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  Chase doesn’t seem to notice that I’m standing here in nothing but Marcus’s T-shirt, which barely skims the top of my thighs. He gives us his usual goofy grin. “I wasn’t sure if Smoky has one, and this one looks cool.”

  Marcus laughs. “Dude, don’t you think you went a little overboard, ’specially since Amber is my girlfriend?”

  The smile wipes off Chase’s face. “I’ve always wanted a cat.” He glances around at the cat toys and shrugs. “Sorry, guess I did get a little carried away.”

  I give him a one-armed hug. “Well, I think it’s sweet. And I’m sure Smoky will love it.”

  Marcus rolls his eyes. “Great. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

  I pull away from Chase. “Smoky already likes you.”

  Marcus ensnares me in his good arm and kisses the top of my head. The arm captured in the sling is pressed between us, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. “I wasn’t talking about Smoky. I was referring to you.”

  Chase laughs. “I think Amber’s already established she likes you. Or at least that’s the impression I got last night.”

  My face heats up several degrees at the implication behind those words. Marcus grabs a pillow from the couch and hurls it at his best friend. Chase ducks and the pillow lands on the floor with a soft thud.

  Chase is still chuckling as I hurry into the bathroom.

  Marcus doesn’t follow me this time, which is just as well. If he did, I wouldn’t be ready to leave when Emma shows up.

  A few body parts that remember our steamier showers together tingle at the memory. It’s amazing what that man can do, even with an injured shoulder.

  The buzzer shrieks as I enter the living room, showered and ready to go. Chase answers it and Emma’s voice crackles through the intercom. He buzzes her into the building then heads to the bathroom.

  As soon as the door clicks shut, Marcus pulls me into his good arm and we make up for the several days we’ll be apart. The kisses are sweet and tender. Anything more and I won’t be able to leave.

  Chase turns on the shower, and the stream of water hammering the bathtub covers any sound escaping my lips as I tease Marcus with a few sexy noises I know drive him wild. His free arm slides down to my lower back and pulls me closer.

  A loud knock startles us from our kiss. Marcus murmurs a curse against my lips and removes his hand from my back. I instantly miss the warmth of that hand, and wish we could have another hour alone before I have to leave. Even if it’s just to curl up on the couch and discuss our favorite TV shows or our plans for the day.

  He lets Emma in. Like me, her long blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a soft pink ski jacket I haven’t seen before, which I suspect she bought in a pricier store than Marcus and I would ever shop in. Even her slim-fitting jeans proclaim “I love to shop.”

  She hands me a brown paper bag with Five Point Café printed on it. “Here’s your special order.” The corners of her mouth creep up as she holds in her laugh. She knows it’s not for me, as much as I love their chicken noodle soup.

  “I got something to help you remember me while I’m away,” I tell Marcus.

  He takes the bag from me. Not a hint of curiosity marks his face. Laughter crinkles around his eyes. “You’re the best. You know that, right?”

  “Hey, you ready?” Emma asks. Although she might be talking about the trip, I know what she’s really asking—am I ready to spend Christmas without Trent and Michael?

  I give Marcus a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you in two days.”

  With his gaze still on me, he says to Emma, “Drive carefully. You’ve got something that’s important to me.”

  Emma giggles. “Yes, Mom.”

  I could have driven home myself, but Emma and I have plenty of catching up to do, which we haven’t been able to start on since I took the first steps toward repairing our friendship two weeks ago. Schoolwork came first for both of us. Emma can’t risk her basketball scholarship, and I’m programmed to want perfect grades.

  Marcus escorts us downstairs and helps load my suitcase into Emma’s trunk. In the side mirror, I watch his building grow smaller as Emma and I drive away. The vanilla-scented air freshener tries to push away the memory of his spicy scent, but I refuse to let it go.

  “Reporters have been calling my parents about the psycho’s trial,” Emma says.

  I take several deep breaths. I’m not looking forward to that part.

