Tell Me When (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Marcus

Last night while Kitten and I danced, all I wanted to do was to protect her. The way she responded when I first kissed her confirmed she’s been damaged, and I don’t think it was the guy I hit at the party who’s at fault. He never had a chance to kiss her before I nailed him in the face.

But I screwed things up. She went from being vulnerable in my arms to this stone princess now sitting next to me in the food court. I’ve never responded to a girl the way I did with Amber, and my reaction scared me. I’ve always managed to keep up my wall with most people, and use girls purely for entertainment. That, and to prove to myself I’m a normal guy.

I’m not a complete ass where girls are concerned. I don’t treat them badly, and they know where they stand with me. Sex is a one-time deal. Any more than that and girls think you want a commitment. I thought Tammara was different, that we shared an understanding. I was wrong.

When I agreed to Amber’s plan, I thought it would be an easy fifty bucks. That I could walk away from last night fifty dollars closer to my goal, with no second thoughts or regrets. But then I talked to her—really talked to her—and I kissed her and listened to her talk about music. And I realized something.

Amber has gotten under my skin.

And I have to escape. I can’t afford to get close to anyone. I failed my brother and I’m afraid of failing Alejandro. I don’t want to risk failing anyone else, too.

Kitten deserves to be loved by someone who deserves her in return. That person is not me. My mother taught me that.

I didn’t want to be a jerk last night. I wanted to be Amber’s hero, someone who made her feel safe. But in the end, I did what I had to do, and I pissed her off.

Pushing away the emptiness worming its way in, I work through the first question of Amber’s math assignment with her, explaining each step while trying to ignore her strawberry-scented hair. As if that’s even possible. That scent has found its way into my dreams, and with Kitten next to me, it reminds me of the most vivid ones. The ones where we both end up naked. In my bed.

Groaning inwardly at the way my dick responds to the mere thought of those dreams, I ask, “How can you tell you’re in the hands of the Mathematical Mafia?”

Her warm brown eyes sparkle in amusement, like they always do when she knows I’m about to tell her a math joke, even though she knows it’s going to be lame. “I don’t know. How do you tell?”

“They make you an offer that you can’t understand.”

She laughs, the sound of it as warm as her eyes. I grin at the thought of how she’s the first person to laugh at my jokes, and go back to helping her with her assignment.

By the third question, Amber’s fingers start tapping rhythmically against her thigh.

I touch her hand. “Why do you do that?”

Her fingers curl into a ball. “It’s nothing. I used to play basketball, and my boyfriend always joked that I would dribble against my leg whenever I was nervous, or when I wanted to play but couldn’t.” Her cheeks redden and a faint smile crosses her face.

Irritation that she has a boyfriend gnaws at me. I shove it away. I have no right to feel that way. “Your boyfriend’s name is Trent, right?” I ask, taking a wild guess.

Color vanishes from her face and for a moment I’m positive she’s going to run. “How did you know?” she asks, voice cracking. Moisture builds in her eyes.

“I saw a picture of you with him.” Shit, I hope he’s not the guy who hurt her. “Since you asked me to pretend to be your boyfriend, I guess he doesn’t live in Chicago, right?”

She shakes her head and the tears she was holding back break free. She turns her head away and wipes them with her fingers.

A few students walking past glance our way, and it’s obvious from their expressions they think the tears are my fault. I’m the shithead boyfriend who dumped his girlfriend in the middle of the food court.

That’s when I get it. Her boyfriend doesn’t live in Chicago, because she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Those people were right. She has been dumped, just not by me.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Amber. I didn’t realize you guys had broken up.”

“We didn’t break up.” She takes a halting breath, and her next words come out as a pained whisper. “He’s dead.”

Okay, not what I expected. Without thinking of the consequences, I gather her in my arms and let her cry against my shoulder. Another brick in my wall crumbles at the feel of her in my arms. I tighten my hold and kiss the top of her head. If I’m not careful, I’m going to end up permanently fucked up. But right now, there’s nothing I want more than to erase her pain.

Except, I have no idea how to do that. All I’m good at is making girls scream in bed, but right now that skill’s pretty useless.

Her cries eventually slow to soft hiccupping and she sits up. “I’m sorry. I made a mess of your T-shirt.”

“I don’t care about that. You wanna talk about what happened to your boyfriend?” I don’t want to, but I can’t leave things the way they are in case she does. I have a feeling I’m the first person she’s told here that her boyfriend is dead, that even Jordan doesn’t know. She’s been holding back her emotions for a long time, not wanting anyone to see her like this. I can relate.

“I’d rather not, thanks.” She grabs a tissue from her backpack and blows her nose, then walks to the nearby garbage and tosses the dirty tissue in like it’s a basketball.

And that gives me an idea. “Grab your stuff. We’re going somewhere.”

