Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
VALENTINA
He kissed me. It’s the only thing I can seem to think, over and over. He kissed me—in a crowd of people who see me as nothing more than an object, something to gawk at or grab.
What makes what he did any different? He kissed me without my permission.
Still, it feels different. He feels different, more so than anyone I’ve ever kissed.
I shake my head, willing away the ridiculous train of thought. It’s no different than any kiss I’ve ever received, besides the fact that it was done to protect me, sort of, rather than use me.
I bite my lip, searching the crowd. I can still feel the firmness of his lips against mine, how he all but consumed me for the briefest of moments, his mouth claiming me like I was his all along.
I can feel his tongue probing and demanding, not asking permission but not taking more than I was willing to give.
Just confident, determined, like the right puzzle piece fitting into the right hole.
My skin still slightly burns along my upper lip and jaw where his stubble rubbed against me. I run fingers over the tender skin, trying to wipe away the memory of him. I give up, dropping my hands to my sides. I don’t think I’ll be forgetting that kiss any time soon.
It’s because I haven’t been kissed in months—longer, if I’m thinking of a kiss that left my toes curling—not because I care what Santos thinks of me.
I couldn’t care less what he thinks. He’s simply a means to an end, a helping hand and a way to make McCrae jealous—a win, win.
Staring into the crowd, I tell myself I’m looking for Faith and McCrae, but it’s the black baseball cap and half-skull mask I don’t see that has my heart sinking.
Faces blur like paint smeared over a canvas, all the colors and costumes bleeding into a fuzzy mirage of a world you can’t quiet step into.
I’m standing on the outside, looking in.
Did he leave?
If he did, does it really bother me?
As the minutes tick by, I secretly admit to myself the truth: yes and yes. He left without so much as a goodbye, and it does bother me. No one wants me, wants to be around me, not even the loner man I pay.
Crossing my arms, I ignore the growing chill spreading over my skin. He’s not the only loner man I pay who doesn’t want me.
I’ve got a fucking type, apparently.
“Sucks being on the outside, doesn’t it?”
I slowly turn toward the unfamiliar voice. “Fuck off.” Just what I need—another stranger come to claim their pound of flesh.
He chuckles, not a malicious sound but a knowing one, and I face him fully.
I glare at him with a scrutinizing eye—something about him familiar but distant.
The blue eyes and sandy blond hair fit perfectly with his pressed jeans and collared shirt, but they stand out in the crowd of Halloween goers.
“Who—”
He sticks out his hand, his smile softening as if he’s doing his best to not scare me away. “Name’s Nathan. I’m a friend of Faith’s. We didn’t get a chance to be introduced that night at the bar.”
I bristle, remembering him clearly now. “Never heard of you.” I begin to dismiss him, turning away, but his smile falters, and for some unknown reason, I pause.
“I doubt that.”
I can’t help myself, seeing my reflection in the stranger. “Why’s that?”
He shrugs, rolling up his sleeve to expose tanned arms flecked with pale hair and delicate veins bulging beneath the skin. “I’ve got quiet the reputation with your friend group.”
My stomach drops. “They’re not my friend group.” I hate admitting it to a stranger, but I have the feeling he understands me.
He nods. “Yeah, I see that.”
We stand in awkward silence, people milling around us as if we don’t exist for several moments. Finally, I move a fraction closer, deciding being with someone’s better than standing completely alone. “Why doesn’t Faith like you? She likes everyone.”
He smile droops again. “Misunderstanding.”
I narrow my eyes in his direction, not loving the answer. “About what?”
His navy blue eyes meet mine. “Who knows anymore. It’s been years, one thing after another.
Everything’s just piled up, a mess she refuses to let me untangle.
” He licks his lips. “But I will. I have to fix things. If not for her, then for—” The sentence dies on his tongue, his eyes flicking over my shoulder.
“Valentina?” I whirl, nearly stumbling over myself at the sound of my name. I’m met with a face that’s the exact replica of my father’s.
“Mateo.” My fingers bite into my arms as I try to keep from shaking.
His eyes quickly look me up and down, and then he looks over my shoulder. I take the moment to drink in the sight of him, checking for any signs that he’s different, or in danger, or misses me.
Anything to show he feels even the least bit lost the way I do.
Dressed in a flannel and overalls, with a goofy-looking straw hat covering his usually styled hair and a piece of straw tucked behind his ear, I know it’s only wishful thinking.
He looks different all right. He looks happy, healthy, content. All things opposite the way I used to make him look.
It’s another knife, one that hits far deeper than the others currently protruding from my pathetic heart.
Taking a step back to distance myself from the invisible pool of blood gathering around my feet, I flash my teeth at him, and his gaze snaps back to mine, eyes narrowing. “Who were you talking to?”
I glance over my shoulder to realize Nathan’s vanished. I contemplate telling Mateo, but some small voice tells me to keep it to myself. I understand being misunderstood—standing on the outside wanting in, but no one’s willing to open the door. You’re the villain—no trial, no jury, just fact.
I vow to get the answers from the only person who matters. “No one.”
His eyebrows draw together in a dark line, his gaze flicking down. “Jessica Rabbit, real original.”
“What the fuck are you supposed to be? Pathetic?”
He rolls his eyes, moving the straw from behind his ear to the corner of his mouth. “A farmer.”
My eyebrows pinch together, my mind unable to comprehend how truly ridiculous he looks, how he willingly came into public looking this way. “Why?”
“Because Dale’s a scarecrow.” My back snaps back into a straight line at his words.
I should’ve known.
What can I even say to that?
“Where’s McCrae?” There’s concern in his voice, and I bristle further. Does he really think I can’t take care of myself? Or is he more afraid for the people around me, without McCrae to protect them?
The way his eyes dart around, I’m guessing the later.
