Let Me Know

by Stina Lindenblatt

  “Mornin’,” Marcus murmurs against my ear.

  The soft knock comes again. “You guys awake in there?” Jordan asks.

  “We are now,” Marcus grumbles, then presses his lips against my lotus tattoo, like he does every morning and whenever I wake up from a nightmare.

  “Chase and I are going to The Coffeery,” she says. “You want anything?”

  “Yeah, maybe three more hours of sleep.” Marcus pushes himself up and checks the alarm clock on the tower of books by his bed. “Make that four hours.” He drops back down and covers his face with his arm.

  Chase laughs, the closed door muffling the sound. “The last I saw, dude, neither of those was on the menu.”

  Without getting out of bed, we tell them our order.

  Marcus yawns. “I can’t believe those two are already up.”

  “That’s ’cause they didn’t have to deal with nightmares last night.” I rest my head against his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart. My favorite sound in the entire world. It means he’s alive.

  He holds me closer. I can’t tell if that’s to soothe me after the nightmare I had last night, or to remind himself that he’s okay after his. While I didn’t wake up screaming this time, Marcus did have to nudge me awake, because I was tossing around and muttering in my sleep. And then once we finally fell asleep again, Marcus had a bad dream and jerked me awake. A bad dream he refused to tell me about.

  I stroke his jaw. “Maybe you should see someone at the Counseling Center.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

  I scoot away. “No you’re not. There’s no way you can be fine after what you’ve gone through. If you had been fine, you wouldn’t have slept with so many girls.”

  “Yeah, but I’m only sleeping with you now.” He smirks, thinking he’s won the argument.

  “And now you’re having nightmares.” And the last I heard, nightmares aren’t contagious. He didn’t catch them from me. “What would it hurt to talk to someone?”

  “You’re still having nightmares and flashbacks. Not exactly a glowing recommendation for therapy.” His tone is stiff, his wall moving back in place, preparing to shut me out.

  In the past I might have let it go. But I can’t. Not this time. “Therapy isn’t a quick fix.” I wish it were. I’d be cured by now.

  “I’m fine, Amber,” he snaps and glares at me. “I’m not you.”

  I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were tortured and raped.”

  “And your stepfather abused you and sexually assaulted you and raped your brother. I don’t see what the difference is.”

  “I’m coping better than you are.”

  I sit up and look down at him, holding the sheet against my otherwise naked chest. “Just because I have flashbacks and you don’t doesn’t mean you’re coping better. It means you’re coping differently.”

  Marcus scrambles out of bed and snatches his clothes off the floor. “Forget it. I told the cops what Frank did and look how well that went. I’m not telling any more strangers the truth. There’s no point. And I’m definitely not seeing a therapist. You’re still messed up over what happened to you. I’m not.” He storms out, slamming the door behind him. Less than a minute later, the pipes squeak to life and water showers against the bathtub.

  Sighing, I climb out of bed and head for the bathroom, not bothering with my clothes. He’s right; I am damaged. I’m never going to be the girl I was before Paul violated me. He made sure of that. But once this ordeal is over, I’ll keep getting better, keep getting stronger. Why can’t Marcus admit he needs help, too?

  I should be pissed at him. I should say screw it and walk away. But I can’t. He’s been hurt and betrayed so many times he doesn’t know who or how to trust anymore. I’m not going to be yet another person to turn my back on him.

  I open the bathroom and enter the tiny steam-filled room. I can barely make out Marcus’s naked body through the fogged-up glass door. I slide the door open and step into the tub. Marcus doesn’t turn around. He’s standing in the stream of water, head drooped forward, his hands pressed against the wall.

  Hesitantly, I place my hand on his back and curl my fingers around his ribs. I don’t say anything. I wait until he’s ready to either talk or kick me out. Or a combination of the two.

  He slowly turns around and his tortured eyes meet mine. He places his hands on the wall on either side of my face, leans in, and kisses me. Unlike the tender kisses last night during the show, these kisses are filled with heat, passion, anger, pain. Everything we’re both feeling…and maybe something more.