She looks at me for a second, confused, then packs up her books and notes, and follows me to my car.

The blue sky from earlier has clouded over and it looks like it could storm later on. But for now, it’s perfect for what I want to do. I open the car door for her but she doesn’t get in. She chews her lip while eyeing the passenger seat as though it’s planning to attack her.

“I promise, Kitten, I’m not going to hurt you. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I think you’ll enjoy where we’re going.”

“Where’s that?” She looks at the sky, a slight tremor in her voice.

I interlace her fingers with mine. “It’s a surprise.”

Her hand starts shaking. “I don’t like surprises.” Her voice is so small, I get the feeling it’s not me she’s telling this to, but I can’t tell if she’s talking to herself or if, in her mind, she’s telling it to someone else.

“Amber, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I’m just taking you to my old neighborhood. If you want, you can ask Jordan to come with us.” I don’t want Jordan along, but if that makes Amber feel safer, then I’m willing to do whatever’s necessary.

Amber looks at me, really looks at me, her gaze searching for signs that I’m lying. “I’m fine. I’ll come with you.” Her other hand tightens around her backpack strap. If I make the wrong move, I wouldn’t be surprised if she nails me in the face with the bag.

She climbs into the car, but doesn’t say anything else as I drive. Instead, she stares out the passenger window at the sky. I can tell she’s not fully with me. Maybe she’s thinking about her old boyfriend. I don’t have the right to feel jealous, but I can’t help it and that scares me. And what’s there to feel jealous about? Her boyfriend, who I guess she loved, is dead. It’s only natural she’d be thinking about him. I think about Ryan all the time, too.

I drive through the city to my old neighborhood. It’s nothing like where Amber would have grown up. Here, neighbors party until sunrise and drug busts are the norm. I’m betting Amber’s never been harassed by a cop and gangs don’t hang out near her home.

I glance at her, gauging her reaction, but her attention is still focused on the world outside her window.

“What is this place?” she asks as I park the car in the small gravel parking lot behind the youth center.

“It’s where I spent most of my time growing up. It’s where I learned to play basketball.”

Her head twists around, and for the first time since I mentioned her old boyfriend’s name, her face lights up. “You play?”

I grin at her reaction. “It’s what kept me out of trouble.” Most of the time.

We enter the old brick building and I instantly know something’s wrong. At this time of day, kids are usually playing basketball or hanging out in the rec room. Instead, it’s quiet.

Fear at what that could mean sucker punches me in the gut.

“Hey, Marcus,” Dave says from the doorway of his office, a basketball in each hand. He tosses one at me and nods at Amber. “Miss.” I’ve never brought a girl here before so I can only imagine what he’s thinking.

“Dave, this is Amber. She’s a friend of mine from school.” I turn to Kitten. “Dave’s the youth leader here. But don’t let his hardcore Marine ass fool you. He’s a marshmallow where the ladies are concerned.” He snorts. The only lady in his life is his wife. His world, when he’s not here, revolves around her. “So where is everyone?”

“There was another gang shooting the other day. Funeral’s today.”

My heart stops beating for what feels like an entire minute and I reach for Amber’s hand. As if sensing what I need, she squeezes it. “Who?” And why didn’t I know this?

“Tyler Whitman.”

As wrong as it is, especially since Tyler was only twelve, I feel myself relax. At least it wasn’t Alejandro. “I don’t get it. Tyler wasn’t in a gang, was he?”

Dave shakes his head, suddenly looking a lot older than his forty-five years. “No, he wasn’t. He was an innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Has Alejandro been around much lately?” Or Carlos? Guilt surges through me. I haven’t been around much, not like I used to. I’m too busy with school.

“Not in a few days. But I heard his mother’s been getting on his case about his grades. If he doesn’t pull them up soon, she won’t let him join the school basketball team.”

And that will kill him. “I’ll talk to him.”

“That’d be great, Marcus. He idolizes you. He’ll listen to what you say.” Dave doesn’t say what he’s thinking, but I can read it in his eyes. He’s hoping I can talk some sense into Alejandro so that he doesn’t join Carlos’s gang.

“I better get back to work here.” Dave smiles at Amber.

“Sounds good. We’re just shooting some hoops.” I squeeze Kitten’s hand, letting her know this is the real reason we’re here.

“Oh,” she says.

I turn in time to see excitement fade to disappointment on her face.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

Dave looks her over, but not in a douchebag way. “That’s not a problem. I have spare gym clothes that should fit you.”

Her eyes light up, confirming I did the right thing bringing her here. Confirming what I already suspected: I want to be the one to bring that smile to her face—even if it’s just as a fake boyfriend.

Chapter Seventeen

Amber

Dave leads us to the back of the old building to a small equipment room. The room is organized to military precision, contrasting with the water-stained ceiling and small cracks in the upper corner of one wall. He points to the box of jumbled clothes on a metal shelving unit against the far wall, and leaves us alone to search through it.