“With Faith,” I say; the where, I don’t know.
Each passing second without them feels more and more like a betrayal.
Not only was there a very real shooter after me only weeks ago, the hole in McCrae’s shoulder evidence of that, but they’re supposed to both be my friends.
Or at least, Faith is, and McCrae’s…well, he’s my McCrae.
Mateo’s eyes narrow on me. “You’re kidding. McCrae has no business being around Faith—he’s going to ruin her.”
Inexplicably, I feel the need to defend them, even if I’m becoming more and more suspicious of their feelings. No one talks about the people I care about that way—like they’re some unredeemable monsters.
“Watch it, Mateo. You don’t know shit,” I hiss, squaring my shoulders. Familiar rage pours through me—rage at being alone, left behind and forgotten, rage at never being enough for anyone—pinpointed into a single target: the one person who’s always been my mark.
“Everything okay?” Faith’s fingers wrap lightly around my bicep, pulling me back. I don’t take my eyes off Mateo as I try to burn him to the ground with nothing more than my gaze.
When he doesn’t even whither, I look away, pinning my hatred on the next target.
“Where were you?” I glare at McCrae, and he has half a mind to look at least a little concerned.
Pulling the ghost mask to sit on top of his head, I watch the concern mix with the pity he almost always wears around me anymore, and it’s enough to make me want to scream.
My voice wobbles. “Some guy came up and fucking groped me. Right here, and everyone watched him. I pay you to be my bodyguard, not Faith’s loyal puppy. Do your fucking job.”
Faith’s arm falls, and McCrae hisses as he looks around the crowd. “Who was it? I’ll take care of it. You’re right. I shouldn’t have left.”
“I’m sorry. It was my fault. McCrae was just—” Faith’s voice is all concern, and I glare down at her.
“You’re right—it is your fault.”
“I didn’t know,” Mateo starts, sighing like he’s trying to overcome some inner hurdle. I hate him more for it; everyone pities me. If I’m not the damsel, then I’m the villain. I’m never the good character; no one would even consider it. “You should have said something. Are you okay?”
“Santos intervened.” I don’t mean to touch my lips at the mention of his name.
Who cares. McCrae doesn’t—that much, he’s made obvious.
“Who’s Santos?” Mateo asks.
“There you are!” Adalene bounds toward us, her face lighting up as she spots Faith.
Right before my eyes, I watch my normally snarky, spit-fire of a friend reform herself into something far more demure. Her sharp, watchful eyes become round and doe-like, her blushing cheeks covered like she was caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.
Faith rushes forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Adalene, and for the first time in my life, I’m jealous of a hug. Faith’s never once hugged me, never even tried. Not that I’d let her, but my heart still aches at the sight.
“Dale, you look adorable!” Faith says in awe, extending her arms to look down at Adalene’s outfit.
She’s wearing a denim body suit with red and yellow patches haphazardly sewn on it, ruffly sleeves ending in straw-like material.
Her curvy legs are covered in nude tights, and she has the cutest pair of brown boots, topped in the same straw-like material.
Her face is covered in thick makeup, including a painted red and yellow patch on her cheek and a black stich-line on either side of her lips.
She looks every bit a girly scarecrow.
“Doesn’t she?” Mateo coos, pulling her into his side and kissing the top of her head. My stomach revolts at the side.
I don’t need to be here, seeing this.
“What took you so long, baby?” Mateo says into the top of Adalene’s head, and she tips her face to look up at him. A fleeting expression of concern crosses her features before it disappears.
In a low voice, she says, “I thought I saw someone.”
Before Mateo can say anything else, or I can demand McCrae take me home, another couple approaches, the woman in an all-black outfit, paired with black cowboy boots and cat ears, a baby on her hip dressed in a fuzzy mouse onesie.
The man is in all black as well, minus the white ghost-face mask exactly like the one McCrae’s wearing.
They could almost be twins.
“Stetson, you guys all look amazing! I can’t believe how big Poppy’s getting.” Faith rushes toward the woman, slinging her arms over neck, careful of the baby as she does. The woman smiles at Faith, and I recognize her from the porch, her gaze murderous as she looked down on me.
“I still can’t believe you got Gus to dress up.” Mateo punches the man’s arm, his face splitting into a grin.
They’re one big, happy family. A family I’m not a part of.
Turning to peek at McCrae, whose mask still sits on top of his head, I see the hurt written across his face. He doesn’t try to hide it, and I wonder if he even realizes how much he’s exposing.
Augustus raises his mask to look at McCrae. “You copying me, brother?”
McCrae’s expression becomes stoney, only a small smile twisting his lips. “Isn’t that what a good stalker does?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Augustus says nonchalantly.
McCrae’s eyes narrow, but he still smiles, like he knows something the rest of us don’t. “Sure you don’t.”
Adalene and her friend Stetson start pelting Faith with questions, their bodies forming a circle as they animatedly catch up. Mateo faces Augustus fully, immersing them in conversation.
Feeling completely on the outside, I shift uncomfortably on my feet. No one speaks to me. I run a hand over my arm, trying to brush off the chill of insecurity.
“I am sorry, Valentina,” McCrae says, his voice closer now, and I tear my eyes off the group of friends I’ll never be a part of.
At least I have McCrae.
I face him fully, giving him a small, forgiving, smile. “I’m fine, don’t worry—” I freeze, a lump the size of a boulder forming in my throat as I inspect McCrae’s face. With a shaky finger, I wipe the corner of his mouth where his blonde mustache hairs meet the stubble of his beard.
“Clearly, you weren’t,” I whisper, dropping my hand, my fingers now covered in a light layer of white and red face paint.
“What—” he starts, his eyes dropping to my hand as if I’d burned him.
“I want to leave. Now.”
I don’t say goodbye, and no one stops me as I leave.