Page 35 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

TWENTY-NINE

ADALENE

“What have you done?” my mother asks, her voice thick with anger.

My lip trembles as I wipe away another tear making a break for my chin. “I didn’t mean for this to?—”

“If you only lived here, where your family could have protected you.”

I inhale. “Mama, I’m sorry but?—”

“You should be.” Her words lower to a whisper, “Did you not pray for forgiveness for your sins? If you had, maybe the devil wouldn’t have sought you out. If you had, surely god would have protected you.”

“I don’t think?—”

“Do you know no shame? You’re ruined.”

Numbness spreads through my veins like poison, and I snap my mouth shut, unable to form any more words. They’re useless anyway.

Picking at the hem of my shirt I sit in silence, tears tumbling unchecked down my neck, waiting for her tirade to continue. If my own mother thinks I’m irredeemable in the eyes of god and in the hearts of those who know me, what’s the point of trying?

I’m not sure Mama is evil—I just think she’s ignorant and afraid. And for so long I’ve carried her naivety and fear as my own personal burdens.

But fuck, I’m tired— the weight becoming too much to bare.

I’d never speak to my child the way she does me. I believe she loves me, but she fears for my soul because she doesn't think I fear for it myself.

She’s wrong.

I fear so greatly for my soul, I can barely stand to look in the mirror.

“You’ve done this, and now what? How will I tell your father?”

I keep picking at the hem, a string pulling free and I yank on it, watching the fabric unravel in my hands—just like my life.

I’m dirty now.

She huffs on the other end, and I can tell she’s warring with herself over whether to say more. “I need time, Adalene.” And then the line goes dead.

I stare blankly at the wall, her words rattling around like glass shards in my numb skull.

Why bother?

My phone buzzes but I continue to stare at a small bump in the paint of an otherwise flawless white covering the bedroom wall. A mistake.

It buzzes again, and a moment later a third time.

Reluctantly I open the chain of messages, both loving and dreading these interactions.

I want my friends—they’re the only thing keeping me on this side of the soil.

But I dread their prying questions or pitying words.

They don’t do it on purpose, and I don’t know what I’d rather them say.

Everything is wrong in my life, and because of that, nothing anyone does can be right.

It’s all my fault, these feelings.

If only I could focus on being positive. If only I had control of something, anything.

STETSON: How’d the phone call with your parents go?

I stare at the words, fighting the irritation instantly flaring inside of me.

I know she asks because she cares. I also know she’s gotten bolder with her questions and comments because she trusts our friendship—the strength of our bond.

That should be a good thing, that should make me feel good.

So why do I want to chew her ass for being a nosy bitch?

FAITH: We’re here for you!

FAITH: Anything we can do to help?

STETSON: Need a girls night?

STETSON: Or day?

STETSON: Out or in?

STETSON: Clothed or naked?

I snort a laugh at that. She undoubtedly said it partly for my benefit to make light of the heaviness, and part to piss off Gus. He surely reads her messages—with or without her permission I don’t know—and will be furious at the idea that she might be parading around naked at Mateo’s house.

That thought makes me think about the weirdness between the two lover boys at the hospital, something Mateo’s not brought up again, even though he assured me he would.

ME: What’s going on with Mateo and Gus?

I cringe as the message leaves my phone. They obviously aren’t privy to the inner workings of my brain, and will have no idea how I ended up here at this topic of conversation. Then again, I’ve always been the queen of deflecting things away from me, even if sometimes it gets lonely.

I do wish I could talk about myself. But every time I try, I get sweaty, a lump like a boulder in my throat, and my heart races fast enough to explode.

Best to just avoid it.

Three dots pop up next to Stetson’s name and then disappear. Then three dots pop up next to Faith’s, only for them too, to disappear.

Are they having a fucking conversation without me?

I never want to be jealous of my friends, and I know there are plenty of things between Stetson and I that Faith isn’t a part of—right or not—but I don’t like being on the outside.

ME: Are you guys having a conversation without me?

Almost instantly they both respond, only fueling the green monster of jealous burning in my stomach.

STETSON: No, Dale!

FAITH: Oh my gosh, no!

ME: Well? Care to share then?

