Chapter 15 The Theater
Cree sat perched on the arm of a sofa in one of several Mulvaney mansion drawing rooms. He’d started the night with his friends but they’d drifted off in pairs, all except Lake, who had split from him to find Jericho to ask a question he’d said “just couldn’t wait.”
Cree was fine people-watching, especially when those people were wealthy, powerful people who seemed to have no clue just how wealthy and powerful they actually were.
It was like watching a People magazine come to life.
The Mulvaneys threw parties with a level of casual opulence that made Cree feel like he’d wandered into someone else’s fever dream.
Golden candlelight reflected off crystal decanters, laughter bounced off double-height ceilings, and expensive perfume floated through the air.
The whole house hummed with that familiar Mulvaney-brand chaos underneath the glam, murderers in couture, and kids darting around like sugar-fueled demons. Cree didn’t quite fit here, but he liked watching it from the edges, like observing a lightning storm from a safe distance.
He was so caught up sipping his drink that he almost missed the eyes on him.
Two people leaned against the wall that held up the marble staircase.
One was decked out as Spider-Man, the other Deadpool.
Couples costume? He wouldn’t have given it much thought except even with their faces covered, it was clear they were talking about him.
Deadpool elbowed Spider-Man, not-so-subtly pointed at Cree, then bounced on the balls of his feet like he couldn’t contain his excitement.
Even from across the room, Cree could sense the energy—bright, fizzy, impossible to ignore. Like soda about to explode.
Cree glanced down at himself. It couldn’t be his costume.
Could it? As far as costumes went, it barely qualified.
It had been Shiloh’s brainchild, turning him into the Crow.
It was just a pair of—beyond uncomfortable—leather pants, a skin-tight long-sleeved black shirt, and a faceful of black-and-white makeup.
Minimal cost, minimal effort. He looked like he belonged backstage at a rock concert, not mingling with billionaires under a chandelier the size of a baby elephant.
He didn’t usually mind being stared at. He stood out.
There was no getting around that. He was tall—close to six foot three last he checked—and broad, he had dark hair that fell past his shoulders, deep brown eyes and thick brows that Shiloh was always begging to tame. He was noticeable by any measure.
But mostly it came from being the only Indigenous person for miles.
Most days, he didn’t think about it, unless someone forced him to.
It wasn’t like people were mean about it, just…
invasive. “What tribe do you belong to?” Nehiyawak.
“What percentage are you?” One hundred—as far as he knew.
“Is there a reservation nearby?” No, at least not one for the Nehiyawak.
The questions often went on and on, as if the only interesting thing about him was his ancestry.
When they realized he didn’t have much to offer information wise, they seemed to take it personal.
Like he was somehow at fault for his patchy memories.
People always asked like they were entitled to the answers.
Like he was a genealogy project instead of a person.
His early years weren’t a total black hole. He remembered his grandfather. He remembered spending most of his time with him. He remembered his mother’s scent more than he remembered her face. She’d smelled like…wet clay. He wasn’t sure he’d ever even met his father before he’d been kidnapped.
His life was just a few vague memories stitched together from well-worn threads. Sometimes he tried to pull at those threads, see what unraveled, but mostly it just left him with a hollow ache behind his ribs.
At this point in his life, he’d just accepted that his family was the one he’d created, not the one he’d been born into or forced into.
His friends would walk through fire for him.
Jericho was the closest thing he’d ever had to a dad.
Lake was the closest thing Cree had to a brother.
And now he had a huge extended family. The Mulvaneys were loud, ridiculous, terrifying, and half-feral—but they were loyal.
All of that felt more real than anything the people who called themselves his parents had pretended to give him.
The only thing worse than standing out alone, had been standing next to his lily-white midwestern parents.
They’d been missionaries. God fearing Christians who spent more time congratulating themselves on their selflessness than actually being selfless.
They loved parading him around like a souvenir they’d collected on their honeymoon.
One they’d happily stuck on a shelf and forgotten the moment the novelty had worn off.
Cree had learned young that silence was easier than asking questions that made the people who held power over him uncomfortable.
But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and his chosen family held a strange kind of freedom—scary, violent, chaotic, but honest in their own deranged way.
They didn’t demand gratitude. They didn’t demand silence.
