Tell Me You Love Me: A Novel

by S. Ann Cole

  I press the buzzer.

  A disembodied voice comes from the monitor. “Please enter.”

  Cool air-conditioned air blasts my cheeks when I enter. This floor, which was a debris-covered mess the last time I was here, has been transformed into a sleek but cozy lobby, with black and gold furniture and blood-red accents.

  A stern brunette sits behind the reception desk, with two massive, hulk-like guards dressed in black on either side of said desk.

  “May I have your name, please?” the brunette asks without lifting her head, her fingers flying across the desktop keyboard.

  “Serena Bentley.”

  “Your address?”

  “Long Island, New York.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Is red your natural hair color?”

  Huh? “What does all this have to do with anything?”

  “It’s protocol, Miss. I’m just doing my job. Natural hair color?”

  I roll my eyes, because this is ridiculous. “Yes. Red is my natural hair color.”

  She types for a few seconds longer before she finally lifts her head and makes eye-contact. “Okay, Miss Bentley, how may I help you?”

  I flip the rental keys around on my finger. “I’m looking for Kholton.”

  She looks nonplussed. “Pardon?”

  “Kholton Sharpe.”

  She begins typing on her keyboard again. “Can you tell me what department he is in, please?”

  “Department?”

  She glances up at me, impatient and seemingly suspicious. “Bounty Hunting, International Investigations, Law Aid, or Private Investigations?”

  “Oh, uh, he doesn’t really work here. He’s a shareholder and a close friend of the Cage’s. White hair. Silver eyes. Leaves an impression on you?”

  At that, her eyes alight with recognition and she smiles. “Oh. You mean Khol.”

  “Yes. Him.”

  “Khol is—”

  “Not here.”

  I jerk around at the interruption and see Brian. Where the heck did he come from? The dickhead.

  He’s leaned against the wall next to the elevator, wearing his usual shit-eating grin, a black tee, and dark denims.

  I glower. “Where is he?”

  “Not here,” he repeats.

  I grit my teeth. “Where?”

  He pushes off from the wall and jerks his head to the front door as he proceeds out of the building, expecting me to follow.

  I hate having to follow his punk ass, but I do, because if there’s anyone who has the answers I need, it’s him.

  From his back pocket, he withdraws a pack of cigarettes and plucks one out.

  “Since when do you smoke?” I ask, because I’ve been around him a number of times and have never seen him smoke.

  He lights up the cancer stick and sucks in a lungful of death. “Since fifteen-years-old. Peer pressure and all.”

  I watch his full lips as smoke spills from between them. He’s annoyingly hot, in a manner that screams trouble is my name, whereas his twin is a quiet, brooding, scary type of hot.

  “Stop checking me out,” he says, face tipped to the sky. “You’re not my type.”

  “I’m not—what?” I splutter. “I’m not even going to go there with you. Where’s Khol?”

  “What’d you want with him?”

  “Listen to me, you sonuvabitch.” I run up and chuck his shoulder twice until he’s facing me. “You two stole from me. I’ve been nice enough not to take legal action. Don’t make me change my damn mind. Where is he?”

  “You got proof of that, sweetheart?” There goes that grin again. “Last I heard, you are in possession of this supposedly stolen item. You running broke or something? Tryna commit insurance fraud?”

  Veins of rage expands under my skin.

  Tightening my hold on my purse, I swing it through the air and thwack him straight in the face with it.

  “What the—”

  I smack him again. “You piece of shit!” And again. “After what you did to me, you should be kissing my ass!” Smack! Smack! “Tell me where he is right now!”

  A black G-Class Mercedes jeep swings into the parking lot as I’m beating the shit out of Brian with my purse, all while he keeps backing up and laughing, shielding himself with one hand.

  Out of the jeep jumps his twin. Brock. “The hell?”

  I keep hitting him and hitting him and hitting him, shrieking, “You piece of shit!”

