus?” Chase cocks his head to the side, like I’m an alien life-form he can’t wait to dismantle to see how I’m assembled.

I make a move for the elevator. “I don’t know. He left last night and didn’t come back.” I try to keep the hurt out of my voice. Hurt for what he did, just when I was starting to trust him. Hurt for the way he reacted.

Get a grip, Amber. Marcus owes you nothing. It’s a business relationship.
Nothing more.

“If you give me a sec,” Chase says, “I’ll give you a ride.”

I’m about to say no, since being in his car after he thinks I had sex with Marcus doesn’t exactly appeal to me, but unless I call a cab, I really don’t have another way to get back to campus. Not if I want to do so in time for my first class. “Okay.”

He disappears into his apartment and returns a moment later with his backpack. “All right, let’s go.”

“I didn’t have sex with him,” I blurt, once we’re in the car, driving.

Chase smiles at me, but I can’t tell if he believes me.

He drops me off at my dorm and I hurry upstairs. I’m approaching my room when Jordan steps out of hers.

“Hey, where were you yesterday? I came by your room several times but you weren’t there.”

I don’t want to tell her about Marcus, and I definitely don’t want to tell her about what happened at the youth center, so I do what I’m getting good at. I lie. “I was in the library studying for our chem exam.” My stomach hurts that I can’t even be completely honest with my friend, and at the kind of person Paul has turned me into. Trent used to joke he could always tell when I lied, because I was so bad at it. Good thing he can’t see me now.

Jordan frowns. “I thought that wasn’t till next week.”

“It isn’t. I wanted to get a jump on it.” And it was the first class that popped in my head, mostly because we’ll be late for it if I don’t hurry.

She releases a heavy puff of air. “Thank God. You ready? You look like you need to hit The Coffee Shack before class. Just how late were you studying last night?”

“I need a quick shower first,” I say, not bothering to come up with another lie. “I won’t be long.” I don’t wait for a response. I unlock my room and grab my shower supplies and clean clothes.

Fifteen minutes later my damp hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, and Jordan and I speed walk to The Student Center to get caffeine.

We’re standing in The Coffee Shack line when music starts playing from my phone. Dreading it’s my mom, and I’ll have to talk to her with everyone listening—something I’d rather not do—I pull my phone from my backpack and brace myself for her voice. Why does she always have to phone me in the morning, like I’m part of her to-do list? Interview murdering clients. Check. Cross-examine innocent victim and make it look like the crime was her fault. Check. Phone daughter.

Only it’s not Mom who called. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I ignore it.