39. Stetson
THIRTY-NINE
STETSON
June 7th, 2024
I know.
The two words rattle around in my brain—detonating so loudly, I can’t hear what else McCrae says to Gus, and what Gus says back. I want to scream it at McCrae’s smug face, and wipe that look mixed between satisfaction and disappointment from his features; to scream it as he stares disappointedly at Gus’s fallen face. I want to scream it at Gus, to Gus , from the fucking rooftops.
I know! And I have known from the morning I woke remembering our first time meeting.
But my mouth won’t work, the words arrested in my constricting throat. At first, I wanted to deny the fact. How could this man be the same one haunting me, and why? Why would he go to such lengths to scare me, to torment me, to claim me? And then I realized—he sees me for who I am at my core and relishes the darkness there. He is not afraid of what he will find, but loves it. He loves me, in his own dark and twisted way. And what more could I want?
It is the most freeing thing in the world, to be wanted not despite your flaws, but because of them. There is nothing more special than being appreciated, accepted, and desired for your imperfections.
I don’t know why or how it happened, and frankly, I don’t fucking care. I don’t know what love is, not really, but this feels intoxicating in the best way. I want this—I’m rabid with the thought of being someone’s obsession, someone’s deepest desire—the person worth dying for. Or killing for.
And McCrae—fuck him—is officially ruining the grand crescendo of my unfolding love story. I. Feel. Robbed.
Maybe I should be frightened. That’s what I imagine any sane person would feel when they find out their stalker is also the same man they’re falling in love with. And maybe at first I was, but not anymore. Because I am falling in love with Gus, in the only way someone as twisted and dark as I am can. I don’t feel warm and soft and comforted when I’m with him. I feel devoured and destroyed and on fire. I feel alive.
I’ve been a zombie in this life for far too long, and even if it makes me a monster, too, I will not give him up.
Especially not for a hollow threat like McCrae. Gus might not realize it, but there is nothing more that man can do to hurt him. I will make sure of it.
But as much as I’m furious with McCrae, I’m even more upset at Gus.
I’ve withdrawn from Gus, pushed him to arm’s length, forced him to face the possibility of losing me—not because I want him to let me go. But to remind him how obsessed, how desperate for me he really is. I want to feel the full force of that desire, that hunger. I want to get the darkest, most deprived version of this man I, too, am obsessed with, to prove once and for all how perfect we are for one another.
I decided weeks ago I’d make him crawl to me, make him hunt me. And now this fucker came in here and ruined everything. And the worst part?
Gus is now retreating—afraid. And that just won’t fucking do.
Rooted to my spot at the dinner table, McCrae looks back at me a final time, his face blank—not like he’s hiding his feelings, but like he has none. He’s hollow and empty, and a shiver races down my spine. McCrae is death—a reaper collecting souls.
He’s an exceptionally handsome man, in a beyond dangerous sort of way, with blonde shaggy hair turning silver at the temples, and an unkempt beard and mustache. Icy blue eyes pierce into my own, both hollow and full of torture, and I know he sees more than most. Small crescent-shaped scars glimmer over the surface of his tan neck and tattoos—faces, numbers, symbols—cover every available inch of his arms, neck, and who knows where else. He’s deadly and successfully just sunk an arrow through Gus’s aching heart— the heart I treasure above all else.
Gus follows him out, his contrasting black curls falling over his face as he slumps at the doorway. He hasn’t looked at me; he’s being too much of a coward, and I hate him for it. Not because of his shocking, yet not surprising, revelation. But because he’s acting afraid to lose. Like he’d give me up if I rejected him.
How can he give up this easily? After everything.
When I no longer can hear their footsteps, I move, not taking a second to consider my actions. I will run—make him chase me. If he wants to think I’m the scared, na?ve, breakable little girl he’s forming in his head, I will give him that version. I silently push out of my chair and race for the back door.
Latching it behind me, I slink down the porch steps and around the house to watch the Devil himself leave my life. I swear, if he ever comes back, I’ll kill him myself. Not for what he assumes hurt me— but for hurting Gus. He sits on the seat of his bike, the engine rumbling beneath him, eyes staring at nothing—I wonder if he will cry and then shake my head. He isn’t capable of such a human act.
His bike finally turns, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. I find Gus’s dark shape leaning against the deck railing, his hands running repeatedly through his curls. He reenters the house, the screen door clanging shut, and I bolt toward the barn.
As I enter, Winston shifts, sensing my erratic mood, and eyes me suspiciously, but does not shy away. I pat his neck. “Good boy.”
