by E. R. Whyte
I heard the rumors before I got anywhere close to Shiloh’s classroom this morning. I had another post-it note poem for her, written at Sammy’s suggestion, and I tucked it in my back pocket as I headed down the hall. Miles lurched up to me and slung an arm around my shoulders.
“Hey, man. You hear about Miss Brookings?” Devoid of its usual playful quality, his tone is serious.
I cut a sharp look his way, but he either missed the implicit warning or chose to ignore it. “No.”
“Everyone’s saying she’s fucking a student, man. What’s going on—”
My arm across his throat cut the next word off when I pushed him into a row of lockers, scattering a group of students. “Shut the fuck up, Miles.”
Sherry grabbed at my arm, trying to pull me away from her boy, but my eyes were locked onto his and I wasn’t moving.
“Dude, what the hell?” He shakes me loose and straightens his shirt. “That’s fucked up, man.”
I lowered my voice and leaned in. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but you know better than anyone that she’s cool. She’s Sammy’s sister. That kind of shit can get people in trouble.” I poked my finger in his chest for emphasis. “You hear me?”
Glaring, Miles rubbed at his neck. “I haven’t said anything. I wouldn’t; you know that. But it’s too late, man. I don’t know how the rumors started, but they called her in to speak with Mr. Kline as soon as she got in this morning.”
“Shit.” Shoving my hand through my hair, I paced a few steps and stopped, unsure what to do.
“Gunner.” All the near-manic excitement that is classic Miles was gone from his voice, his attention square on me, instead. He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me into a nearby stairwell and I allowed it, too many things whirling around my head to worry about what Miles might suspect.
The stairwell was dim, light filtering in from dusty-paned windows set high in the brick wall above us. It was quiet in here, the tones of the final bell sounding outside the heavy door to the corridor and footsteps beating a rapid tattoo on their way to class. I slumped down on the steps, dropping my bag off my shoulder to the floor beside me. Miles leaned against the wall in front of me.
“Talk to me, Gunner.”
Miles and I have been friends since our crawling days. We’ve gotten drunk together, partied together, discovered girls, and have had a few times that I knew would always make me smile with fond recollection. I knew I could trust him. I also knew that he was too smart and knew me too well not to have suspected long before now that I was working on something with Shy.
And yet I still hesitated to share my feelings for her. It’s like I’d be jinxing it, somehow. I hadn’t even told her yet, but I was pretty sure I was in love with her. I crushed hard on her in high school, but these feelings now… now that I’d gotten to know her as an adult, now that I’d seen both her perfection and her flaws… it was unlike anything I’d ever felt.
I sighed, lowering my forehead into my hands. “We’re not sleeping together.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Shut up.” I held up my hand for silence and thankfully for our friendship Miles crossed his arms over his chest and shut his mouth. “Because she’s not like that, that’s why. And I’ve caught feelings for her. It’s not all about sex.”
“So, what is going on with you two? And who would’ve said something?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot, honestly. She’s been resisting me. She’s in a tight spot financially with all those bills to pay, though, so I’ve been trying to help without offending her pride. Got my dad to hire her to tutor my dumb ass. But that’s it.” I flopped back against the steps, uncaring of the hard ridges that cut into my spine. “I don’t have a clue who would say something like that when it’s not… I mean, damn, I’m working on it, but we are not there yet. She’s going to hate me.”
Miles kicked my thigh. “Get up, man. Let’s go to her room, wait for her. We’ll go together so no one can say anything.” I nodded, and he pulled out his phone to send a text as we started moving toward Shiloh’s classroom. As we neared, I remember her first period and try to come up with an excuse for being there. When we entered, though, I found that it was unnecessary.
The classroom was empty of students, the reason obvious. Painted in broad scarlet strokes on the walls and windows were words that could not be ignored. Slut. Student fucker. Whore. There were a few other variations on the same theme, but it was clear how someone informed the school’s administration of an inappropriate relationship.
“Holy shit.” Miles let out a low whistle and circled the room, studying the mess.
Fisting my hands at my hips, I imagined Shiloh’s devastation this morning, especially coming on the heels of yesterday’s high note with Sammy, and I wanted to put them through something. Or someone.
“Gunner.” The changed tone in Miles’s voice alerted me and I walked over to where he was inspecting a section of wall. “See that?”
“Aw, you nasty fucker.” The jizz on the wall, dried and crusty, spoke even more loudly than the big red letters. I could only hope that Shiloh had not noticed it.
That was when it hit me: this fucker was still watching her, and closely. This was a direct response to our interactions yesterday, and possibly her new job as my tutor. She just stopped working at the club, after having two evenings off the books doing lap dances for me. Maybe the stalker was a client who was not happy that she was no longer there, seeing to his needs and paying attention to him. Maybe he thought that without her teaching job, she’d have no choice but to return.
My lip curled at the thought and I grabbed Shiloh’s swivel chair, settling into it with legs sprawled to await her return. The bastard didn’t know it yet, but he just made a big fucking mistake.
“What the fuck?” My thoughts die away as I reach my truck in the student lot and I take in the damage that’s been exacted. Rain sluices down my back as I stare in disbelief, rage a physical presence in the clenching and unclenching of my fists. Cracks spiderweb out from a single round compression in the windshield, the perfect size for a baseball bat, if I had to guess. The hood is dented, as well as the driver’s side door. Each of the headlights is busted, glass shattered all over the parking lot.
Already pissed, anger bubbles up thick and viscous in my throat and I growl, scanning the lot. Fucker must not have left but hung around to hit both of us. Hands curled into fists, I contemplate my options. I could call the police, await their arrival, and then sit through endless questioning that will get us nowhere. Or I can go after Shiloh.
Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I climb in and start the truck, relieved that the engine turns over with no trouble. At least the psycho didn’t damage anything under the hood. Pulling out, I head down the road in the direction of Shiloh’s home. I don’t care if we sit and stare at each other; she’s going to deal with my presence today.
The shattered windshield combined with the pouring rain makes visibility plain shitty. I lean to the side, trying to see around the cracks, but it doesn’t help. “You’re a fucking dumbass,” I whisper to myself, the thought occurring that this was an intentional ploy to leave me stranded. Get Shiloh fired and isolate her. My mind flashes to Shane Reasor, always there. Always looking for an in with Shiloh. “Call Shiloh,” I command Siri, not daring to take my eyes off the road.
It rings once, twice, three times, with no response. Her voicemail picks up, but I don’t want her voicemail. I need her. I need to hear Shiloh. “Call Shiloh.”
Don’t ignore me, Shy, I beg silently, my foot pressing a little harder on the gas. Please pick up.
This time when voicemail picks up, I flip over to my talk-to-text mode, impatient. “Shiloh. Pick up the phone, baby. Your stalker fucked with my truck. I think he’s trying to separate us —” I press send, start another. I will blow her phone up with notifications if I have to. “I need to know you’re okay.” Send.
I wait as long as I c
an, approximately sixty seconds, before I call again. This time she answers on the first ring.
“Gunner? Gunner, are you okay? What happened? What’s going on?”
A spot of warmth opens up in my chest at the panic in her voice, which is maybe a little twisted of me, but hell. How else do I know she cares?
“It’s just the truck. I’m fine. I’m headed your way, though, and I don’t need any arguments. I don’t trust this guy.”
I expect protest, but instead there’s a choked, “Okay.”
“Are you crying?”
“No!” The thickness in her voice calls her a liar. “I thought you were hurt. I didn’t want to talk to you, and then you said he had messed with your truck, and I’m so sorry.” Her breath hitches.
“Shy, it’s all right. You needed space. I get it.”
There’s a muted sniffle.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk to me when I get there. Just… stop crying.” Shy’s tears are salt in every wound I’ve ever had, and I’m not there to put my arms around her. I have never felt like this about anyone. Up to now a girl’s tears have done nothing more than aggravate me. They’ve been easy to see through, simple manipulations and maneuverings to obtain something. Shy’s, though… I’m helpless against them. Each one is a raindrop beating against the windshield and slipping through the cracks, fluid lashings that bind my heart more surely than any words spoken have to date.
“I’m getting off the phone now, Shy. It’s hard to see anything. I’ll be there in a little while, though, okay? I need to tell you—” I break off as my voice roughens. I need to tell her how I feel about her. Not over the phone, though. “Lock your doors for me?”
She says nothing, just murmurs an agreement. I can hear the unsteadiness in her breathing and know she’s still crying.
“Good girl.”
I hang up and try to focus on the road. Jesus, it’s a mess out here, and the freaking windshield is just icing on the damn shit cake. Up ahead, I see the yellow glare of the sign for a series of hairpin curves that marks this section of road. Slowing to accommodate them, I’m glad I’m so familiar with the road, because there’s no way I’d be able to navigate them otherwise.
It’s then I catch a glimpse, just in time, of the doe bounding out of the woods on the side of the road. They are foolish this time of year, driven to run blindly away from hunters or coyote.
I barely miss her, swerving just enough to keep my tires engaged and on the road, and still avoid her. Huffing a relieved exhale, I look away from the vanishing white tail and back to the road. I’m just in time to see the second deer following.
Shit! There are always two. I remember Dad’s wisdom a second too late, standing on the brake and jerking the wheel to the right to avoid her. She’s a baby. The brakes lock and I skid, tires leaving the asphalt and seeking purchase on the gritty surface alongside it. Finding none, they keep going, dipping down the embankment in seeming slow motion while baby Bambi stands and stares in limpid-eyed horror.
At first, it’s as if it happens in slow motion. First the front right tire. Then the front left. Then the rear of the truck follows, the slow-mo flickers off, and I’m crashing, sliding, skidding full on down the ridge, jostled and banged around like a shoe in a dryer as I go. The seatbelt snaps tight against my chest and I feel it, a steel band every time the descent flings me forward. It’s oddly quiet as I go, with only the crack and whip of branches and foliage scraping along the metal and the whoosh of air against the shattered windshield. I hold my breath and clench my hands on the steering wheel as if I have some power over the relentless forward motion.
And then there’s a tree, rising tall and big… too big… directly in the truck’s path. I jerk the wheel but the effort is futile, the tires failing to find grip on the sliding muck of the hillside.
The truck smacks with a whump and an ominous pouf of smoke into the tree at the base of the hillside. Awareness is immediate, if fleeting. Pain, in my side and chest and my arm. The warm trickle and drip of viscous fluid down my face. The effort to draw breath as the airbag explodes into my face with a pop and cloud of white powder.
And then everything goes black.
To be continued…
Afterword
To my readers,
I am so, so sorry.
I always said I wouldn’t do cliffhangers, and here we are.
WTF, Elle?
Here are the facts: this story took on a life all its own. When I hit seventy thousand words, Shiloh and Gunner said, nope. We’re not done yet. Same with eighty thousand. And ninety thousand. (Anyone else hearing the theme song to The Neverending Story? No? Just me, then.)
I fell in love with Shiloh and Gunner along the way, and I had to give them their space to grow and develop as characters. That means another book.
Say You Love Me officially became the first book in the Reclaiming Heaven duet in late spring of 2020. Say You’ll Be Mine, the second and final book of the duet, will follow in September—just a few weeks after Say You Love Me.
Thank you, my lovely readers, for reading these words and (fingers crossed) coming back for more.
Elle, aka E.R. Whyte
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