Tell Me You Love Me: A Novel

by S. Ann Cole

  Brian is on his way in as we’re descending the steps of the brownstone. “Where’s Brock?” Kholton asks him.

  “Getting laid,” Brian answers. To me, “Still here, Julie?”

  “Still a dick, Brian?” I snap back.

  He winks. “Always.”

  “So, church doesn’t help, huh?”

  He brushes past me. “I only go for the virgins, not the blessings.”

  “You two need to get a room,” Kholton mutters, holding the gate open for me.

  Brian throws that annoying ass grin over his shoulder as he ascends the steps. “Trust me, it’s not me who Julie wants to be in a room with.”

  “Ass,” I grumble under my breath as Kholton closes the gate. “How far is this soup kitchen?”

  “About a twelve-minute walk,” he replies. “But we’re going five minutes in the opposite direction first.”

  “Why?”

  “To grab some stuff. I never show up at the soup kitchen empty-handed.”

  Kholton is a fast walker, as most New Yorkers are. I guess that’s how he calculated what’s really an eleven-minute walk as a five-minute walk. Unless I’m exercising, I don’t do much walking. I have a chauffeur to take me wherever I want to go.

  He’ll no doubt see me as a spoiled, whiny princess if I ask him to slow down, so I make darn sure to keep up. It’s a good thing I practically live in heels.

  Without warning, he makes an abrupt turn into a corner store called “Oz’s Corner.” It’s jam-packed with all kinds of stuff, including a deli station. Kholton grabs a shopping basket from the front and begins picking up random items.

  “Anything specific?” I ask him.

  “Nope.” He picks up two packs of cross buns and tosses them into the basket. “Just grab anything edible. It doesn’t matter.”

  Following his lead, I just toss things in. Fruits, chips, Ramen, granola bars, canned foods, drinks… It’s all pretty fast.

  As the cashier rings up the items, Kholton rips open a bag of beef jerky and waves the packet under my nostrils. “Jerky?”

  I’ve haven’t eaten jerky in years, but I finger one out and nibble on it. Can’t say I missed the taste.

  He pays the bill with wrinkled cash and hands me the lightest bag.

  As I follow him out the door, I ask, “We’re not walking twenty minutes with these, are we?”

  He smirks down at me. “Feet starting to hurt already?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. But we have, like, three full bags of food.”

  He moves to the curb, and two minutes later a cab stops at his feet. Opening the door for me, he says, “Get in, princess.”

  See? I knew it. Make one logical suggestion and I’m “princess”. I sigh and climb in. He eases in and gives the driver the destination.

  “I like ‘babe’,” I tell him as the cab moves off. “I hate ‘princess’.”

  He chews on a beef jerky. “Well, aren’t you a princess?”

  “I’m more than my money.”

  “You are,” he agrees, looking straight at me.

  “Then why call me that?”

  “Because a princess is a princess. Regardless of whether you’re more or less, you’re still a princess.” He regards me with a slight frown. “You think I mean it derisively?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Serena…”

  I wait for him to continue but he doesn’t. “What?”

  His mouth opens, but then he shakes his head and waves the beef jerky packet at me. “Jerky?”

  Fifteen - Serena

  “I think I like you.”

  Green Pea Soup Kitchen is an ugly, hunter-green corner lot with an endless queue of people waiting for a free meal.

  The African man monitoring the line at the door bump fists with Kholton. “Ma brotha.”

  Small talk is exchanged for a few minutes before we continue inside. The limited floor space explains the line outside. Three short rows of plastic tables and chairs is the maximum patron capacity.

  I tail Kholton into the much larger kitchen, abuzz with chatter and the clang of pots and pans. It smells like food heaven.

  “Khol!” A short, plump woman of Indian-ish descent with long, pretty hair and deep set eyes, throws her stumpy arms around Kholton when we enter the kitchen. “How your Sunday going, boy?”

  “It’s…interesting.” His gaze slides to me as he says this. “I brought an extra set of hands. This is Serena. Serena, this is Aunty Reba, the head cook. She’s from Trinidad.”

