“Uh—” My mouth flops open, and then I close it. Finally, I shrug. “He’s my body guard.”
“Come on, Valentina. I need more than that.”
“You want more than that, not need,” I correct, feeling my own skin heat. How much can I really tell her?Will she believe anything I say?
“Please?”
I feel myself folding before I even open my mouth again. “He’s saved me, and I guess I feel safe with him.”
“I could tell that. What do you mean he’s saved you?”
I chew on my lip. I like Faith, but I refuse to expose anything about McCrae that could get him in trouble. The cab fills with a strangling silence, and Faith must sense my dilemma.
“Did McCrae ever tell you how we met?”
I look at her, an irrational twinge of jealousy filling me. I shake my head.
“I’m the one who shot the two brothers in the woods.” She shrugs—she fucking shrugs.Like she didn’t just drop a bomb on my lap. A million thoughts fire through me—why didn’t McCrae tell me? Why would Faith do that?
“How?” I choke out, not afraid of the enigma sitting in the driver’s seat but in awe of her.
“They got the jump on McCrae, and I happened to come across them right when one had a gun to McCrae’s head. I’m a really good shot.” She smirks, and I want to ask her more about the implications of that statement alone, but I hold my tongue. “And I knew they were horrible men. I saw what they did to Dale, the condition she was in. I shot twice, hit both times, and haven’t lost a wink of sleep since.”
Again, I just stare.
“You’re not the only one with demons, Valentina. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you might find joy in others’ company. I’m not innocent—fuck, I’m not innocent—but I’m not a bad person either. I’ve taken care of people—starting with my little sister, and ending with, well, you—forever. It makes me feel good, like I’m doing something important. Being the older sister, we learn to bottle up how we’re feeling, swallow our emotions for fear of being too much, always taking care of others out of obligation and not just because we want to.” She faces me as the vehicle comes to a stop outside the house. “Long ago, I decided I’d take care of people because I wanted to. I’d use the bitter, angry, overbearing features of my personality as assets to help others instead of drowning beneath them.”
And then, she jumps out, walking toward the house with enough authority, I feel half obligated to fall in line. I scramble out after her instead, grappling with my need for control and the lack of it when it comes to this woman.
“Being the older sibling sucks,” I admit, anxious to have someone to talk to who understands. The only other person who I’ve tried to talk to about this is McCrae, and even though he listens, he never contributes much.
“Yes! Having to raise yourself and your siblings and always be ‘better’ because they’re watching was exhausting. But it also made you strong, resilient, independent. That’s something.”
I nod, having never thought of it that way. It’s always been a negative—a weight holding me down.But what if it didn’t have to be?
“How are you so wise?” I tease, setting the bags on the counter. Faith reaches into the fridge, pulling out two beers— I’m grateful she’s so comfortable here, with me.
“Therapy.”
I cringe. I’ve never gone to therapy, never even considered it. Doing so felt like a weakness. “I’ve never been.”
“I know.” There’s no accusation in her voice, and I shift, looking for some way to change the subject.
“If you could have anything, what would it be?” I don’t know why I ask, but she just takes it in stride, jumping up to sit on the counter as I look for a bottle opener.
“I guess I’d like my own gun range, somewhere I could teach women to protect themselves.”
I pause, looking up in surprise. Not what I expected, but it also makes sense with everything she’s told me. “Why don’t you just do it? You can afford it.”
“I don’t want my parents to have any stake in it. If I use their money, then they’ll have a say. I don’t want that. I don’t even want them to know.”
I hand her the bottle opener as she’s picking at the wrapper, and she quickly opens it, taking a deep sip. When she lowers the bottle, she looks at me expectantly.
“What would you have?”
I stare at the bottle in my hands, small beads of perspiration already racing to the edge of the glass. “Control. I have none in this life—not where it matters. I just want to feel in control of something, or someone. Most importantly, of myself.”
Heavy footsteps fill the kitchen, and I whirl around to see McCrae retreating outside without a backwards glance.