  In the next second, I’m locked into a death grip from behind by Brock’s brawny arm. “Calm down, woman.” To Brian, “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing!” Brian replies through a half-cough, half-laugh. “She got mad because I told her she isn’t my type.”

  At this, I shriek again and attempt to break free of Brock’s hold to get at the asshole. But I’m going nowhere. The man is more solid than Iron Man.

  Brock puts his lips to my ear. “Serena, you need to chill out.”

  Closing my eyes, I count to ten.

  Ten doesn’t work, so I count to thirty. “Okay. I’m calm.”

  Brian flashes me a jeering smirk, but Brock spins me around to face him so the asshole can’t screw up my calm. “Talk to me. What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think I’m doing here?” I snap, annoyed, exhausted, and jet-lagged. “I’m looking for the white con artist.”

  “Khol?” he replies. “He’s not here, babe. He flew back yesterday.”

  “Flew back where? New York?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Naan…she’s in the hospital.”

  “What?” I pull away from him, frowning. “No, she’s not. I saw her two days ago.”

  “She is, babe. The hospital called him night before last. Said she has pneumonia and things weren’t looking too good. He flew out the next morning.”

  Things weren’t looking too good? “What does that mean? Have you received any updates from him?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. Haven’t heard from him since. Brian’s flying out tonight to go see what’s going on.”

  I spin around to Brian. “I’m coming with you.”

  He makes a face. “Uh…yeah—no.”

  “Brian,” Brock reproaches.

  “Look, man,” Brian says, “Those two have this weird, screwed-up, head-fucking thing going on, and I’m not getting in the middle of it. Besides,” he lifts a spiteful brow at me, “she just assaulted me.”

  “Knowing you,” Brock says, “you probably deserved it.”

  Brian scowls. “Gee, thanks for having my back, man.” He looks to me. “No. The answer is no. I’m not taking you with me.”

  Four hours later, we’re boarding a commercial flight together.

  “You’re a pain in my ass,” he grumbles as the plane takes off.

  About an hour into the flight, he looks over at me with a serious expression and asks, “What’d you really want from him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” He stares me down. “He stole from you. Gamed you. And instead of running in the other direction, you’re moving heaven and earth to find him. Why?”

  “Because…” I stare back at him. Unseeing. Yes, why, Serena? Why? “Because I want him to know I forgive him.”

  As if disappointed in my answer, he shakes his head and sighs. “You don’t need to let someone know you’ve forgiven them. You just forgive them and move on with your life. Forgiveness is not for them, it’s for you.” He continues to bore through me with his stare. “What do you really want from him, Serena?”

  I grow irritated. Not at him for asking a perfectly valid question, but at myself for not having a valid answer. I snap, “What’s it matter to you?”

  His gaze ices over. “It matters to me because he’s my brother and he’s stupid in love with you—Lord knows why ‘cause it’s not like you’re anything special—and you can’t even admit that you feel the same. Why can’t you just fucking say it?”

  Boom.
>
  Boom.

  BOOM.

  Three times over my heart implodes on itself. How am I still breathing? How am I alive? “W-What?”

  “You know he gave up a kidney for you?” he grounds out. “He did it for you. Not his father. He had a choice to make, and he chose you. While you’re running around with your entitled, high-heeled ass thinking he’s just gonna dance to your beat until you say stop. That’s not how it works, ‘Miss Bentley’? When the game is over, only truth and real matters. And the game’s been over.”

  His words are like tiny pin pricks to my veins. As my eyes begin to burn, I turn away and look out the window. “Screw you, Brian.”

  “Like I said,” he replies coolly, “you aren’t my type.”

  We land.

  One minute I’m beside him, keeping up with his quick, long strides as best as I can, and the next minute, he’s vanished. Nowhere to be seen.

  “Son of a—”

  Yep, I’ve been ditched.

  Serena

  Serena: Hey. I heard about Naan. I went to her home but they wouldn’t give me any information. Can you tell me what hospital she’s at? I need to visit her.

  (Sent on Tuesday at 7:46 AM)

  Serena: Kholton, pleeeeease. I want to see her.

