Chapter 14 Rafael Santos
FOURTEEN
RAFAEL SANTOS
We drive farther down the road, the dark ahead of us like an vast, black hole. My lights beam across Valentina’s tailgate, and I wait with bated breath for the red of her taillights to flash on.
They haven’t yet, and I get the overwhelming feeling she’s playing chicken with some invisible foe.
She races ahead of me, and I watch in horror as she begins fading toward the left and then right, her tires threatening to fall off the road as she hits the edge and then corrects them, starting over again.
Is she really that drunk? Or does she truly think she’s just invincible?
Rage consumes me—she has no regard for anyone else, and here I was, feeling guilty for what I’ve done. I’m doing them all a fucking favor!
The words are bitter as I swallow. I don’t want to be this way—but what choice do I really have?
The driveway finally comes into view, and I hold my breath as she yanks the truck into the turn, going far too fucking fast. She’s reckless, and I hate her more for it.
Still, the brakes do not falter.
Did I do it wrong? Why has nothing happened?
Shame and anger fill my mouth like a rotten lemon, and I swallow rapidly to rid myself of the taste.
I hadn’t chickened out. I’d done what I thought needed to be done to avenge my family, even if now, I can hear my brother’s voice, telling me how weak I am for not doing more. If it’d been him, he wouldn’t have messed up.
If it’d been him, she would already be dead.
I contemplate ramming into the bed of her truck, but even as the thought forms, I brush it away. It would not only be painfully obvious—it’d leave me with as much of a bill as it would her, and Lord knows I can’t afford any of it.
Still, I have to do something.
As we pull down the long row of trees, Valentina speeds up, feeling invincible from the ego that doesn’t fit in this world, and I can’t help but hope.
I’d pray if it didn’t make me feel sick to my stomach.
What I want is evil, and I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ll end up in hell for it, but I refuse to call upon God for help. I still believe in good and evil; I’ve just found myself on the wrong side of the line here, and there’s no way around it.
As the truck accelerates, dust billowing behind her, the red taillights start to bounce, the tires wobbling, and then they flash as she finally presses the breaks. But they fail, the cut brake line finally giving out.
The truck roars ahead, catching the edge of the road, the deep ditch to the right sucking her in too quickly for her to correct.
She halts with a crash, the sound deafening, and I half expect to see the truck burst into pieces.
Instead, the bank on the opposite side of the ditch explodes, bits of rock and branches off the tree overhead spraying around the brand new dodge and pelting the road around me.
I skid to a halt myself, heart pounding. Breathing raggedly, the sound a roar in my head, my fingers strangle the tattered wheel of my old, beat up Ford as I wait for signs of life.
Terror, regret, anger—they all pour through me. The one thing I know I should be feeling is relief—I’ve finally done it. So why don’t I feel good about it?
I yank open my door and jog toward her, trying to tamp down the guilt as I near. What if I actually killed her? What kind of man would that make me?
Right as I get close, the front driver door squeaks open, and Valentina groans from within, her arms straining as she tries to wedge the bent metal back to its original form.
Swallowing, I skid to a halt, pulling on the door. It snaps as we get it open. Valentina slumps out, and I involuntarily reach for her, helping to steady her as she gets to her feet.
“Shit. Are you okay?” I ask around the lump in my throat.
Do I sound guilty? Will she know?
“I’m fine,” she croaks, and I hoist her arm up over my shoulder. My stomach plummets at the sight of blood dribbling from her hairline.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” she parrots, her voice gaining volume. She doesn’t look or sound fine, and as the initial panic begins to wear thin, I notice the overwhelming scent of weed wafting from the open door.
I should feel victorious at the realization.
Still, guilt fills me. She could have died.
But isn’t that what I want?
We slowly climb the bank, the truck lights beaming in the direction of the house. New lights begin moving in our direction, growing brighter as they near, until McCrae’s bike comes to a screeching halt. I brace for impact as his murderous gaze comes into view.
“What the fuck happened?” he snarls, and Valentina’s head sags. She acts like she’s getting a beating from her father.
“Uh, too much fun?” I shrug, plastering on my best teasing smile.
I see the mistake it is as soon as McCrae’s eyes meet mine.
I’m playing with my position here by acting like she doesn’t matter around McCrae, a fact I can’t risk.
I lose the smile. “She’s okay. The new truck, not so much.
I helped her out as soon as she crashed. ”
“What happened?” he asks again.
“I lost control,” Valentina interjects.
“You fucking reek of weed, V.”
