Chapter 5
FIVE
VALENTINA
“Don’t you find it strange he just popped up?” The vein in McCrae’s neck bulges as he asks the question.
I cock my hip in challenge. “Jealous, McCrae?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” he bites out, but it’s clear he’s lying. “I’ve nothing to be jealous of. You can do whatever you want, whomever you want. I’m just looking out for your safety. That’s all.”
It’s always the same with him. Always so indifferent. I turn away, hiding the frown I can’t keep from crawling over my face. I just want to be enough—for him, for anyone.
“He’s just here to work.” I huff, pulling a beer out of the fridge. I don’t even like beer, but I’ll drink anything to lessen the sting.
“Just be careful around him.”
I bristle. “I can take care of myself.”
McCrae’s sighs, clearly exasperated by my attitude. What’s new? “We likely need more help than just Mr. Good With His Hands. Someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
I nod, already knowing where this is going. “What about Faith?” I want her to like me; for what reason, I still don’t know. But I’m also afraid—I don’t miss McCrae’s smile at her name.
“Yeah, I think that’s a great idea.” He’s nonchalant, but I know, beneath the surface, there’s more. There always is with McCrae. He just keeps those parts hidden from me. McCrae begins walking toward his room, done with the conversation.
“Do you need anything to eat?” I offer softly, desperate to keep him near.
He shakes his head. “I’m gonna shower and then see if I even feel like eating.”
“Do you need help?” I try to add a teasing note to my voice—make the question sound less desperate than I really am—but McCrae doesn’t even acknowledge me as he walks out of sight. I’m left feeling rejected and alone. Again.
“I’d never say no.”
I whirl on Santos, shooting him a smirk that’s far too forced. “In your dreams.”
“Promise?” It’s a strange thing to say, seeming to surprise us both. Santos shrugs it off, though.
“What do you need?” McCrae grumbles, and I inwardly dance. He’s standing in the hallway, between the kitchen and the safety of his room. It’s clear he doesn’t want to leave me alone with Santos but doesn’t want to be here either.
“Can someone show me the bunkhouse? I’m ready to hit the hay.”
I snort. “I’ll take you.”
He smirks down at me, nodding slightly.
“No, I’ll take him.” McCrae stomps toward the front door, but I beat him there.
“I got it. Go take your shower.” I shoo him away with a wink. His face reddens slightly, his irritation no longer hidden.
He glares at us for several moments before reluctantly retreating into the shadows. I face Santos, the fight deflating from my chest almost instantly.
“You and McCrae, huh?”
I roll my eyes at him, not interested in discussing my pathetic need to make McCrae want me. “Mind your own business.”
He grins, unperturbed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Sure thing, boss.”
Exhaustion rings at my bones, calling me to bed with a sultry voice and the promise of oblivion. I’d be wise to walk straight to my room, forgo the shower or the joint, and crawl into bed and sleep.
My body practically begs for it.
Still, my feet carry me in the opposite direction, leading me down the far hallway to the closed door of McCrae’s bedroom. There’s light and the sound of distant water running filters beneath the enormous wooden frame.
I raise a hand—should I knock? Barge in? Turn around and leave, giving him the same indifferent treatment he always gives me?
McCrae’s a mystery to me—he’s vowed to always protect me, taken a fucking bullet for me—but remains as distant as ever. It’s only the sight of Santos that seems to be finally stirring anything within him.
When I offered to show Santos the bunk house? McCrae acted like I was the one who put that bullet in his shoulder. At first, I was glad for the fire in his gaze, but the longer I dwell on it, the more I fear it.
I want him to be jealous, but what if I read him all wrong? What if I’m truly upsetting him? What if I’m driving him away, and he wants to leave me?
With shaky fingers, I rap on the door lightly. Straining, I hear no sounds on the other side, and fear quickly wraps her familiar hands around my heart. What if something happened to him? What if he left?
Blinded by thirty-five years of insecurity, I open the door, stepping into a dark room—the familiar smell of cigarette smoke and mint quickly coating my nostrils, I breathe in deep, greedy gulps of McCrae. His scent is a comfort to me, a safety blanket, and I need him.
I’ll always need him.
My eyes catalog the contents of his room, quickly noticing the things that are exactly as they were the last time I snuck in here, just to make sure he’d unpacked and wasn’t going to leave like a thief in the night.
His leather jacket draped over the gaudy white and pearlescent formal chair in the corner.
His cowboy boots—covered in a thick layer of dust—propped near the bathroom door.