  (Sent on Tuesday at 6:00 PM)

  Serena: Can I at least get an update on how she’s doing?

  (Sent on Wednesday at 7:18 AM)

  Serena: How are YOU doing?

  (Sent on Wednesday at 1:43 PM)

  Serena: I’m thinking about you. Give Naan all my love.

  (Sent on Wednesday at 8:09 PM)

  Serena: OK. I’m done. I get it. You want nothing to do with me. And I’m an idiot for still wanting to have anything to do with you. Why am I the one chasing you when you’re the one who screwed me over? Screw you. I deserve better and I CAN have better. I wish you a good life. But I’m done making a fool of myself. Tell Naan I love her. Goodbye. For good this time.

  (Sent on Friday at 3:22 AM)

  Forty - THree - Serena

  “Check his Instagram.”

  I’m right back where I started.

  On blind dates.

  Only this time, I’m doing it right. No games. No underlying intentions. I’m doing it for myself. I’m in pursuit of that beautifully exhilarating feeling I experienced with Kholton.

  The companionship. The laughter. The way he looks at me like I’m a goddess with the elixir to everlasting life. I want that again. All of it.

  However, after being on a number of dates so far, I’m beginning to lose hope that I’ll ever experience those things again.

  Some go overboard in a desperate attempt to impress me. Some are too alpha. Some too beta. None of them Kholton.

  Kholton wasn’t an alpha, nor was he a beta. Confident, yes, but never a braggart. He was…perfect and imperfect. Realistic. Manly, yet childlike. Ingenious, yet humble. Sexy, and unapologetic about it.

  His betrayal in the end was dishearteningly disappointing, but in all other aspects, I felt his truth and realness. I craved him like a drug, and went mad when I couldn’t see him, all the while convincing myself it was all for getting knocked-up.

  The truth is, my life has been extremely dull without his sunshine smile and lightning bolt hair. Without his compassion for the unfortunate and his constant desire to help. Without his favorite cartoons playing in the background.

  I miss him so freaking much. But I’m done chasing him. So here I am, seated at a table for two in a fancy restaurant, waiting for a late date.

  Can I tell you secret? I’m miserable.

  Serena: Date is 20 mins late. WTF?

  Alaric: Sorry. Will contact him now for an ETA. Don’t leave.

  Serena: Nope. I’m outta here.

  As I’m picking up my clutch to leave, I notice the hostess weaving toward my table with a tall, dark, hot-as-sin man in tow. Dark jeans, worn leather jacket with a white tee underneath, and Timberlands.

  Oh, hell no. Not this dickhead.

  Jumping to my feet, I scan the restaurant for other possible exits to dodge this asshat and hightail it out of here.

  “Nuh-uh,” he says as he reaches my table. “I shelled out a lot of dough for this date. You’re gonna give me the time of day, Sweetcheeks.”

  The hostess glances between us, confused.

  “Get me a bottle of the most expensive Sangria you have,” he tells her as he pulls out a chair and sits down. “After all, Miss Billionaire Bentley here will be footing the bill.”

  “What are you doing here?” I hiss out.

  He picks up the menu and scans it with a bored expression. “You might as well sit down. Your real date won’t be showing up. He’s having…transportation trouble.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. And then they blow wide. “Oh, my God. That first night… Khol wasn’t stood up, was he? And my date’s fall…it was you.”

  “To be fair, all I did as his Uber driver was take a few wrong turns and drive below the speed limit,” he says, holding up a corrective finger. “I’ve got nothing to do with his fall. If he hadn’t jumped out of the car in anger that wouldn’t have happened.”

  What a dick! “What do you want, Brian? The last time I saw you, you ditched me at the airport.”

  Sobering, he sets the menu down. “You changed your number.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “I tried to call you.”

  “Why? Are we friends?”

  He seems solemn all of a sudden. “No, but you and Naan are.”

  This is enough to get me to sit down. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”

  “No.” He watches me for a beat. “She never got better. She caught Pneumonia. She died, Serena.”