I pull out a pair of promising looking sweat pants that end up being way too big, even if I cinch the drawstring as tight as it will go. Marcus and I hunt through the entire box before he finds a pair of running shorts that might fit and holds them out to me.

I swallow hard. There’s no way I can wear them. “Is there anything else?” I ask even though the odds of a pair of sweat pants mysteriously appearing in the box are pretty much zero.

He shakes his head. “No, this is it.”

I take the offending garment and stare at it, not that staring will make a difference. It’s not going to magically transform the shorts into I what need.

A voice in my head asks what difference it makes if Marcus sees my legs. Is he really going to change his mind about playing with me because of the scars? Is he going to refuse to tutor me because they gross him out? I doubt it.

I hesitantly take the shorts from him and grab the T-shirt I found earlier. He’s seen the scars on my wrists, so I don’t have to hide them from him. He hasn’t seen the forget-me-not tattoo, but I can’t imagine he’ll ask about it. He knows Trent’s dead.

“You can change in the locker room.” He points in the opposite direction from where we came in. “When you’re ready, go down the hall. I’ll meet you outside.”

He walks me to the locker room even though he just told me where to find it. I push the door open and enter.

The place isn’t very big. Just large enough for a dozen or so small lockers, a changing cubical, a shower stall, and that’s all. Even though no one’s here, I carry the gym clothes into the curtained off cubical and close the curtain.

I shut my eyes. No one has seen the scars before today, other than the hospital staff and my mom. Even after the skin grafts healed, I didn’t want anyone seeing my legs.

The thought of Marcus seeing them leaves me feeling naked and raw. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to keep him from seeing my scars, both inside and out.

But I can’t do that. Because deep down I know I’m stronger than that, and it doesn’t matter what Marcus thinks. It’s not like there’ll ever be a “him and me.” At least not beyond our tutoring arrangement.

I change out of my clothes, pull on the shorts and T-shirt, and go outside through the exit Marcus told me to use. He’s not hard to find, and it looks like I’m not the only one who changed out of street clothes. He’s wearing long basketball shorts and a Chicago Bulls jersey.

And he’s not alone. He’s playing two-on-one with two boys who could be fourteen or fifteen, both Hispanic.

“Who was the nineteen ninety-four All-Star MVP?” the taller boy shouts.

Without missing a beat, Marcus answers, “Scottie Pippen,” and takes a three-point shot. The ball makes a perfect arc in the air and swooshes through the net. The boys groan. Marcus turns toward the building and catches sight of me.

I want to run back inside and change into my clothes, but the opportunity vanishes as Marcus approaches and the two boys pivot to see where he’s going, and all I can do is turn to stone.

Marcus’s gaze is locked on my face. He doesn’t see my scarred leg. I’m not so lucky with the boys. The shorter ones asks, “What happened to your leg?” But he doesn’t say it with disgust in his voice, more like curiosity and awe.

His friend shoves him in the arm. “
¡Meirda!
Didn’t your
mamá
teach you any manners?”

Marcus’s gaze drops to my leg and he frowns, like he’s trying to figure out how I ended up with several hand-sized patches of scar tissue on my right thigh and calf. The scars are smooth, but the color doesn’t match the rest of my leg. They’re paler, making me look like a patched quilt. But the burns would have looked worse without all the skin grafts.

“It’s okay,” I say to the boys. “I was trapped in a burning building and the ceiling caved in on me.”

“Cool,” the short boy says matter-of-factly.

“How did you get out?” the taller one asks.

I fight against the memory. I don’t want to go there. “I just did. That’s all.” The words are shaky but it doesn’t seem as though either of them noticed. I turn to Marcus and look at his chest instead of his face. “So, are we playing ball or what?”

“Play ball,” the boys chorus.

“Okay,” Marcus says. “By the way, Amber, this is Alejandro”—he points to the taller boy—“and Juan.”

Juan looks me over, visibly impressed by what he sees. I have to work hard to keep from rolling my eyes. They glance at me, then Marcus. Juan says something to Alejandro in Spanish and they high-five. They’ve written me off and figured I’ll mess up Marcus’s perfect game.

Grinning on the inside, I take my place. Alejandro passes the ball to Juan. Marcus blocks the pass, dribbles past Alejandro, but instead of taking the shot, he passes it to me. I line it up and purposely miss. The boys whoop and holler and high-five again.

“Maybe you should let Marcus give you some pointers,” Alejandro says. “He’s an awesome coach.”

I pretend to think about it. “Can you show me how to do a layup properly? I was never good at those.”

“Okay.” Marcus holds out his hands, ready to receive the pass, and Juan sends the ball to him. Marcus bounces it twice and explains the steps to a perfect layup before showing me how to do it full speed.