  After my ordeal last spring, Mom kept the reporters at bay while I recovered in the hospital from my injuries. I’ve never been comfortable talking to them—or talking in public, period—even when I used to play varsity basketball. After what I went through with Paul, there was no way I could tell the media what happened. Not if it meant the horrific details of what I went through would be splashed across the page for all to see. Fortunately the cops kept quiet on certain details that were being saved for the trial.

  But soon everything will become common knowledge. Every word Paul and I say on the stand could wind up front page news.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Emma shoots me a puzzled look. “For what?”

  “For everything. For what Paul did and for the reporters.”

  “I don’t know why you’re apologizing. You didn’t do anything, Amber. You’ve gotta stop apologizing for what everybody else does.”

  The corner of her lips curl into a smirk though her eyes hold an edge of sadness. “When we were younger, Trent quickly figured out your habit of taking the blame for everything. Your brother knew it too. You made it too easy for them. You’re not responsible for what the psychopath did to them or to you, and you’re not responsible for the reporters. All they want is a story.”

  “Have your parents talked to them?”

  Emma nods. “They issued a statement that we’re looking forward to closure in Trent’s…” I can practically hear her throat close up. “In Trent’s murder. And the trial can’t come soon enough for us.”

  Wish I could share those sentiments. I’m freaking over the trial and having to speak in front of everyone, and how everyone I know will find out details I’d rather keep secret. The only person I want there with me, other than my mom and grandma, is Marcus. I don’t want Emma and her family to hear everything Paul did to me, beyond what’s already public knowledge from the original news stories and the details I did share with her. Marcus knows. They don’t.

  “Have they contacted you?” she asks.

  “All questions have to be directed to the D.A,” I say, sounding like a spokesperson from the D.A.’s office.

  “How come?”

  “They don’t want me accidentally saying anything they’re saving for the trial, you know, to prove Paul’s guilt.”

  Emma pulls her gaze from the road and narrows her eyes at me. The stark coldness in them causes me to shiver. “Why do you call that sick psychopath by his name?”

  I look away, unable to take the pain in her eyes. “Because before I knew what he was, he was my friend.”

  “And after everything he did to you?”

  I shrug, the movement mechanical. “Habits are hard to break, I guess.” Even when he turned into the monster everyone knows him as, there were still moments when I thought my old friend would return and he would realize how much he was hurting me. It was in those rare moments when he did show compassion, doing things for me that under other circumstances would be considered sweet. Like bringing me my favorite magazines to read.

  Emma nods slowly, as if reasoning her way through everything I said. “You mean like Stockholm Syndrome?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  We spend the rest of the trip singing along to the pop station as we drive along Interstate 80. Already I miss the classic rock station Marcus and I love listening to. That Trent loved listening to. Emma, not so much.

  “Things between you and Marcus seem to be going well,” Emma says as we turn off the interstate and head along the main road toward our ho
metown. Considering her brother was my boyfriend, whom I loved, I’m surprised at how casual she sounds. There’s no pain in her voice, only curiosity.

  A grin sneaks onto my face, despite my attempts to prevent it. Thinking about Marcus always has that effect on me. “They are. What about you and Liam?”

  Her grin matches mine. “I like him. A lot. He knows how to make me smile. Something I’d almost forgotten how to do.”

  Because of me.

  “Hey, can we stop at the mall first?” she asks. “I need to buy Liam a birthday present so I can mail it to him before the weekend.”

  “Yeah, okay.” As long as we don’t bump into anyone I know.

  Once we reach the mall parking lot, we drive up and down packed rows of cars, searching for an empty spot. We eventually find one in another time zone.

  Emma scoots out of the car. I remain seated, frozen on the warm car seat for a minute, until I realize I can’t stay here forever. I can’t keep hiding.

  The biggest benefit of living in Chicago is that most people have long since forgotten about the stalking and kidnapping. I’m not Amber, the victim. I’m a nameless face in the crowd, like everyone else. In Chicago, I can escape the sympathetic looks that were all too common after the firefighter found me in Paul’s burning building.