  “Oh my God,” I choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. “Naan. Oh my God.”

  A heavy darkness settles onto my shoulders. That strong, marvelous, hoot of a woman. Just like that, she’s gone. She brought so much joy and laughter to my life in the short time I knew her. My God, she will be missed.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Roughly ten days ago.”

  “Ten days?” I half-shout. “Are you kidding me?”

  Brian glances around the restaurant at my small outburst. “She’s Californian. Khol had to work on getting her body back home. It took some time.”

  Oh. I sit back and play with the stem of my wine glass. “May I ask why you’re the one telling me this?”

  “Because I know you cared for her.”

  “You’re right,” I affirm, “I cared a heck of a lot for her. But for him to not tell me about Naan, that’s taking things to a whole other level. If he doesn’t want me around, there’s nothing I can do about that, Brian.”

  He frowns at me. “What’re you talking about?”

  Huh? “What do you mean?”

  “You just said he doesn’t want you around.”

  “Because he doesn’t.” Isn’t this common knowledge by now? “He blocked my number and stopped responding whenever I message or email him. So I’ve moved on with my life.”

  Brian sits back and scratch his square jaw. “When was the last time you checked his Instagram?”

  A long damn time. “I deleted the app so I wouldn’t be tempted to do just that.”

  A ring tone goes off and he reaches inside his leather jacket for his phone. He checks the screen, then taps out a quick message to someone before returning the phone from whence it came.

  From the other side of his jacket, he produces a small pen and scribbles something on a napkin. “I gotta bounce. But check his Instagram and don’t miss Naan’s funeral. She really liked you and would’ve wanted you there.”

  He slides the napkin across to me, and then he’s gone.

  Scribbled on the napkin, is the address where Naan’s funeral will be held. And a P.S note:

  Obviously, he sent me to you.

  He wants you there.

  Show up.

  I fold it up and tuck it in my clutch. Why couldn’t he have ca
lled me and told me himself? Naan’s death is far more important than whatever we’ve got going on.

  Chomping on my lip, I eye my phone.

  Check his Instagram.

  Do I really want to do this again? Get sucked into the pit of Kholton Obsession and Addiction? Make an ass of myself when I can do so much better? I’m Serena freaking Bentley, I don’t need to be chasing after no man.

  So, I don’t check his Instagram.

  Instead, I throw some money on the table, and I go home.

  When 3:00 AM rolls around and I find myself tossing and turning, I know I’m never going to fall asleep unless I check his goddamn Instagram.

  Dammit!

  Reluctantly, I reinstall the app. As soon as I sign in, I’m bombarded with notification after notification after notification. The little heart icon that indicates the number of new notifications I have reads 15,987.

  What in the world?

  As I go through them, I realized that they’re all tags from strangers.

  They all have comments like, “#Tellhimyoulovehim, you idiot!”

  And “You dumb bitch, he’s HOT, #tellhimyoulovehim!”

  And “You’re sooooo lucky! @KholSharpe is soooo dreamy. #Tellhimyoulovehim!”

  And “I don’t know what he sees in you. You’re not that pretty or cute & your hair color & boobs are obviously fake. But hey, the heart wants what it wants. #Tellhimyoulovehim or whatever.”

  Confused as all get out, I navigate to Kholton’s page on the hunt for context to all these tags.

  The first thing I see is, well, me.

  In several posts.

  I scroll down to as far as a week and a half ago and stop on one particular post. A screen-shot of what he’s listening to.

  Tell Me You Love Me, by Demi Lovato.

  Caption:

  #tellme.

  The next post is a picture of the both of us. It’s not a picture I’ve seen before, but I can identify where and when it was taken. Aunty Reba’s surprise party at The Roti House.

  We’re on the dance floor, probably drunk as hell by the time that photo was snapped. His hands are on my hips; mine are locked around his neck. He’s gazing down at me with that “You are a goddess” expression, and I’m gazing up at him like there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.