All I can do is admire his technique and the way his body effortlessly executes the move. I nod and ask him to show me again. Not that he needs to. I love watching his muscles and limbs flex and contract in the beautifully orchestrated move.

Marcus performs another perfect layup and hands me the ball. “You think you got it?”

“I think so.” I bounce the ball twice and slowly perform the move, as if mentally talking myself through it. The layup is perfect like his. “Wow, you really are a great coach. Can I try again?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Alejandro passes me the ball from where it rolled near the fence. But instead of setting up at the line where Marcus showed me how to do the move, I dribble the ball into position on the other side of the hoop and perform another perfect layup, this time at full speed.

The boys’ mouths flop open and I grin. “Oops! Did I forget to mention I was voted MVP during my junior year of high school?” I ask with feigned innocence.

Marcus laughs loudly. The boys appear notably impressed.

“I’m playing with Amber,” Juan says, which surprises me. It’s not like Marcus is a slouch on the court.

“Which referee made the controversial foul call against the Bulls in game five of the playoffs during the nineteen-ninety-three to ninety-four season?” Alejandro asks.

Juan’s face is blank. Marcus looks thoughtful for a moment. “Hue Hollins.” He passes Alejandro the ball.

Alejandro bounces it. “Correct.” Without warning, he dribbles it four steps and passes it to Marcus. I intercept it and send it to Juan. He catches it and goes for the jump shot. The ball bounces off the hoop and lands in Marcus’s hands.

For the next thirty minutes, we play a hard game of two-on-two. Alejandro is a stronger player than Juan, who’s still pretty good. It’s easy to see that Alejandro has the potential to go far in the game—if he makes the necessary grades.

“What three players from the same team were on the All-Defensive First Team?” Marcus asks. “Their team was the only one in history to achieve this.”

I know the answer but let Alejandro reply. This is part of the game for them, and it’s fun watching them test each other’s knowledge. The game is similar to one Emma, Trent and I used to play when we were younger. I get the feeling these guys, especially Alejandro, mean a lot to Marcus...and it’s sweet. Just like it’s sweet how Marcus tells me the lame math jokes just to make me laugh while he helps me with my homework.

“Jordan, Pippen and Rodman,” Alejandro says without hesitation.

Juan grins. “Too bad that wasn’t on your math test, Alejandro. Then your
mamá
wouldn’t have grounded you.”

Alejandro throws him a dark look. Juan chuckles and attempts a basket. The ball bounces off the backboard and ricochets in the opposite direction to where we’re standing. Alejandro cracks up while Juan jogs over to retrieve it.

“Yo bro,” Marcus says. “You need help with your math?”

Alejandro starts to shake his head but then changes his mind and nods.

“If you want, I can come over after work tomorrow and help you.”

Alejandro nods, eyes averted. I can relate to how he feels. I never thought I’d need a tutor; I mean, other than Trent. But our tutoring sessions were more about us making out than his helping me with math, which he did anyway. He knew if I didn’t do well on my tests, I’d be grounded and there would be no make-out sessions.

“He’s a great math tutor,” I tell Alejandro as Juan returns with the ball. And I mean it. “He’s been helping me.”

“I could help you with your math,” Juan says in a suggestive tone. This time I don’t contain the urge to roll my eyes.

“So how come you don’t play for UIC?” Marcus asks, changing the subject.

I take the ball from Juan and bounce it near a crack in the concrete, watching the ball instead of Marcus. It still hurts that I’m unable to pursue my dream of playing for a woman’s collegiate team. That, and being a vet were my lifelong goals. But Paul took one of them away, and has put the other in jeopardy.

“I couldn’t play during my senior year ’cause I was recovering from the burns.” And I couldn’t face my former teammates. Trent was the star player for the boys’ team. The player who could have taken them to the playoffs last year. He never had the chance.

I blink back the tears. “How come you aren’t playing with the men’s team?” Marcus is good enough that he could if he wanted to.

I bounce pass him the ball. He catches it and turns it in his hands, studying it, the corners of his mouth twisted down. “I had to work, so I couldn’t play varsity.”

I sense there’s more to it, but I don’t have a chance to ask. Lightning lights up the sky and the crackle of air molecules sets me on edge.

I stand by the car, and stare at my flat tire. “Hurry up, Michael,” I mutter to myself. Headlights approach then pull off to the side of the road. The car parks behind mine. It’s too dark to make out the driver. I just know it isn’t Michael.

The driver’s door opens and someone steps out. I can’t see who it is with the headlights glaring in my face.

Lightning streaks across the sky and I startle at the crackle of electricity. I hate storms. My father walked out on us during a storm. Trent died during a storm. My throat closes in on itself at that memory, still fresh, like his grave.

“Hi, Amber,” a familiar voice says. I can’t place it, but something about it sets off alarms.