“Going somewhere?” Gus’s voice, quiet and furious, fills the inky black of the barn behind me. I duck, hoping he didn’t see me. Maybe if I can hide from him, he will go somewhere else to look for me. “Little Filly, I know you’re in here.”
And just like that, my plan comes to a screaming halt, like a plane shot from the sky—spiraling and plummeting until it hits the ground, exploding into a burst of flames. I shiver, the thrill of hate and lust mixing in my veins.
Well, fuck.
He sighs, and I imagine him shaking his head, disappointment and anger painted across his painfully beautiful face.
“Listen, I’m sorry you found out like that, okay? Fuck, I… I don’t even know where to start.”
I remain crouched, Winston’s whisker-covered nose nudging the side of my face, but I ignore him, listening to Gus with bated breath.
He shifts again, the ground crunching, and then continues. “I met you the day you left Moztecha. Don’t know if you remember that day or not.”
Oh, if he only knew.
“It was your eighteenth birthday.” He sighs, and I can hear his growing discomfort—he’s a man of few words.
Which is a fact I’ve always appreciated about him.
Only now, he launches into a detailed retelling of finding me, and with each word, my skin begins to itch more. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not what I need from him right now. If he knows me as well as he says he does, he should know words mean nothing to me—no matter how pretty they are.
I continue to hide, my insecurity warring with my need to be with him. Because I do want to be with him. I want to be with him. What the fuck am I hiding from at this point? I want to be with him. Even if we explode, ending in a blaze of fire, screaming and irrevocably tortured. I, Stetson Walker, pessimistic, sassy, and stubborn to no end, want this man.
And I’m done running.
“I figured out your name at a stoplight in a different town—a fucking stop light Stetson! Do you understand how unlikely that is? And you’re probably wondering why I waited. I wanted you to have a life, Stetson. I… I love you—the only way a monster knows how to love—with teeth and claws and violent, all-consuming need. I knew, from the moment I met you, I’d carve my name into your heart no matter what it took. I’m not sorry about any of it?—”
I sigh angrily, cutting off another string of words. If I have to listen to him wax on any longer, I might just pull my hair out.
Ten years, and it’s like he doesn’t know me at all—like he thinks I’m not as fucked up as him and don’t want this—don’t want him. Even as he says the poetic words, I don’t know if he believes them, and that makes me murderous.
“Oh, will you please shut the fuck up?” I hiss, anger—white hot—igniting through me. There is no shuffling. I don’t even hear him breathing anymore. “Do you not know me as well as you claim to? Do you not know that I don’t want your apologies or explanations—only your obsession, Gus? Only your heart? The only time I would run from you is when I want to be chased. I don’t want your soppy inner monologues or your poorly written poetic words. I want your actions. And if you can’t give me that, get the fuck out of my life.”
Am I crazy for challenging him? Absolutely. But I’m tired of the words, of hiding and waiting. In this unforgiving world, if you do not take what you want, you will get nothing.
And I want Gus. Worse than I want oxygen.
He laughs, the sound dark and murderous cutting through the growing tension.
“Fuck, I love you, Little Filly.”
I roll my eyes and stand up. Gus looms beyond Winston’s stall door, his dark eyes glittering in the pale moonlight. He did not just confess his love to me like he’s said it a million times—the phrase well-used and routine between us. It only pisses me off more.
“If you love me so much, why don’t you spend a little less time talking, and a little more time showing me?”
My chest is heaving at this point, my skin so hot I know I will surely burst into flames at any moment. I feel both numb and electrocuted, and I desperately need him to do more than talk. I need to feel. I need to feel him.
“You knew.” He murmurs the words, and I recognize it’s not a question. He’s piecing it together.
“If I say yes, will you stop being a little bitch and fuck me?” I growl in response.
“You really are perfect. A brat, but so fucking perfect. Do you want me, Little Filly?”
I sneer at him, filling my expression with as much hate as I can muster. He’s always the dominating one, always the one making me beg—and I hope he’ll continue to do it for the rest of our lives. But right now, I need to make him pay. Make him beg for my forgiveness for even questioning me—us.
“Do you want to fuck me, Gus?”
His eyes narrow at me, and I snarl back. There will be time for words, for whispering apologies and sweet nothings. But this isn’t it.
The last leash on my own beast’s strains, snapping free—I will never again be able to contain them. Honestly, I no longer want to. His shadows love my own, and that is the only thing I truly want. “Give me your monsters, your beasts. Give me you, Gus .”