  The kisses swell with hunger and need. A need to release everything boiling within us before it consumes us, before it’s too late.

  I wrap my fingers around the base of his fully aroused length. Marcus moans. He backs me into the wall and his hands slide down my body to the backs of my legs. In an easy move, he lifts me up and my legs automatically wrap around his hips. He shifts so his tip is against my entrance, and in a swift move he’s inside me, my back against the wall.

  What comes next isn’t about making love. It’s about the release that comes when emotions don’t have a safe place to go. When they become too big, too overwhelming no matter what you do.

  We pour everything inside of us and beyond into the moment, focused on feeling good, so damn good, and nothing else. I don’t regret the usual tenderness isn’t there. This is about power and control and forgetting ourselves.

  It’s about letting go.

  I scream out as the softest part of me clenches hard around Marcus and my body shatters into a million pieces. The sound is partly drowned out by the rush of water against the tub. Marcus comes seconds later.

  We stay this way for several long moments, me locked around him, him buried deep in me, as we fight to regain our breath, our senses.

  Eventually I slide from his body and stand in the stream of hot water. Why can’t he see that he’s as broken as I am? Just like before, he used sex as a way to deal with his emotions, his pain. Except this time, we both did. We’re both guilty.

  I rest my head on his shoulder. His arms engulf me and hold me tight. I could remain like this forever, pretending we’re standing under a waterfall on a tropical island with no other worries. But reality has a way of pushing its way in when it’s not wanted, and reminding us what we want is usually not what we can have.

  “I have to go. I’ve got to work on my presentation.” I’d ask him if he’s okay, but he won’t tell me the truth. He and Ryan kept the truth hidden for so long, he’s become skilled at the art of lying to himself and others.

  I climb out of the shower and wrap a towel around me as Marcus turns off the water. I open the door and walk into Chase.

  “Um, hi?” I manage to say, face heating up twenty degrees hotter than the shower water.

  An amused smile slips on to Chase’s face. “Have a good shower?”

  Oh, God. He heard. My entire body temperature shoots up, and I’m surprised the drops of water clinging to my skin and hair don’t vaporize into steam.

  “Hi,” Jordan says with the usual grin on her face. It then slips away. “We have a problem.”

  You mean other than me standing mortified in the hallway wearing nothing more than a small towel? “What kind of problem?”

  “The media’s outside swarming the building.”

  “What for?” Marcus asks behind me. He rests his hand on my shoulder; his thumb caresses my lotus tattoo.

  Chase shrugs. “No idea. It might have nothing to do with you, Amber. For all we know, the police found a stash of drugs in someone’s apartment and the news caught wind of it.”

  “Were there any cop cars?”

  Jordan and Chase shake their heads.

  “Then it’s not drugs,” Marcus points out. “Something else is going on.” No one voices it, but it’s not hard to figure out it has something to do with me—or Marcus. That’s the only reason the media has been
sniffing around here lately.

  Marcus and I quickly dress, neither mentioning what happened earlier. There’s no point. He’s already made his opinion clear. The question is how long will he put up with me if he thinks I’m so broken? He’s got enough problems as it is without mine weighing me down, without mine weighing us both down.

  With my coffee and muffin in hand, I follow Marcus and Chase downstairs. Jordan walks with me, shooting me curious glances every few seconds. “Are you okay?” she asks as we arrive at the main floor.

  “I have my presentation in two weeks and I’m getting nervous.” It’s not a complete lie. Emma, I’m not. She’s great at presentations.

  “Really? But you used to play basketball. Are you telling me no one ever came to your games?”

  “That’s different. I was playing, not talking to the crowd.”

  “So, pretend you’re playing basketball.”

  I give her a funny look, then remember Jordan doesn’t play sports. She doesn’t understand how different the two are.

