Page 17 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

TWELVE

ADALENE

I trace around the peak of my nipple with a gentle finger, lost in the memory from only nights ago. Who the fuck did I think I was, getting naked and fondling myself in front of him? And who the fuck did he think he was daring me I wouldn’t?

And why the fuck did I bring up the topic of my virginity?

It’s not something I’m proud of—being a virgin at nearly thirty is a stain on me that I simply cannot wash away, no matter how hard I’ve tried otherwise. It’s not something I’ve planned, or wanted. I don’t care about saving myself for marriage or finding “mister right” before I lose it.

I’ve simply never done it.

At first I was scared. Now I’m embarrassed—disgusted even. Who would want a thirty year old virgin? Certainly not me.

I blame my religious upbringing and severely strict parents. Why else would I feel filthy thinking about having sex? And feel filthy with the fact that I haven’t yet had sex? It’s a vicious, physiological cycle.

Trauma, am I right?

I scrub my hands angrily over my face, trying to clear my head of the swirling thoughts that threaten to consume me on a daily basis.

I don’t want to think about this now. Or ever.

Especially now that Mateo knows—I’ve never felt more pathetic in my life.

My skin crawls with the knowledge that he’s somewhere right now, disgusted with me, or worse—pitying me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Standing up, I stomp to the fridge, yanking it open to pull out a beer.

It’s 10:00 a.m. on Christmas morning and I have no plans until later.

Thankfully this year, my holiday’s will be slightly less pathetic than the previous years I’ve spent alone.

Stetson insisted I join them, not that I would have denied her in the slightest.

So for now, I’ll have a beer, or three, numb my whirling brain, and wait for my mother to call, giving me the greatest ass-chewing of the year, as she always does on Christmas.

I used to love Christmas growing up; it was my favorite. But now it’s a day I dread.

The couch swallows me as I nestle into its velvety purple cushions.

Queen Tut wastes no time, stomping his furry orange butt toward my lap, pausing with his front paws resting on my thigh.

He remains frozen, his eyes fixated on the door, tail swishing slowly back and forth, and I run a loving hand along his back.

“On or off big guy. Those two paws weigh seven hundred pounds and I’m pretty sure you're going to snap my femur in half.”

Large gold-ish orbs flash up at me, and he begins kneading said paws, as if to massage where he was previously hurting me. I shift my hips, picking him up with my free arm to set him in my lap completely. Why do cat paws weigh so damn much? How does that even work?

He spins once, before curling into a ball, tucking his tail beneath him.

Purring vibrates through his chest, and my heart squeezes tight.

It’s a gift, being an animal’s safe space.

Little does he know, he’s mine too. Without Queen Tut, I don’t even know if I’d have a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. He keeps me going.

Scruffing the mangy hair by his ears, I stare at the Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with bulbs, tinsel, and icicles all in shades of purple, green, and gold—anything to make it gaudy and over the top, just the way I like it.

You’d never know it, with how much black and dark colors I wear, but I much prefer purple and greens. I prefer girly, frilly, gaudy styles and designs, over dark moody ones.

But somewhere along the line I decided black was cooler. Black was more womanly and dominating, versus girly and gentle. And once I made the mask, I found it impossible to come out from under.

Which is why I love my house so much. And why I hate sharing it with anyone. It’s my safe space; a true peek beneath the dark exterior I keep. A place where my secrets live on the outside, instead of buried beneath black denim and plum lipstick.

The shrill chime of the phone slices through my Christmas tree admiring, and I turn to where it sits on the cushion next to me.

I know what’ll be said; it’s never anything new.

I also know I’m doing what’s best for me, and even if I miss them, and I’m sorry that I’m hurting them, I’m not sorry that I’m protecting my peace.

Even knowing all this, I still dread the calls. I still don’t want to pick up and sit through the verbal beating, even if deep down I feel like I deserve it.

I answer, taking two deep breaths, and press it to my ear without looking at who it is. It’s always my mom.

“Mama, Merry Christmas,” I begin, doing my best to smother the snakes coiling in my stomach.