  Reba enthusiastically shakes one of my hands with both of hers. “Nice to meet you, Serena. You’re his woman?”

  I raise a brow. “Don’t you mean one of his women?”

  Reba wags her head disappointingly at Kholton. “When you gon’ settle down, boy?”

  Kholton holds up the bags of groceries. “You wanna take these off my hands?”

  “Ichabod!” Reba bellows over her shoulder. “Come get these.”

  A skinny, Middle Eastern guy jogs over to us. “Hey, man,” he directs at Kholton as he relieves us of the bags. “What’s up?”

  They chit-chat a little before Kholton asks Reba, “So, what can we help with today?”

  Reba rolls her eyes. “What’s left to do but food share? As usual, you come here when you know all the hard work in the kitchen is done.”

  “Come on, Reba,” he says with a chuckle, “you know I hate chopping onions.”

  “You just a lil’ pedigree prince,” she grumbles. “You two gonna be sharing today ‘cause Norma can’t make it. Go, start. Them folks getting grumpy. Thanks for coming, Serena, girl.”

  Reba melds back into the business of the kitchen while Kholton snags two aprons from a nearby hook and hands me one.

  As I don my apron, I whisper, “If she thinks you’re a prince, what will she call me?”

  He laughs and beckons me to follow him, leading me to the front of the kitchen where there’s a wide buffet station separated from the outer area by a plexiglass and faux granite counter. Everything is so clean, sterile, and well organized. Not at all what I expected, especially with how hideous the exterior is.

  “Okay, so it appears we’ve got multiple options this week,” Kholton begins. “These three here are the soups. Fish Soup, Chicken Soup, and Jamaican Red Pea Soup. And over here we’ve got Chicken Paleo, Fish Cakes, and Vegetables.”

  From an adjacent cupboard, he gets out two sets of foam boxes. “This one’s for soup, and this one’s for solid food. Each person gets either or, not both. So if someone asks for soup, you put two scoopfuls into this one, then you put a dinner roll into one of these small paper-bags, take a plastic cutlery packet from here, and pass it all through this opening right here. If someone wants Chicken Paleo, you portion that into this box with a side of fish cakes or vegetables.”

  I nod in understanding. “Sounds straightforward enough.”

  What I don’t mention is how impressed I am with the way he’s able to tell what’s in each buffet hotpot even though there are no labels. All I was able to make out on my own is the Chicken Soup.

  The longer I’m around this guy, the more fascinated with him I become. He’s…he’s…new. Different. A breath of fresh air.

  Here I am, working alongside him in a soup kitchen, something I’ve never done before, and have never even thought about doing. Yet, I’ve never felt more alive.

  “Well then, let’s get to work, princess.”

  Two hours later, the crowd has thinned and the hot pots are empty. Latecomers are disappointed to find all the food is gone. That’s when Kholton begins handing out snacks and drinks and pouring hot water into Ramen cups. “This is why I never come empty-handed,” he explains. “There’s just never enough food for everyone.”

  When all the snacks and Ramen are also gone, he shuts down the partition and looks at me.

  “Well,” I say, “that was both exhausting and unexpectedly satisfying.”

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Come with me.”

/>   Hooking a finger through one of his belt loops, I let him lead me through a door and into a room that’s part pantry, part kitchenette.

  From a microwave that sits atop a mini-fridge, he removes something wrapped in a baking sheet with his name on it. He brings it to his nose and sniffs with an appreciative moan.

  He tells me, “Reba didn’t know you were coming so we’ll have to share.”

  “What is it?”

  “A Trinidadian delight,” he replies. “Here, hang on to it for me a sec.”

  I take it, whatever it is. It feels squishy, but smells amazing.

  Kholton climbs a three-step ladder and hauls down a rolled-up tarp. He then spreads the tarp out on the floor and lowers himself to the ground, legs stretched out, back against the wall. He pats the spot beside him for me to join him.

  I walk over and plop down, my feet finding instant relief. When I hand him the treat, he all but rips the wrapper before taking a huge bite.

