Tell Me You Love Me: A Novel

by S. Ann Cole

  On cue, Ester Dean’s Drop It Low explodes through the speakers. A complete one-eighty from the crappy geek rock that’s been playing all night, thanks to a one-hundred-dollar bribe from me to the deejay. This ought to get everyone’s—his—attention.

  I drain all the bubbly from my goblet, then shove it at a wimpy Batman leaning against the island. He looks down at the goblet with confusion, but before he can open his mouth, I let out a whoop and hop up onto the kitchen island.

  Then, I am wild. I swing the bat over my head and transform into an ass-shaking club girl, making sure to appear as outrageous as possible. Before long, people begin gathering around, whooping and hollering. Some yelling, “Drop! Drop! Drop!” with the music.

  Furtively, I search the crowd for the one person I’m embarrassing myself like this for. Where are you?!

  “Oh my God, is that Serena Bentley?” someone yells from the crowd.

  “Holy shit, it is her!” another person confirms.

  “Damn, she’s hot.”

  Soon, a group of guys begin chanting, “Go Serena! Go Serena! Go Serena!”

  At this chant, I’m about to call it quits, but then I spot him shoving his way through the crowd. His two Wonder Women hang behind with their arms crossed, openly displeased.

  As he draws close, I bite my lip with victory and whip out the moves. Spanking my own ass, I plant the bat in front of me for stability and start to “drop it low”.

  When I bend over and peer through my legs, his hood-covered face is right there, eyes squinted, as if to verify it’s really me.

  I shake my ass.

  He pulls his hood back and mouths, “What the fuck?”

  In response, I drop down into a split and the crowd roars.

  Before I know what’s happening, strong arms are around me, hauling me down from the island.

  Mad at this, the crowd boos. “C’mon, Khol!”, “You suck, Kholton!”, “Funsucker!”

  But inwardly, I’m grinning. So far, the plan is rolling smoothly. Kholton shifts me into a fireman’s hold and pushes through the crowd.

  Half-heartedly, I protest, “Put me down!”

  He doesn’t. I don’t expect him to. I don’t want him to.

  He brings me down a hall free of patrons, knocks on a door, then turns the knob and enters. A bathroom.

  Once inside, he sets me on my feet.

  Feigning inebriation, I let my body slump back against the wall. “That,” I slur, lowering my lids, “is not the way to handle a lady, Mr. Sharpe.”

  He snorts, watching me with bewilderment. “Ladies don’t climb on countertops and twerk their asses.” He shakes his head. “How do you—What’re you even doing here?”

  “For youuuuurrr…informaaaaaaation,” I drag out, letting my body weave to the side, “I…got invited.”

  He catches me mid-slump and turns to the vanity, lifts me up and deposits me onto it. “By who?”

  “Levi,” I say, reaching out to touch his eye-mask. He lets me.

  “Who’s Levi?”

  I force a giggle and a hiccup. “Superman. Duhhhhh.”

  He sighs. “Look, you’re obviously shitfaced. I’m gonna find this Levi so he can take you home, all right?”

  “He left,” I slur. “With Catwoman.”

  “You’re kidding me,” he bites out.

  “I guess whip trumps bat.” I make a jerky shrug. “Harley Quinn…no match for Catwoman.”

  “What about your driver?”

  “Beau, Beau, Beau, Beau,” I sing. “He’s off-duty. Levi was…my ride.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively. “Get it? Riidddde.”

  “And he just left you here alone?” he grits out. “Shitfaced?”

  I love how pissed he is on my behalf, especially in this Arrow getup. I want to lick his face. “You’re here.”

  He studies me for a beat. “I’m gonna have to call your dad. Have him send a ride for you.”

  “Nooooooooo. No, no, no,” I object with wide eyes. “Daddy will not be happy.”

  “Babe,” he says quietly, “it’s better to be home safe and sound with an angry father, than to be here shaking your ass for a bunch of hard-up hornbags. I’m not gonna leave you here like this.”

  I melt at his use of the endearment babe. Damn, but it sounds good. I want him to call me that from now on.

