“I think you look sexy as hell!” Faith knocks her hip against Valentina’s. “Come on, McCrae! We’re going to be late.”
“I can’t believe you got him to go. He’d never do anything like this if I asked.” I can’t decide if it’s hurt or annoyance in Valentina’s voice.
McCrae walks into the entryway. “I’m going to protect you. You were shot at not long ago, and we still don’t know by who.” He rolls his shoulder as if the mention of it sends a fresh ache. There’s a deafening silence that follows his words, and I look around the room for signs they know more than they’re letting on. Seeing none, I allow myself a single breath of relief before snapping back into character like the second skin it’s become.
I don’t bother suppressing my laughter as I make a show of looking McCrae over. “Well, don’t you look cute?”
He glares at me, biting back some smart ass remark, no doubt. Tension still fills the small entry, but everyone’s making a clear effort to ignore it.
“I think you look great!” Faith beams at him, her red and white Harley Quinn makeup and the baseball bat in her hands swinging lightly making her look every bit the psychopath.
“What are you?” Valentina’s voice remains even as she looks at McCrae.
“A bodyguard,” he grumbles.
I motion at the ghost-face mask. “A ghostly one? Kinky.” The mask hides his expression, but I know he’s shooting daggers at me all the same.Get in line, buddy. Everyone here has hateful eyes for me—it’s getting to the point it turns me on.
Especially from Valentina.
No, bad. I cannot think like this. It’s fucking disgraceful.
McCrae refuses to comment, and I know it’s because he knows he’s been caught—he’s clearly more gone for Faith than even I realized, and the way Valentina’s eyes bounce between McCrae and Faith, I think she’s finally realizing it too.
I wonder if it hurts.I fucking hope so.
My cheeks ache from smiling so wide. She’s losing the things she considers hers, hurting from their loss, and I don’t even have to lift a finger to make it happen.
“You sure you can’t come?” Faith looks at me a final time, and I just wave her off.
“Halloween isn’t my thing.”
Tonight’s my chance to search the house for answers.
McCrae pauses a second longer, like he can sniff out my alterative motive before he reluctantly folds, following after Faith as she prances out the front door.
“He’s got his hands full with that one.” I say it more to myself than anything.
“They’re just friends,” Valentina hisses, staring after them. She then pins me with a venomous glare that looks a lot more like a scared, trapped animal than it does an angry one.
I don’t bother hiding my smirk as I step a fraction closer, emboldened by the streak of luck. “Just like we’re friends?”
Her eyes flash for the briefest second, and I know my words have hit their mark. But instead of saying anything, Valentina turns on her heel, stomping away. I watch her go, her ass recoiling with each step, the ruffles of her shorts fluttering.
I can hate her and still appreciate her ass.Right?
Once they’re down the driveway, the taillights completely faded and gone, I return to the silence of the house, hating for the first time how quiet it is. When I first moved in, I began my search in the main rooms of the house, later, Valentina’s room when she was either gone or asleep, but McCrae’s space has always been a secret—an impenetrable force, protected at all times. Besides, the last few weeks, I haven’t had a chance to do anything but work, sleep, and watch. McCrae’s kept close tabs on me, like he suspects something, and I haven’t wanted to give him anything to report.
Does Valentina suspect anything? Does she think I’m capable of bad things?
I run my hand over my face, sighing roughly.Why do I fucking care what Valentina thinks?I am capable of bad things—I’ve done more horrible things than I’ve ever thought possible.
Annoyed by the thought that seems to plague me more and more every day, I stomp into McCrae’s room, throwing open the door to finally get a look at the bastard’s private space.
I stare at the room, taking in the sparse details. It’s tidy but not clean—clothes litter the floor in various piles, a pair of dusty boots propped against the door frame, out of the way but a health hazard regardless, the smell of cow shit pungent. There’re books stacked on every surface—the bedside table, the desk, the dresser—some old, some new, and I can’t help but be curious what a grouchy bastard like McCrae reads. The bed’s made, a dark grey quilt covering the black sheets, and I roll my eyes. It’s so typical that McCrae would have black sheets—he likes to play the sad, goth, misunderstood type.
But I imagine it’s more so you can’t see the blood so clearly covering his hands.
Rage flares anew, and I begin looking through the drawers on his dresser, his desk—anywhere that might hold a clue to what really happened that day.