  To the rest of the country I was the nameless teen. To everyone in Crossfields, I was Amber, the girl who had been raped and tortured. The girl no one knew what to make of. The girl who was stared at or whispered about like some kind of freak show.

  And this trip appears to be no exception.

  As Emma and I walk through the mall, I feel all eyes on me, staring through my winter coat and long-sleeved T-shirt. Stripping me down to my dark secrets.

  Emma steers me to the adult store, located in a wing that sees the fewest shoppers. A female manikin stands in the window, wearing a white transparent baby-doll outfit with sheer white stockings reaching midthigh.

  “This is where you’re getting Liam a present?” I ask, voice part squeak, part awe.

  Emma grins, a light blush hitting her cheeks. “More like a joke present. I bought his real gift in Chicago last week.”

  I glance at the store again and my heart flutters in my chest, like a thousand butterflies searching for a way to break free. “I’ll wait for you here.” The last thing I want is to have a flashback because I spot a red slip, like the one a Victoria’s Secret model might wear.

  Emma tugs on my arm. “You have to come,” she says, her voice as squeaky as mine was a moment ago. “I can’t go in there alone. I’ll feel stupid.”

  I look between her and the store, digging my teeth into my lip. I owe her for my being a crappy best friend after what happened with Paul, and I owe her for what Paul did to Trent. “Okay.”

  We walk into the store, with Emma practically dragging me in, and draw up short as our virgin voyage takes us into the land of erotic clothing and tripleX movies. My face heats up, and feels as hot as Emma’s looks, her blush now a supercharged red.

  Emma giggles nervously as we walk down the aisle, beyond the sexy clothing and movies. She gives them a cursory glance. I focus on her and nothing else.

  We end up at the back of the store, at a wall containing everything from the mild to the shocking: multicolored condoms, edible body lotions, vibrators, sex toys. None of which I have a clue how to use. And I’m not about to read the directions to find out.

  Emma removes a package containing small balls. She reads the description and her eyes go as wide as her mouth. She shoves it back onto the display rack, almost missing it in her haste, and moves on.

  “One of the girls on the team made a sex video for her boyfriend for Christmas,” she says, voice low even though I’m the only person within hearing range.

  “Seriously?” I didn’t say it loud, but it feels as though the word bounced around the store at full volume. I glance around to make sure no one’s listening, not that they would know what we’re talking about. No one’s paying us any attention.

  “I couldn’t do that,” she says. “What if it ends up on YouTube? She could get kicked off the team.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “Yeah, but she trusts her boyfriend.”

  “But what if they break up?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve met him and he’s nice, but it’s still risky.”

  I laugh shortly. “Does that mean I don’t have to worry about you showing up on YouTube, other than for something to do with basketball?”

  “Definitely.” She goes back to searching through the items hanging on the wall. I select a bottle of strawberry-flavored body lotion, which seems a safe enough gift, and read the instructions.

  “What about these?” Emma holds up a pair of pink fur-lined handcuffs.

  My wrists and shoulders hurt, and my hands feel like they’re floating in the air. I’m sitting, propped against a cold wall, the same temperature as the concrete floor. The cool air wraps itself around me and I shiver.

  My breathing comes in fast, lungs fighting to draw in more air, which currently is evading them. The store blurs. I close my eyes and reach for something to steady me. My hand lands on something fairly solid. It’s only a memory. It can’t hurt me. Paul can’t hurt me.

  “Can I help y’all?” a male voice says with a faint Texas drawl. Whatever my hand is pressed against moves.

  My eyelids snap open and I peer into the deep blue eyes of a good-looking blond man. His jeans, light denim-blue shirt, facial growth, and Stetson spell cowboy. His name tag spells store employee.

  I pull my hand from his muscled chest.