  The guys push the main door open and step into the cold January air. Six or so individuals are milling about. If it weren’t for the cameras and oversized camcorders, I’d think they were hanging out for a smoke.

  Like cats waiting for an unsuspecting mouse to scurry past, their heads perk up and they pounce. Except they’re throwing out questions at the same time and it’s giving me a headache. I drop my head forward, hiding the fear in my eyes—or whatever else they might interpret it to be and mention it in the newspaper or on the news.

  Marcus takes my hand. Chase walks in front of us, Jordan beside me. If it weren’t for the annoying reporters, I’d laugh. My friends resemble secret service agents, minus the black suits and sunglasses.

  A reporter’s voice breaks through the buzz of unintelligible questions. “Amber, what do you think of the D.A.’s move to reduce the charges against Paul Carson?”

  My head snaps up, but before I can say anything, Marcus replies, “No comment,” and gives me a warning look. Until I’ve confirmed things with my mom, there’s no point reacting to the question. It’s probably a lie anyway. If the D.A. had reduced the charges, Mom would have called me as soon as she found out.

  Muffled music from my cell phone plays in my purse. Still walking, I fish the phone out and glance at the screen. Mom. The weight on my shoulders just got heavier. What are the chances the call and the question are a coincidence?

  Still shooting questions at me, the reporters follow us to Chase’s car. Marcus opens the back door and climbs in after me. Jordan joins Chase up front. Unlike in the movies, the reporters don’t converge like a pack of zombies. They move back as Chase reverses the car, and watch us drive away.

  With my heart racing us back to the dorm, I check Mom’s message. She tells me to phone her back ASAP. I call her, silently praying she phoned to tell me I’d forgotten something in my old room and she found it the other day. That would be better than the alternative.

  “Amber,” Mom says when she answers the phone. She sounds breathless.

  “Is it true?” I somehow manage to squeeze out the words. “The charges against Paul have been reduced?”

  “He’s got a new defense lawyer. Some hotshot who’s pushing for a motion to drop the charges of rape. He claims the evidence states otherwise. He’s been leaking this to the press. He’s also pleading not guilty to the two charges of murder, since he believes there’s not enough evidence to prove this.”

  “But that’s not true,” I say through the building tears. “Paul confessed to me that he killed Trent, and I saw him shoot Michael.”

  Silence draws out long and impatient as I wait for Mom to respond. She sighs, the defeat deafening, and I almost pull the phone away from my ear, too afraid to listen to what she has to say next.

  “Paul claims you shot Michael as part of an elaborate scheme to be with him. And that Trent’s accident was just that, and had nothing to do with Paul.”

  I stare out the window, barely taking in the world moving past in a striped blur. I can feel Marcus and Jordan watching me, and I let my head fall against the back of the seat. All I want to do is disappear and pretend none of this is happening. That my worst nightmare isn’t about to become real.

  “Does that mean the D.A. doesn’t believe me anymore? Are they going to send me to jail and let him go free?” Though from what I’ve learned about stalkers, jail might be the safest place for me. Then there’s no way he can come after me. If he’s given a short sentence, he will come after me. He will kill me. That’s what stalkers do. They never let go of the object of their obsession until it’s destroyed.

  “You’re not going to jail,” Mom says. “The D.A. does believe you, but she’s worried the jurors won’t. The evidence stacking up lately doesn’t look good, or it’s weak at best. But the D.A. also filed for charges of forced confinement, aggravated kidnapping, arson and attempted murder.” Her voice lacks the conviction I’m used to hearing when she was a defense lawyer and was confident she’d win a case.

  “But…?”

  She doesn’t say anything for almost a full minute, then sighs. “The evidence that Paul Carson was responsible for the arson is flimsy, especially since it was started by candles placed too close to the curtains. Defense is going along with the idea it was an unfortunate accident.”

  My stomach tightens. “So what does this mean?”

  “It means the only thing the D.A. has the strongest case on is forced confinement and physical assault. But that doesn’t mean she’s not pushing for all of the charges.” Again, the lack of confidence in her voice is staggering.