  “Then don’t.” I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him close to me. “Take me with you.”

  He stiffens, gripping the edge of the vanity. Sharp eyes roaming my face, he studies me.

  And now I’m on the verge of panicking, wondering if he’ll see right through this farce, my feigned drunkenness, the nonexistent “Levi”.

  At last, he says, “I’ve got plans.”

  “I”—hiccup— “had plans, too. My plans”—hiccup— “included screwing Levi’s brains out.”

  “Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

  “Maybe,” I whisper sultrily, locking my arms around his neck, “you could pretend to be Levi tonight.”

  Gripping my forearms, he tries to pull them from around his neck, but I hang on as if life depends on it. “Not gonna happen, Serena. I’m your teacher. You’re my student.”

  “Nope.” I push my girls up against him. Gosh, he feels good. “You’re Arrow, and I’m Harley Quinn.”

  “Harley Quinn belongs to Joker,” he tells me.

  “Harley Quinn is tired of Joker’s jokes,” I say. “She wants to be pierced by Arrow.”

  There’s a twinkle in his eyes. “You trying to start a war, babe?”

  “Babe,” I echo with a goofy grin. “I like that.”

  He stiffens again as he mutters, “Shit” under his breath. And again, he tries to unlock my arms from around his neck. “Serena…”

  I drop my head to his shoulder and hum, “Hmm?” He smells glorious.

  “You have to—I can’t…” He heaves out a frustrated sigh. “Okay.”

  Lifting me off the counter, he sets me on my feet and opens the door. “C’mon.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He doesn’t respond, just clasps my hand and tugs me along behind him as he strides down the hall and through the crowd.

  Surreptitiously, I seek out Alaric, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Probably getting that hummer. He knows the plan, so once he realizes I’m gone he’ll know it’s a success.

  As we get to the elevator, it slides open and spits out a rowdy lot. We get on and Kholton hits the floor button. Just then, one of the Wonder Women comes running. “Khol!” she whines. “Where are you going?”

  The doors begin to close.

  “Be back in a bit, Tracy,” he tells her. “Hang tight.”

  She crosses her arms and pouts. “Hurry. I’ll be waiting.”

  The doors seal shut.

  He’ll be back? Pfft. Over my drunken body. And since I am not and have never in my life been drunk, that’s a never.

  I don’t care how many women want to tear his clothes off, or how long his Contacts list is. If I have to lie and scheme and fight for him, I will. And he’s going to be mine for as long as it takes to get me knocked up.

  Once outside, it takes no more than a minute for a cab to stop for him. Everything seems to come easy for this dude. Like the world just stops and bows at his feet.

  He ushers me into the back, sliding in beside me and giving the driver his address.

  As the car rolls off, I lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder. “Hmm. Sorry for taking you away from your party.”

  My gaze is trained downward at his splayed thighs, but I can feel him looking at me. “Are you?”

  Hell no. The only party I want him to be at would involve just the two of us, firing off his sperm confetti gun. Still, what kind of question was that? Does he know I’m playing him? I lift my head to look at him. “You want to go back?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “That’s fine.” I lean forward and tap the driver’s shoulder. “The Quin, please.”

  Kholton watc
hes me for a long moment. “Same address as before,” he tells the driver without taking his eyes off me. “She’s…drunk.”

  “No. Idon’tneedyourhelporanythingever,” I jabber. “I…am…fine.”

  He tugs my blue pigtail. “Sure you are.”

  I jab a finger at him. “You don’t know what—”

  He presses one long finger to my lips. “Shh.” Then he cups the side of my face and gently urges my head to his shoulder again.

  I hum and press into him. “Mhmm, you feel so good, Levi.”

  I feel him go wooden, and I smile on the inside.

  Jealousy is savage. A green little virus. It’s a wild card, the best card, the first and the last card.

  Once you’ve shown interest in a man, he marks that interest and holds on to it, whether he likes you or not. Show interest in someone else and unfair jealousy kicks in, even when he doesn’t want you or isn’t even remotely attracted to you. Men are like that—greedy and possessive with an ego like a tower. You give them something, no matter how small or insignificant, and in their heads, you best believe you belong to them.