  “No, we’re fine,” I say, willing my face to not heat up, which of course is already too late. I look at the bottle in my hand. “I was wondering what flavor to get.”

  An easy smile spreads on his face. “Strawberry’s the most popular choice, though chocolate’s up there too.”

  “I’ll take strawberry.” Marcus once told me he loves the smell of my hair, the result of my strawberry-scented shampoo.

  Emma grabs a bottle of chocolate-flavored lotion. “This should be good enough,” she says, eyeing the nearby merchandise.

  “You sure?” the guy asks. “I’ve got some sex toys that are bound to get your boyfriends hot and bothered.” He doesn’t say it in a sleazy way. His tone is professional with a hint of teasing.

  “Maybe next time.” My gaze falls on a display of whips I hadn’t noticed before. My muscles tense at the memory of thin leather slicing across my back more times than I care to remember.

  “Many people find whips result in an intense sexual release.” He reaches for one and whacks it lightly against his palm. I flinch at the sound of it slapping against his flesh.

  All I want is for my fight-or-flight instinct to kick in so I can run, but my legs refuse to read the memo. My head feels foggy, not part of this world. I’m not having an out-of-body experience, and I’m not having an “in” body one, either. I’m neither here nor there—and I hate this feeling.

  Em calls my name. It sounds distant. Foreign. And I’m unable to respond.

  Chapter Two

  Marcus

  I slap my math book shut. The force of it is hard enough I wouldn’t be surprised if my eighty-year-old neighbor heard it through the thin walls, and over the sound of her soap opera. If it weren’t for that fuckhead, Frank, I’d already be finished with my exams and on the way to Crossfields with Amber. No thanks to him, I wasted several days in the hospital, recovering from being shot, and now I have to take four exams in two days. It was that or dwell on them over the Christmas break.

  The only thing I want to dwell on is how great I feel when I hold Amber in my arms. I can almost smell the sweet strawberry scent that lingers on her, almost taste her tempting lips against mine. She’s the one person who can make me feel whole. The one person in my fucked up world who understands me.

  I shove my chair away from my desk and retrieve my backpack from the floor, barely missing the stack o
f books next to it. As I stride out of my room, the buzzer for the building’s main entrance screeches.

  I push the intercom button. “Yeah?”

  “This is Officer Mitchell from the Chicago Police. I need to speak to Marcus Reid.”

  My heart bounces a few extra times against my ribs for good measure. He’s probably here about Frank, but no matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t stop the irritating feeling scraping inside my gut. The feeling I always get when dealing with cops. A situation that occurred all the time in my old neighborhood.

  “Okay, I’ll buzz you up.” I push the button below the intercom. Even though I’m on my way out, no way am I discussing Frank where other tenants can overhear.

  A few minutes later a sharp knock at the door drags me away from my less than pleasant thoughts about my stepfather. I open the door to reveal a uniformed officer with buzzed hair, and a build that can snap a drug user in half without any real exertion.

  He flashes his credentials. “Marcus Reid?”

  My eighty-year-old neighbor shuffles past, her hair as white as the dingy walls. Her old woman scent of mothballs and lavender claws at my nostrils. I do my best not to scrunch up my nose and give her another reason to make my life miserable—beyond increasing the TV volume while I’m studying.

  She eyes the cop as if he were her favorite actor from Law & Order. Then her gaze lands on me and her expression changes. To her, I’m nothing more than a worthless piece of shit. That much is obvious.

  Fighting back the temptation to tell her where to go, I open the door wider and move aside to let the cop in. He steps inside the doorway but doesn’t go much farther.

  I close the door, blocking the woman’s pinched expression. It’s nothing I haven’t witnessed before from her.

  “I can’t stay long,” I point out. “I have two exams this afternoon.”

  “This won’t take long,” the cop says. “It’s about Frank Wilson. He’s been released on bail, and he and your mother denied the allegations that he raped your brother and sexually assaulted you. Is there anyone else who can substantiate your claims?”