  “How long would he get for those two things?”

  “A minimum of six years for kidnapping with no chance of parole. But the judge could also sentence him for up to thirty years.”

  Six years. Six years then he’ll be free to stalk me again if his obsession for me hasn’t died.

  “What about if he was found guilty of everything?”

  “It’s hard to predict what the judge will decide, but there’s a good chance Paul would never be released.” Which means he’d never be able to hurt me or anyone I love again. I wouldn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder, wondering if he’s stalking me again once he was released.

  We talk for a little longer, though I suspect that’s Mom’s attempt to distract me. It’s not working. Marcus watches me, waits for me to end the call. He covers my free hand with his. I hang up and look out the window, not really seeing anything beyond the blur of houses and dead-looking trees.

  He squeezes my hand. “What’s going on?”

  Without looking at him, I tell him what my mom said. Tension streams from him with each word, to the point I’m positive I’ll suffocate.

  “How can anyone think he’s innocent?” Jordan asks.

  “I’m not sure if anyone does. But it’s not his lawyer’s job to protect me from his client. He’s paid to ensure that Paul is either found not guilty or serves the minimum amount of time possible.”

  “But that’s not right.”

  “I know, but there’s not much I can do about it. The damage has already been done to my reputation.” Both in the courtroom and with the scumbags who think I’m some sort of sexual plaything for their entertainment. Fortunately, they haven’t acted on that belief yet, beyond the guy who grabbed me in the food court and the inappropriate comments some guys think I deserve because of what they’ve heard on the news—and because of the twisted rumors.

  “Your mom said the psychopath has a new defense?” Marcus asks.

  I nod. “She said he now has some hotshot lawyer.”

  “So Paul has a lot of money?”

  I think for a moment. “We never talked about money, but I didn’t get the idea that he had much.”

  “You said the house burned down,” he says.

  “He set it on fire ’cause he planned to kill me in a murder suicide. The place was engulfed in flames when the firefighter found me. I have no idea how
much of it survived. I didn’t want to know.” I only know that the fire destroyed most of the evidence.

  “He could have gotten insurance money and used it to pay for the lawyer,” Chase suggests.

  “It wasn’t his building, so that’s a no.”

  Chase pulls into the parking lot near the dorm and easily finds a spot since it’s Sunday. Because Marcus wants to make sure the reporters haven’t scouted out my dorm like they did his building, he and Chase walk with me and Jordan

  “What, no bodyguard formation this time?” I say, chuckling. As soon as the words come out I realize I’m doomed. There are as many reporters at the main entrance of my building as there were at the guys’ apartment.

  “This is unbelievable,” Chase says. Grooves form between his eyebrows. “They’re like piranhas to fresh meat.”

  Except the piranhas aren’t watching us approach. They’re circling another piece of meat and looking enthralled by whatever Brittany is telling them.

  “Two freshmen have mentioned they’ve heard Amber screaming at night. Are you denying this?” a male reporter asks.

  “Amber has nightmares. If you went through what she did with that psychopath, you’d have nightmares too. And those two freshmen are skanks. Maybe you should be more interested in their sexual escapades than Amber’s.” She says it so matter-of-factly, it catches me off guard. She doesn’t even have a scowl on her face, which is not like Brittany when she’s pissed at someone.

  “What about the evidence the police recently seized from her room?” The cops never reported specifically what was found, but someone leaked to the media that the cops searched my room and found items of interest to the investigation.

  “We live in a building where people come and go all the time. Anyone could have planted the evidence. If you’re determined to do it, it wouldn’t be too hard to find a way. Maybe you should ask why the cops aren’t doing a better job protecting Amber from someone who is clearly trying to hurt her.”

  Why can’t I be strong enough and stand up for my rights like Brittany? Hell, I can’t even stand up in front of a classroom and do a presentation without feeling like I’m going to puke.