  Amused by his reaction to this mystery food, I ask, “What it’s called?”

  “Doubles.” He licks sauce from his fingers. “My Sunday treat from Reba.”

  “What’s it made of? I can’t tell. It’s so…messy.”

  “No idea,” he says around a mouthful. “Just know it’s a peppery, sloppy absolutely delicious mess and I can’t get enough.”

  I stifle a smile. “I thought we were going to share?”

  He pauses mid-bite. “Oh, right.” He chews and swallow, moaning again. “Here.” He lifts the hot mess to my mouth. “Take a bite.”

  When I bite into it, he puts his other hand under my chin in case food falls out. “Eaaaasy,” he coos. “It’s a mouthful.”

  No kidding. There’s so many things going on in my mouth right now, I have to concentrate on chewing. Spices burst all over my tongue. I taste chick peas and…naan bread? Possibly.

  “This is really good,” I say with a full mouth.

  “Right?”

  He takes another bite, then feeds me the rest.

  When I’m done, he gets to his feet and disposes of the wrapper, then grabs two cans of Dr. Pepper from the mini fridge, handing one to me as he sits down again.

  I pop the can and guzzle down the fizzy sugar. So many bad calories. I’m going to be detoxing all week for sure. Fighting back a burp, I ask, “Do you eat like this every day?”

  He lets his burp rip as he gives me an incredulous look. “Have you seen me? My body is literally the hashtag ‘haters will say it’s Photoshopped’. Of course I don’t eat like this every day. Saturdays and Sundays are concession days for me. I cheat with a meal here or a snack there.”

  “Your humility is inspiring,” I say with a sarcastic grin.

  But he’s right. His body is insane. Cut, defined, mouthwatering. Tall, sexy, swaggering.

  “Damn straight.” And then he starts to sing, “I work hard for this body, da-dada. So hard for this body, da-dada.”

  I giggle and punch his arm. “You’re an idiot.”

  He catches my hand and just…holds it between us, his gaze intent on me as though trying to memorize my features. Eyes warm and soft. So soft.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I ask, “What?”

  His lips part. “I think I like you.”

  Heat crawls up my neck. “Even though I’m a redhead?”

  “Even though you’re a redhead,” he confirms.

  Wow. We’re getting somewhere. My scheming is finally starting to pay off. But not in the detached way I’d imagined. This…this is better. This feels almost…real. Too real.

  “I want to do something,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  He tugs my hand so I’m jerked into him, then he cups my face with both hands and murmurs, “This,” right before he crushes his lips to mine.

  I wasn’t expecting it, but I’m ready for it. I’ve been ready. So I open up and let him take. I give. It’s all that I want and more.

  And damn, but this man can kiss. He’s like….wow. I moan into his mouth as my nipples turn to pebbles. I used to think kissing was overrated but, hot damn. Who’s this good at kissing?

  His hand moves to the back of my head and he kisses me even deeper. I give back, but not nearly as good as I get.

  A phone goes off. Owl City’s Fireflies.

  “Ignore it,” I whisper against his lips.

  He does. But as soon as it stops ringing it starts up again. With a groan of displeasure, he catches my bottom lip between his teeth before he reluctantly pulls away.

  He digs his phone from his pocket and frowns down at the screen. “Hello?” His eyes shift to me as he listens. “Fine, thank you, sir…Uh-huh…No, sir…Yep, she’s with me…One second.”

  Eyes locked on mine, he holds the phone out to me. “It’s your father.”

  Eeek!

  Sixteen - Kholton

  “Today was one of my favorite days.”

  I love the way her words become a seductive blend of defensive and deflective when she’s been caught in a lie.

  I never call her out on them, no matter how much shit I know she’s full of. She’s so determined and certain in her foolhardy schemes that she ends up running herself straight into the ground. And that’s when I like to look at her, observe her, mentally claim her.

  She’ll never apologize, backtrack, or blame. She owns. She accepts. She, with those fearsome green eyes and strong chin, silently tells you to deal with it.