  I gave Kholton my interest, and now I’m fake giving it to the nonexistent Levi. It only gets better from here.

  Thirteen - Serena

  “Are you drunk?”

  Kholton has one arm slung around my neck.

  Both of mine are wrapped around his middle, feigning unsteadiness.

  His free hand opens the front door to let us in.

  Loud gunfire comes from a TV somewhere, the scent of beer and pizza in the air.

  “Honey, we’re hommeee!” I sing, throwing an arm out.

  Kholton shifts his hand to my waist, guiding me in the right direction. “This way, crazy.”

  We enter the living room and I stop short, wondering if I really am drunk and don’t realize it. There are two Brians sitting on the couch, holding two pizza slices and two beers, wearing two amused smirks.

  “Whoa,” I whisper. “I’m seriously shit-faced.”

  Right Brian laughs, while left Brian arches a brow at Kholton. What the heck?

  “Not a word,” Kholton says through clenched teeth and spins me toward the kitchen.

  This makes Left Brian grin wide.

  “Are my eyes playing tricks on me or—”

  “They’re twins,” he curtails. “Brock dropped in for a weekend visit.”

  Ah. Well, that explains it.

  At the breakfast bar, he lifts me onto a barstool. “Think you can sit here and not fall off?”

  Swinging my nonexistent bat at his head, I say, “Harley Badass Quinn doesn’t fall off barstools. She smashes them.”

  He shrugs and turns to the fridge. From there he gets a bottle of carbonated water and pours some into a glass along with a drop of bitters, then slides the glass across the counter to me. “Here. Drink.”

  I take the glass and drink. Fizzy bubbles pop and burst on my tongue. “Hmm. So bittery bubbly tasty.”

  He fights back his smile.

  I let mine go.

  Finishing the insipid beverage, I slam the glass onto the counter, hop off the barstool, stretch my arms out crucifixion style and shake my chest as I sing, “Yeah! My body is ready!”

  I hear stifled chuckles blended with the sound of the television and Kholton’s gaze shifts to the living room, glaring at the twins. “Not. A. Word.”

  Brian makes the universal gesture of zipping his mouth shut.

  As Kholton tugs me up the stairs, I glance back over my shoulder and find the twins staring after us with identical amusement on their faces. I wink. I’m such a bad girl.

  Kholton’s bedroom is, well, like the rest of the house—basic. It tells me zilch about him. No pictures, personal mementos, nothing. A queen bed with a spindle headboard, a dresser, a chest-of-drawers, two nightstands, bedside lamps, and an en-suite bathroom. That’s it. Basic.

  This has to be on purpose. Maybe he’s hiding? But why—or what—is he hiding?

  “Go on.” He nudges me at the small of my back. “Lie down.”

  I walk over to the bed, work my boots off, then flop back dramatically, arms and legs splayed.

  Kholton stands in the center of the room, arms dangling at his sides like a puppet. He appears conflicted, as if afraid to move farther into his own room. He stares at the bed like it’s foreign to him. “Get some rest.” He turns, primed to go. “Be back later.”

  “You’re leaving me?” I whine.

  “I’ve a party to get back to,” he says. “You’re safe here. Sleep off the alcohol. I’ll be back soon.”

  “What kind of asshole brings home a drunken girl and leaves her in a house with two heterosexual strangers who have been drinking all night?”

  “Are you serious?” He jerks around to face me again. “What kind of friends do you think I keep?”

  I brace up on my elbows. “The good-looking, ovary-exploding kind.”

  This gives him pause. “What the—? You know what, never mind.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you want, Serena?”

  I beckon him with all five fingers like a toddler would, and he laughs. I know I’m being ridiculous. That’s the point.

  “Stay with me,” I request. “At least until I fall asleep.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Good.” I smile and bite my lip. “Because I’m all for bad ideas.”

  He gazes long and hard at me. “Serena?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you really toast, or are you just trying to get me to fuck you?”

