Page 33 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)
TWENTY-SEVEN
MATEO
The casino looms—a ghostly shadow on my already dark mood.
I want to be with Dale right now, not here, not with my sister and McCrae.
But even I knew it was time to address some things, before they got too far out of hand.
After the brief but loaded conversation with the police yesterday, Dale had questions for me.
Questions I still didn’t know how to answer—starting with the description of the two dead brothers, what was going to happen now, and ending with, is she safe?
Today Faith, Stetson, Dale, and their guard dog Gus, are all at Dale’s house, gathering up what she needs to live comfortably at my house. It eats me alive that I’m not there, helping, but I know I’ll be more help here, getting answers.
Gus gave me that look this morning, before we parted ways: do you have any idea what kind of situation you’re putting yourself in ? Or maybe it was: hurt her more and I’ll kill you. I honestly don’t know which, we’re still not talking.
My skin begins to prickle, and I look up right as the truck comes to a complete stop.
V and McCrae stand in the entrance, their expressions stoic and unforgiving, like a couple of gargoyles looming over a castle.
My instincts scream at me to turn around and leave, but I climb out, adjusting my shirt as I straighten, and stride toward them.
Valentina waits until I’m almost to her before her expression cracks, revealing a sneer. “So nice of you to finally grace us with your presence.” Without a backwards glance, she turns and begins walking into the casino, and straight for my office.
“I’ve been a little busy,” I argue, pissed off that she still doesn’t seem to care about Dale. Or the fact that the tip I received pointed right to her.
“Is she doing okay?” It’s McCrae who asks, and I shoot him a skeptical look. Reluctantly, I nod.
“She will be. She’s coming to live with me until we find the third kidnapper.”
This causes V to come to a screeching halt, and I have to stumble around her to keep from running directly into her back. “You’re joking,” she hisses, her eyes narrowed at me. “You’re going to play house with her?”
“Why are you like this? And while we’re at it, why the hell did that anonymous call point to you, and you knowing right where to look?” I cross my arms expectantly.
But instead of answering, she shakes her head, red curls swishing, “Pathetic.” And then veers left, into the women's restroom, and away from my growing list of questions.
“She’s under a lot of pressure,” McCrae huffs, as if that excuses my sister’s beastly personality.
I face him. “What did the police say to you? And what did you do with the men?”
“They took both bodies, and ruled it as self-defense. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you that when they came and talked to you.” His eyes narrow, as if contemplating something.
“I don’t know if they believe your story,” I offer.
I don’t know if I believe his story either—something about it just feels off, even if I’m too grateful to go digging into it more.
At the end of the day, Dale’s safe because of him, and those men, although human, will never be able to hurt her again.
He shrugs again, always so fucking indifferent, “Yeah, they said as much. But they’re lazy bastards. Remember what they did for my brother’s woman, or rather, lack thereof? You could commit murder in the middle of that dusty ass town, and the cops would look the other way.”
I eye him, agreeing with what he’s saying, but waiting for him to fill in what he’s not saying.
He doesn’t and I release a ragged breath. “What did they look like?”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“The guys who attacked you. What did they look like? Any specific markings, anything?”
He scratches behind his head. “I guess a few. The one was shorter, with cropped hair. And he had all kinds of tattoos, but there was one that was”—he draws an arc over his ear—“a name or something.”
“And the other?”
“Nothing remarkable that I remember. I guess he had long hair, super gangly bastard.”
I nod, it’s at least something I can offer Dale. Not that it’s much—I imagine some of them treated her worse than others—I just hope the one that got away wasn’t the worst of them all.
“What’s with the girl who was with you?”
“Who?” I ask, straightening a little.
“The blonde one.”
“Faith?”
He rolls his eyes, mumbling something under his breath, that sounds a lot like “of course that’s her name,” and then waves me off. “ Nevermind.”
I walk into my house, the giant interior unfolding in front of me. I’m pretty sure every damn light in the house is on, but I can’t be the least bit annoyed, not really. Not when there’s sounds of voices filling the hallways, and the overwhelming smell of lavender floating from the main room.
Dale’s been here a matter of hours, and I can already feel her warmth filling the cracks of my sterile and lonely existence.
As I move into the living room, I realize it’s only Dale, the TV, and a fluffy orange pillow that’s busy playing with its own tail making all the noise.
“I’m home,” I say, hoping to not scare her, but she doesn’t even shift or acknowledge me, and it breaks my fucking heart. I’ve never seen her so down, so dark—not that I blame her—but I just don’t know how to help her.
After standing behind her like a creep for far too long, I move around the front of the couch, and set the pizza I’ve been carrying on the coffee table. Luckily, that get’s her attention, and something akin to sadness and memory fills her eyes, before she blinks it away.
“Pizza? I figured you had a private chef who made you steak and potatoes every night,” she snarks, her hand running along Tut’s back. I follow her movement, and then shake my head.
“He’s made himself comfortable.”
“Shouldn’t he? Not like he had any choice in the matter.” I know the words are more about herself than the cat, but I don’t argue.
“I’ll grab plates.” I move toward the kitchen. “And my private chef only comes in twice a week, and meal preps a bunch of stuff. I can cook for myself, I’m just too busy a lot of the time.”
Walking back into the living room, I notice Dale’s moved, throwing the top of the box open, and looking at the pizza hungrily. Her eyes flick to mine, down at the plates and then she straightens.
“I’m good,” she states, pushing away the box.
My mouth flops open— What the hell? “What are you talking about?”
“I said, I’m good, Mateo. I’m not hungry.”
I set the plates down, and sink down on the couch next to her, but still far enough away I’m not touching her. That only seems to piss her off more, and I can see her eye the stairs like she’s ready to flee.
“Please, talk to me.”
“Why? You already think I’m disgusting, or broken, or whatever,” she growls, glancing at the clear space between us.
“No, I’m trying to be considerate, Dale. You’ve been through so much.” She flinches, and I lower my voice a fraction, shifting closer. “I can’t eat this entire pizza by myself, even if I did like pineapple.”
She rolls her eyes at that. “You do like pineapple, you’re just stubborn.”
“And you love it. So what’s going on?”
Rage crosses her face a second before it crumples. She looks down at her hands, her fingers flexing and straightening over and over. “He made me do horrible things with my hands—eat when they were”—she licks her lips, wiping away a stray tear—“dirty. I can’t eat with my hands, Mateo.”
White hot rage punches through me, so consuming I stand like I’ve physically touched the flames.
I suck in a ragged breath, and then march into the kitchen, returning with two forks and knives.
I sit down again, this time far less careful to where she is.
Our thighs brush, and I force my anger to dissipate before opening my mouth.
I just can’t believe what she’s been through. I can’t understand why someone as good as her had to endure something so horrible.
And I know I don’t even know the extent of it. Not yet.
I extend a plate, fork and knife on top, to Dale. “I like to use silverware anyway. I just didn’t want you to call me a snob.”
She eyes the plate and silverware, and then reaches out taking them into her lap. “You are a snob,” she states, extending her plate to the box—a silent request for my help.
With a heart that feels like it will burn to ash in my chest, I slide a couple slices of pizza onto her plate, careful not to show her the rage boiling just beneath the surface, and then do the same for myself.
We sit in comfortable silence, forks and knives scratching the plates as we eat our pineapple pizza.
I need to help her, and soon. I just don’t know where to begin.