“I think I’d prefer Daddy, if we’re going with endearing terms now. Suits me a little better at least.”

My brain sputters at the words, too confused by the voice I recognize but don’t expect filling the line. Why is Mateo at my mother’s house?

“What the hell—” I pull the phone from my ear to check the screen and realize it’s his phone number and not my mother’s blinking back at me.

I really need to pay closer attention if I have any hope of avoiding him from here on out.

I can’t be making stupid mistakes like this—my poor heart can’t take much more.

I lift it shakily back to my ear. “Mateo, can I do something for you?”

He pauses, his breathing heavier on the other end than before, like he’s irritated. I feel a twinge of guilt at my snotty tone, and then memories of our last encounter flit through my mind and it disappears as quickly as it appeared. “Just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, cowgirl.”

That’s the last thing I expect. When did we become close enough to share phone calls on holidays? When did he start calling me cowgirl? I feel like nothing makes sense with him—up is down, left is right, that kind of thing. “Uhm, you too Mateo.” I haven’t forgotten all my manners, thank god.

He breathes out, the woosh filling my ear, and I can’t fight off the guilt once more. He seems disappointed, and that’s even worse than irritated.

Several tense seconds tick by and then he finally sighs. “Any plans for the day?”

“Not really. I’m going to Stetson and Gus’s.” Sucking in a sharp breath, I ask, “you’re not going today are you?”

“Would that really be as bad as you’re making it sound?” he growls and I cringe. I hate hurting anyone, especially him. But I don’t trust myself around him anymore.

“No, but—” What can I even say?

“I get it. I’m doing stuff with my mom and V anyways. Don’t have to worry about me showing up and daring you to do anything you don’t want to do again. Just wanted to call, wish you a Merry Christmas, and whatever.”

And whatever.

He says it like there’s more he wants to say but doesn’t know the right words. Or he knows the right words and is afraid of what they are.

But what else is there to say between us?

“Thank you, Mateo, truly. I’m glad you called.” Even if I’ve acted otherwise, the words are genuine. And now that I’ve heard his voice, I wish he was going to be there tonight. I wish he was here now.

And that’s the fucking problem.

I can’t afford to wish for anything when it comes to Mateo Reyes.

We’re different in every single way that matters, even if we’ve maintained a simple, awkward friendship over the years.

And even if we did kiss once, ten years ago.

He’s a god and I’m a mortal. He’s a king and I’m a servant. He’s a diamond, and I’m a rock.

We’re not the same, and I would do good to remember that.

“Are you okay, Dale?” His question is hesitant, like he’s afraid of what I’ll say. Rightfully so, when I fear the same thing.

“Yes,” I whisper shakily. My heart pounds erratically, its violent thumping filling my throat. I feel completely strangled, because I know what’s coming next, and I’m not ready, even as the words tumble from his mouth.

“Dale, about the other night?—”

My phone vibrates against my ear and I pull it back, a choked sob squeaking past the lump.

Thank you god for saving me .

“I’m sorry,” I cut off his sentence, “my mom’s calling and I can’t leave her waiting. I hope you have a great Christmas, Mateo. Tell your family hello for me.”

And I hang up, answering my mother’s call in the same swipe.

Talk about fucking whiplash.

“Mama, Merry Christmas!” This time when I say the words I don’t have to force as much enthusiasm.

“Adalene, how are you?” Her voice is the same, strained tone it normally is, but I can’t find it in me to be annoyed. Not when I’m so relieved.

“Missing everyone.” It’s true, even if she doesn’t understand it’s a double edge sword.

She breathes heavily, her voice quivering slightly, and I grimace at my choice of words. I forgot— I’m not allowed to miss anyone since I’m not willing to move there to be with them.

“Yes, well.” The doorbell chimes and not for the second time in ten minutes I’m thanking god for his incredible timing.

“I’m sorry, Mama, hold on. There’s someone at the door.”

“Who could be more important than me?” I roll my eyes. She’s serious too.

“No one, but I can’t be rude and not answer.” She huffs, silently admitting defeat. If there’s anything she fears above all else, it’s people looking poorly on the family name.