They didn’t punish him for having a voice.
Hell, half the time they acted like they wanted him louder.
Wanted him seen. He didn’t quite know what to do with that.
He was lost in thought when Deadpool decided to unmask himself and Cree’s train of thought jumped the track and crashed into a tree.
He’d never seen the other boy before. He was sure. He would have remembered him. He had soft wavy brown hair that brushed his shoulders, smooth golden skin, expressive eyes and a smile so bright Cree imagined it could power the city. Cree couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Something in his chest gave a strange, startled jolt, like stepping into cold water when he expected warm. Jordan looked like he’d been plucked from a different universe and dropped into this one just to be inconveniently beautiful.
He turned his head in Cree’s direction and stopped cold, realizing he was staring.
He said something to his companion, then he was walking toward him with purpose. Cree watched him approach. Was he about to get chewed out for staring like a creep? Instead, he stopped just in front of Cree, extending a hand.
“Hi, I’m Jordan.”
Cree gaped at him. No—at his plush mouth with the silver hoop snake-bite piercings.
It wasn’t just his mouth. He had beautiful hazel eyes that were somehow equal parts brown and green, thick black lashes and perfect teeth.
Jordan’s smile started to waver, his hand lowering. Fuck, he was still staring.
Cree took his hand. Jordan’s palms were smooth but his fingertips calloused. “Cree.”
The other boy mouthed his name like he was testing it out. “Nice to meet you. Do you wanna go somewhere and talk?”
Cree narrowed his gaze at him. “Depends.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Jordan gave an exasperated sigh. “On…”
Cree hid a smile. “Are you about to launch into a spiel about your lord and savior or something?”
A laugh bubbled free from him, rolling over Cree like something fizzy. “I mean, I just wanted to get to know you better. But if you want me to tell you all about my personal lord and savior—Bret Michaels, patron saint of hair spray and questionable fashion choices—I can.”
Cree blinked at him. “Who?”
Jordan gasped, pretending to clutch invisible pearls. “Bret Michaels. Frontman for Poison?”
When Cree continued to stare blankly, Jordan pretended to faint.
Cree’s hand darted out on instinct, keeping him from collapsing dramatically, earning him another radiant smile. His skin was warm. Softer than Cree expected. And when Jordan’s eyes sparkled up at him in thanks, something low in Cree’s stomach tightened.
“How can you not know the greatest ’80s metal hair band of all time?” Jordan asked, staring pointedly at Cree’s large hand still wrapped around his bicep.
Cree dropped his hand—reluctantly. “Not really well-versed in classic rock,” he admitted, amused by the other boy’s enthusiasm.
Jordan scrunched up his face, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, what are you into?” he asked, like it was a test he expected Cree to fail.
Cree shrugged.
Jordan tilted his head. “Are you always this chatty?”
“I—I talk when I have something to say.”
“Am I annoying you?” Jordan asked, sounding more curious than hurt.
“No. Definitely not,” Cree said honestly.
He wasn’t sure how someone could be this bright without burning themselves out, but he liked it. Liked him.
Jordan bit his lip, swaying side-to-side. “Should I just leave you alone?”
“Only if you want to,” Cree said, hoping—unexpectedly—that the answer was no.
“I don’t,” he said, tone somewhere between flirty and self-effacing. “But I have this problem…”
Cree tilted his head, intrigued. “Which is?”
“Whenever I’m in a conversation with someone and that other person doesn’t speak, I feel the need to fill the silence, which often leads to me babbling and oversharing.”
“Okay,” Cree said.
This time it was Jordan blinking at him owlishly. “Okay what?”
“You talk, I’ll listen,” Cree said. “Seems like a win-win.”
Jordan’s smile spread slow and wicked. “You have no idea the power you’re handing me,” he said. “What if I talk your ear off about string theory or underwater basket weaving or the ethics of time-traveling clones?”
His hands started moving as he talked, punctuating each absurd topic like he was giving the world’s most chaotic TED Talk. Cree was riveted, dazzled even.
His face lit up. “Oh! Or the Mandela Effect and how I swear the Berenstain Bears used to be spelled differently. Or my conspiracy theory that pigeons are government spies. And that if Bigfoot is real, he’s probably super hot.”