  That accurately guessed truth momentarily slices off my tongue as I grapple for a response.

  “Because if you are,” he continues, “you should know it’s never gonna happen.”

  Ugh. What the heck is this guy’s problem? Isn’t he supposed to be the ultimate playboy or something? Or is it all just an act and he’s really gay? What kind of known playboy turns down free, willing, and eager sex?

  I feel genuinely sad for all the not-so-good-looking men out there who don’t possess that special ‘something’ about them to land a girl with a mere wink and a smile, because, damn, it’s hard work trying to get laid. I realize that now.

  “Pfft,” I scoff. “Are you really that full of yourself? No, Khol. I’m not trying to have sex with you. That ship has sailed. I went out on a date with a douchebag and he ditched me. I’m just…a little vulnerable right now, all right?” I make a disgusted noise in my throat and shoo him. “Just go to your stupid party.”

  I curl in a C and stuff a pillow under my head. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

  From my peripheral vision, I watch as he turns and walks to the door. Dammit, he’s leaving! What an—Oh. Ohhh, he’s closing the door.

  At the click of the lock, I bite my tongue to fight back a winning smile. Back on track.

  He crosses the room to the side of the bed that my back is turned to. There’s a rustle. Something thuds on the nightstand, then the bed dips with his weight.

  I wait a few minutes before I flip over. He’s on his back, hands behind his head, gaze trained on the ceiling.

  “You’re staying?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  That’s part of what I want.

  “Do you mind if I…” I trail off as I shift closer to him and lay my head on his chest, one leg tossed across both of his.

  His chest rises high with resignation and falls with defeat. Inside, I’m jumping up and down and shaking red pom-poms. I will own you, Kholton Sharpe.

  He feels good. Smells good, too. An alluring scent of endless possibilities. I snuggle closer.

  We’re like this for a long time. Comfortable silence. Relaxed. Settled. I’m not even thinking about sex anymore. Only this. How right it feels.

  “Serena?”

  “Hmm?” I hum contentedly.

  “Are you drunk?”

  In this moment, I know he knows. He knows
it’s all a lie. But I can’t admit the truth. I won’t. So I reply, “Yes.”

  “Huh.” He removes his hands from behind his head and wrap them around me in a loose hug. “That’s too bad.”

  “Too bad?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Because I only sleep with women when they’re sober.”

  Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  Fourteen - Serena

  “Jerky?”

  You know that feeling when you wake up in a new environment for the first time? Those first few seconds of confusion, panic even, right before your last conscious memory kicks in?

  Yeah…I don’t feel that when I wake up in Kholton’s bed. I wake up and know exactly where I am, how I got here, and why I’m here.

  Kholton is absent, but I’m in no rush to leave his bed. Arms over my head, back arched up off the bed, I stretch the drowsiness from my body, smiling up at the ceiling.

  I don’t even know why I’m smiling. It’s not as if anything happened. Plus, I’m certain he figured out my drunkenness was a farce. He won and I lost. What’s there to be giddy about?

  Maybe because falling asleep on his chest and waking up in his bed feels right? Why do I even like it so much? This should be about procreation, nothing else. Yet here I am, imagining falling asleep with him every night.

  Eyes closed, I flip onto my stomach and soak it all up for another fifteen minutes before I reluctantly roll out of bed. It’s Sunday, so I have time to waste.

  As I stand and stretch some more, my wig tumbles off my head. I can’t help laughing as I catch it before it hits the ground and amble to the bathroom.

  My reflection in the vanity mirror catches me off guard. Yikes. I’m a hot, hot mess. Harley Quinn’s face has transformed into Joker’s. I now have messy mascara and eyeliner circles around my eyes, and smudged red lipstick all around my mouth. I don’t feel so confident now, knowing Kholton has seen me like this. No wonder he’s missing. I probably scared the poor guy off.

  Horrified, I rip off the vestiges of Harley and dive into the shower without waiting for the water to heat.

  When I emerge and wipe the condensation from the vanity mirror to see myself, I relax. I’m back. Pretty as hibiscus.