I don’t want to be a bitch. Fuck, I’m never the one to be irritated or lash out— ever. I’m always the happy one, the patient, kind one. But something inside of me’s dead now, and I think it’s my will to do and say what I think others expect me to.

I have to fight for myself. Even if it feels like walking across shards of glass.

STETSON: I’m guessing Mateo hasn’t talked to you yet then? I wish he would.

ME: I don’t need Mateo to talk to me. I need you to talk to me.

I can almost see her face crumpling behind the phone screen, and just the thought of it makes me type out “I’m sorry” three different times. But ultimately I decide to leave it. Because I’m not sorry I said it, I’m only sorry if it hurts her.

Finally her reply comes through, followed quickly by Faith’s.

STETSON: They got into a fight the night we were looking for you.

FAITH: I still don’t even know why.

I stare at Faith’s response, and guilt floods my stomach. She’s feeling as left out as I am, and that instantly makes any remnants of my jealousy dissipate. If anyone has the right to feel left out, it’s her.

Yes, she’s the newest, but if we plan to include her in some things, we need to get to a place where we trust her with all things. Just like Stetson and I do. Or…or like Stetson does with me.

Fuck, is the girl with the worst of the trauma, really the one with the best communication skills and willingness to trust others? How is that possible?

I need to be more like her, in more ways than one. She’s incredible—I already knew as much, but seeing her like this, with the filter of experience darkening my outlook on life, I see her for the rockstar she is.

STETSON: Mateo has Gus’s older brother employed as his right-hand man. Or something like that. I don’t really know. I haven’t asked him, and Gus won’t speak to or hear him out right now. Gus and his brother have a very bad past.

I stare at the words, my heart already racing. Anger pours through me—anger and frustration at everything and everyone who’s hurt me and let me down the last couple weeks, funneling into one point of rage. It’s irrational, and boiling out of me, but it feels good.

It feels so fucking good to feel something that isn’t fear or defeat. It feels good to feel the burn in my chest, to control who and what I feel it for—to have a purpose, a target, a hit.

With rushed fingers I respond, already walking out of my room.

ME: Thank you for telling me.

“Mateo?” I shout his name, allowing my rage to rush through me unchecked. I feel powerful, having this one grievance to focus my turbulent emotions on. Even if it is irrational—i t feels fucking good.

His feet pound up the wooden staircase, taking them two at a time. “What is it? Are you okay?” I hear his breathing before I see him.

When I do see him, another scorching wave of boiling anger washes over me.

Anger for how fucking perfect he looks— how put together and pristine.

He’s in dark, pressed jeans, the crease taunt and slightly faded, with a white pearl snap tucked into the top of them.

His dark hair is perfectly slicked back, only a single piece curling on his tanned forehead.

I can see the shadows of his tattoos beneath the fabric of his shirt, and I hate that I ache to see them without the barrier.

Does he ever get dirty? Does he ever drop the beautiful mask?

“Dale, what is it? What’s wrong?” There’s real panic in his voice as he rushes toward me, his enormous hands gently wrapping around my biceps. His eyes scour my face, warm and shining with concern.

It all makes me want to scream. Or punch him. Or both.

“Is Gus’s brother working for you?”

His brows pinch together, confusion contorting his face before it melts away, softening into an expression I can’t read.

“Stetson told you. Listen, I wanted to but?—”

“Careful how you finish that sentence Mateo.” I step back, out of his grip, and out of his shadow—tipping my head to glare up at him.

He sighs roughly, the action puffing his chest enough I wonder if the buttons will pop open. They don’t, and part of me— a very deep part of me —is disappointed by that.

“He’s worked for my family long before I knew Gus.”

“What does he do exactly?” I’ve never seen the man in question, but the way Stetson describes him, I imagine him to be some kind of grim reaper.

Mateo stares at me blankly, like he doesn’t want to respond. Or rather, doesn’t know how to without either lying or hurting me.

“What does he do for you Mateo?”

“He works for my family—mostly Valentina, and mostly at the casino.” He acts like that’s enough explanation, and his vagueness only pisses me off more.

“Doing what?” I snarl, and take a small step toward him. He stands taller, but I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of his hard look, his dismissal, or his words. There’s nothing he could do to me that would hurt me more than what I’ve been through.