  Hands loose in my pockets, I gaze down at her now as we stand on the curb outside the soup kitchen, waiting for her driver. She’s like a painting. Unreal. My shirt fits her like it’s really a dress, and those heels, she wears them as if they’re one with her feet.

  Since the phone call with her father, she’s not said anything about the fact that she lied about her driver, her father, and her best friend.

  For one, her phone battery was dead. I found her purse under the bed this morning and checked it before sticking it behind the lamp for her to find.

  I also loaned her my phone knowing she wouldn’t call anyone. For further confirmation, I checked the outgoing calls list. No numbers were dialed.

  “Do you still think you like me?” she asks, running her fingers through her hair. She’s facing the street.

  “‘Think’ is the operative word,” I say. “And why wouldn’t I?”

  I turn wholly to her, knowing she’d rather run out in front of a speeding truck before admitting to anything. Her chin juts up. There it is. I bite back a smile. She’s so mine my dick hurts. I want to own all the parts of her, even that stubborn chin.

  But I know I shouldn’t. I know I should just walk away from this job, walk away from her, and find another way to help Brian.

  She turns to face me, freckles scattered over her nose and cheekbones. Eyes shameless, voice matter-of-fact, she says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, but Daddy is insisting that studies be at our house from now on.”

  “From now on?” I smile. “How long ago did he make this decree?”

  She bites the inside of her cheek but doesn’t back down. “A few weeks ago.” Her voice is daring, challenging. “I just choose to tell you now.”

  “Mnh.” I rock back on my heels. “That’s a terribly long commute each way.”

  “I know. It’s a huge inconvenience on your part.” She sighs, but not with apology. “We will have to shuffle around the study times to after-work hours. We will provide your transportation, of course.”

  Had this been another student, someone who wasn’t a job and a cock-tease, these study terms wouldn’t even be an option. Spending so much time commuting back and forth to give lessons? Nope. Not at my inconvenience. But the prize is at the house and all of this has been leading up to me getting into that house. I do this right, this job can be over sooner than I thought.

  I nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She turns to face the street again. Her driver is a few blocks down coming up. “For the record,” she tells the traffic, “today was one of my fav
orite days.”

  Shifting partly in front of her, I cup the side of her face and her eyes immediately flutters close. I smooth my thumb over the freckles on her cheek and she tips her face up for more. What’s your game, Serena?

  “Serena.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your ride is here.”

  Her eyes snap open and she shifts a sideward glance to the sleek Lincoln MKC as it rolls to a stop, then back to me.

  I don’t want to go, her eyes whine.

  And I don’t want to get too close.

  Dropping my hand from her cheek, I take a step back from her. “I’ll let you know about study times.”

  “Okay,” she says, but doesn’t leave.

  She’s gazing up at me as if she’s expecting something. I know what she expects. A goodbye kiss. But we’re not on “goodbye kiss” terms. I kissed her in the pantry because she was too goddamn beautiful and I couldn’t help myself. I shouldn’t have. And now she expects a goodbye kiss.

  I start backing up. “Need to get back inside and help clean up.” I never help clean up.

  She blinks, slow and awakening. “Oh—okay.” Then she shakes her head. Could just as well be a face-palm, too. “Okay, playboy.”

  She gets into the car, and I turn into the soup kitchen.

  Today was one my favorite days, too.

  Seventeen - Serena

  “Mumtaz Mahal.”

  From the front steps of my house, I poke my head around one of the giant columns for about the hundredth time. I’m checking for an Uber. An Uber with Kholton Sharpe in it.

  Due to an unexpected week-long business trip I had to take, I missed a couple of studies with him. I only got back last night and was supposed pick him up after work this afternoon, but he had an emergency meeting and chose to take an Uber here afterward.

  It’s kind of stupid to have him commute all this way for an hour or two of studies, but it’s Aaron Bentley’s way or the highway.

  “I’m so not leaving until I see this ‘tutor’ who’s got you so twisted up. You’re so bouncy right now I could pop you.”