An open pack of cigarettes—a fresh butt still smoking in the gold plated ash tray on his nightstand.
His items don’t belong here—a reminder some part of him, even though I’d be lost without him, doesn’t belong here. He’s a black scar across the perfect, and fake, exterior of my image; the parts of me I keep so hidden, he wears like a badge of honor.
A loud clanging pulls me from my thoughts, and I race toward the bathroom door, pushing it open slightly to peek inside.
McCrae’s facing away from me, the water pelting his front as he leans on his good arm above his head on the white marble tile. I watch his shoulders rise and fall slowly—signs of life—and I relax, but only a fraction.
Realizing he’s still here, still alive and upright, I back away from the door, and then my fucking eyes wander. It’s like I can’t help myself—if curiosity killed the cat, I’m long dead.
He’s here, right in front of me, naked.
Even though I know it’s wrong, I can’t help but stare. He might make it clear every chance he gets that ‘us’ is off limits, a rule he intends to follow to the letter.
But I’m a villain. And I love breaking the rules.
As silent as possible, I push open the door farther, allowing myself an unobstructed view of his backside.
I always knew he was covered in tattoos, but the vast ink covering his back is still breathtaking.
He’s made up of more ink than he is skin at this point, and from this distance, I can’t tell where one dark image separates from the other—they all bleed together, like a massacre of the man he once was, overtaken by the dark angel he’s become.
It’s beautiful and devastating and terrifying.
“Fuck.” He hisses the word, and I look around the room for a place to hide. He doesn’t turn around, his head still hanging limply between his shoulders, and I sag with relief.
His unmarked skin is quickly turning a deep red where the water hits him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Steam curls in thick tendrils up the walls of the bathroom, pouring out the door around me.
Water sluices down his back, between the deep valley of his tense shoulder blades, the bandage over his wound tinged pink.
Do I warn him? Demand he let me fix it for him? What will he think of me watching him shower?
Too afraid to break the spell of silence, I do nothing, my usual go to in a time of uncertainty. Not because I don’t care, but because I’m afraid of doing the wrong thing.
It’s better to be indifferent than wrong.
He straightens, and again, I wonder if he’ll turn around and catch me. Part of me hopes so, just to see if he’ll kick me out or finally let me in.
Instead, he drops his good arm, his hand falling right at his waist. I watch it go, my eyes landing on the firm curve of his ass.
Water runs in little rivulets between his cheeks, the dark hair peppering his skin curling in the steam.
He’s all man—no apologies. He doesn’t do unnecessary trimming, doesn’t forgo any bad habits, never apologizes or gives up the things he wants. He’s simply McCrae—take it or leave it.
And I want to take it, if only to feel his safety and keep him all to myself.
He groans, and I become suddenly aware of the soft sounds of skin meeting skin. His arm moves slowly at first but speeds up—the sounds of water and skin slapping and slurping together.
I hold my breath. He’s fucking masturbating. His back muscles tighten, his ass flexing as he pumps into his hand with a quick ferocity. He groans again, and I feel my own body respond, a small heat spreading between my legs.
I rub my thighs together, searching for friction that just won’t satisfy.
“Fuck,” he hisses again, his bad arm extending above his head now as he leans once more against the wall, his good arm still working his cock. He moves at a maddening pace, borderline painful looking.
Can that really be pleasurable?
I have my answer when he starts panting, the sounds mixing with the lewd noises of his dick in his hand. I bite my lip to keep from crying out to him, my fingers wrapped around the edge of the door, cracking at the knuckles.
He’s close—his back taunt like a bow string.
McCrae freezes, his hips jerking forward as he fucks his hand. He tips his head back into the spray, eyes closed as he comes on the shower wall. I moan quietly into my fist as I watch him, wishing it was my body he was coming on. Then I’d know I was his.
Starring in rapt fascination, I watch as he pulls the last drop of his release from his body, whispering a name as he does so, and the last flicker of hope dies in my chest.
I can’t get away fast enough, the sharp stab of a knife protruding from my chest excruciating. I back away quickly, tripping over my feet as I go.
I shouldn’t have watched him. I shouldn’t have intruded.
Ignorance is always better than clarity—a hard-earned lesson I should know by now.
I don’t close the bathroom door as I flee, tears already scalding my cheeks. His voice rings in my ears, the sight and sound of him finishing burned into my mind—it wasn’t my name he cried out when he finished.
I’m not sure it ever will be.