She shrugs. "Tequila too, probably.” Valentina doesn’t fight him, doesn’t even bother defending herself.
It’s like she’s given up, and for a split second, I feel the need to defend her. I bite my tongue. This is what I wanted to happen. What I made happen. Even if she’s responsible for the drinking and illegal substance part.
Maybe I drove her to do those too.
“You need fucking help,” he whispers, his face a guarded mask.
She stares at him in shock, her mouth falling open as her hand unknowingly grips my shoulder. “Wha—”
“Do you seriously not care? About yourself? About anyone else?”
“It was a dark, dead country road, McCrae. For fuck’s sake.”
“You have to know your actions are going to catch up with you.”
Her shock melts into fury. “That’s kinda the whole fucking point.”
Matching anger flickers across McCrae’s face. “What about everyone else? What happens to us if you just give up?”
She shrugs but doesn’t speak. I feel like I’m looking through a window at the conversation, only getting bits and pieces of a bigger picture I can’t yet see.
“What happens when you hurt an innocent person, Valentina? A little girl, riding home from her friend’s house with her mom?”
I feel the devastation ripple through her body before I see it play across her face. She blinks rapidly, as if to clear the haze from her mind. When she speaks, her voice is nothing more than a shattered whisper. “I didn’t realize—”
“How could you not fucking realize?”
“Sometimes, I get so lonely, I forget I’m not the only person alive.”
The words break even my resolve, and I straighten, an action that seems to remind the two they’re not alone.
“I don’t think you should be talking about this tonight, not when you’re not in the right head space.” I don’t know why I say it.
McCrae shakes his head, clearly disgusted or disappointed, I can’t tell which, before sighing raggedly.
“There’s nothing that can be done tonight anyway.
It’s three in the fucking morning. You’re just lucky it’s on your own property, V.
If this’d happened on the main road, you’d be going to fucking jail. ”
She refuses to meet his eyes, her arm still slung over my shoulders. Valentina continues to lean against me, and I wonder if she’s forgotten she’s doing so.
“I want to go to bed,” she states.
“I’ll take her back to the house.” I offer.
“You’ve been drinking.” It’s an accusation, and I take less pleasure in my response than I originally anticipated.
“I’ve been drinking water all night.” Valentina instantly pulls her arm back, and I shiver at the loss of her touch.
“Fine. Get back to the house, and we’ll deal with this shit show tomorrow.”
I mockingly bow at McCrae before walking back to the truck, opening the passenger door for Valentina. She glares at me with clear betrayal for several moments before climbing in. She’s hesitant and silent, facing the window. I don’t bother making conversation.
The drive’s less than a minute, but the tension in the cab becomes suffocating almost instantly. We park, the tires squealing as I hit the brakes in front of the house, but before I can climb out, Valentina looks over at me, the heat of her gaze drawing my own.
“You seem like you want to ask me another question, Santos. I don’t have any tequila to hide behind this time.” Her words are soft, and even as rage pulses though my veins like the poison it is, I offer her a smile.
Dried blood runs in a line from her fiery red hair down her sharp cheekbone, ending at her perfect jawline. Her lips are still painted cherry red, turned down in a frown, and her golden eyes stare at me expectantly—far sharper than I expect for someone so intoxicated.
It’s all a wall she hides behind, a way to numb whatever she’s running from. Still, she knows something's amiss, or at least wonders. I feel my own mask slipping—my opportunity to get revenge growing precariously farther away.
I’ve a million questions, all more dangerous and damning than the next. But instead of breathing life to any of them just yet, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you have any tattoos?”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows instantly draw together, and I see fresh panic flash in her eyes for the briefest of moments. It’s a peculiar reaction, but she blinks, and it’s gone. “One.” She opens the truck door to leave, and I grip her arm, desperate to keep us in this moment a little longer.
I drop it almost instantly, her skin burning beneath my touch.
She hisses, as if she feels it too. I know I should let her walk away, or at least act like her current mental and physical state are concerning to me.
Instead, I ask what I really want to know.
“You seem to think you’re a bad guy, like a villain or an outlaw or something.
You seem to think everyone sees you as that. Why?”
I expect her to sneer or act hateful—at the very least, deny it.
Instead, her face falls further. “One bad choice after another. Some made by me, others forced upon me.” She pauses, her face twisting into a look of disgust as she looks down at her palms. “It was better to become the villain than the victim, and now, it’s all I am. ”
She jumps out, leaving me with far more questions than I had before.