I set Tut down, an irritated meow filling the space as I shuffle to the door, swinging it open, coming face to face with a well-dressed man, his eyes scanning the inside of my house before landing on me.

His hands are covered in tattoos, his hair combed back in a slick, neat style, eyes shaded behind dark glasses.

He looks like Mateo, only not at all, and I realize he must be one of his employees.

Or at least I hope.

Otherwise I’m getting kidnapped, and instead of running, I’m staring at the guy expectantly.

“Mija, who is it?” My mother’s words snap me out of my confusion once more and I clear my throat.

“Can I help you?” He eyes me again, and then reaches behind his back to a box I didn’t see sitting on the railing. He tips his head towards the box and I hesitantly take it.

What if it’s a bomb?

I know nothing about Mateo’s lifestyle, but if anyone was involved in Mafia style shit, it would be his family. They’re wealthy enough, and his sister is beyond shady.

“What is it?”

“A gift from Mr. Reyes. Merry Christmas Ms. Mendes.” He turns on his heel, stalking away.

It’s not especially cool in December in Texas, but without the man’s hulking frame blocking me from the breeze, I shiver from the chill in the air.

I step back inside, closing the door holding the box to my chest.

“Adalene Maria, who was that? I will not be ignored.” Tut mewls from his spot on the couch, seeming to state the same sentiment.

I know I should set the present down and get back to the phone call with my mother. It’s not only the right thing to do, but the safe thing.

But I’ve always been a sucker for presents— more like obsessed with them. And I haven’t gotten one in so many years I’ve forgotten the thrill of holding one—opening one to discover what’s inside.

So even though it’s wrong and rude, I set the phone down and put it on speaker. “Hold on, Mama, I have to set this down. It was a gift from Mateo, delivered by one of his men.” Maybe I should lie, but I’m too distracted.

Why hadn’t he said anything when he called?

I stare down at the package, long and skinny—too large to be jewelry, but shaped like a jewelry box all the same—wrapped in the prettiest purple wrapping paper, with gold ribbon and two small, crystal gold snowflakes tied into the ribbons.

Ornaments or window crystals that’ll no doubt glitter beautifully in the sunshine.

I trace them tenderly, caught off guard by the sweet gesture, and their beauty.

Pulling the ribbon, I barely notice my mother’s rambling in the background. I carefully pull off the tape and unfold the paper, hopeful I can reuse it for something. I’ll have to ask Mateo where he found it, as it is the prettiest paper I’ve ever seen.

Who am I kidding—he probably had someone else pick it out. But still.

Underneath is a black, silken box and I lift the lid. Only to slam it shut with a squeal and toss it away.

“Adalena Maria! This is entirely inappropriate.” I pick up the phone, hoping she can’t hear how shaky and breathless I feel. Or how true her words really are.

“I’m sorry, Mama. Tell me, what are you and Papa doing today? How’s the family?”

My mother begins her normal recap, her voice drowning on and on, sharp jabs stabbing through frequently. But I barely feel their prick.

Not as my eyes remained glued to the open box laying across the room, the top several inches away, its large, black, silicon contents laying on the floor next to it.

A dildo. He got me a fucking dildo.

And a huge one at that—both in length and girth. It’s easily the largest one I now possess, and the largest thing I’ve ever even considered putting in my body. And I want to put it in my body.

Partly because the veins and bumps peppering the surface look like they’ll hit all the right places, partly because I want to know how being that full will make me feel, and partly because Mateo is the one who sent it to me.

Why? Why would he send me a dildo?

I look around on the floor for a card or note—anything to add context to the gift, my mother’s harsh rambling still piercing through the phone.

Tut begins rifling through the paper, his paws swatting at the glittering crystals still tied to the gold ribbon, and that’s when I spot the small golden card lying within the box.

Scooting across the floor, still afraid to touch the giant dildo now laying only centimeters from my shaking hand, I pull the note out, opening it up to silently read the words.

Over and over and over.

Because they don’t make sense. And because I want them to mean more than they surely do.