Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Me? I’m pathetic?”
I take a deep breath in and remind myself it’s not worth it. She wants a fight. I’m not going to give it to her. I turn and cross the room to the bathroom. If she wants to follow me in, fine. But then I stop because there, tossed over the back of a chair, is a jacket I recognize. With a gasp, I rush to pick it up. It’s his. I have no doubt. When I bring it to my nose, I can smell his scent on it. But I smell more, too.
“Is he here?” I ask, spinning to face Ana.
She grins. “He was. But he had to rush out. I guess his wife isn’t that important to him.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I try to push past her, but she stands squarely in front of me, blocking my path.
“Let me tell you something about the Augustines, Mad Elena. You may be valuable now, but that won’t last. They’ll get what they need from you sooner rather than later and then you’re gone.”
“And what? You’ll take my place? Is that why you colored your hair to match mine? Is that why your makeup looks just like mine? The lipstick, car-crash red, right?”
Her face flushes, and I know it’s true. The thought of it just makes me feel sorry for her, though, because she is pathetic and it’s sad.
“You know what? I don’t want any of this. I never did. I don’t deserve it, and believe it or not, neither do you and I mean that in the best way,” I say.
Before she can answer, I walk into the bathroom and lock the door. I switch on the tap and take a few minutes to level my breathing and my heartbeat. I look at myself. With the back of my hand, I wipe away the deep red of my lipstick. Car-crash red. It smears along my cheek, and I think how apt the name is. I look like a car crash.
My eyes grow moist because what happened with Ana and I all those years ago didn’t have to happen. Even though I understood why she turned on me, it was something completely out of my control. But when her father lost a chunk of money to mine, she punished me. It didn’t have to be the way it was. We could just have been friends. I wanted that. I want it now. Not with her. She can never be that. But I want a friend. I don’t think I’ve ever had one, not really.
But I stop myself there. I’ve had enough pity parties for myself over the years, and I’m done with those. I wipe away the tears that fall, not caring that I’m smearing eyeliner because none of that is worth thinking about. You can’t change the past, and I’m fine without friends.
I have Odin and he has me, and we’re all each of us needs. I look again at the jacket in my hands, bring it to my nose. His cologne, the one I know intimately, is layered with cigarette smoke and alcohol and something else. Perfume?
Just then, I hear the deep rumble of his voice and I don’t want to think about what feels like hope swelling in my chest when I do. I pull the door open just in time to see Santos stalking into the bedroom, Val on his heels.
“Santos!”
He stops when he sees me, looking confused as he takes in my dress. Had he forgotten what tonight was? I lift my gaze to Val’s, and he looks worried. I realize why that is when Santos stalks toward me.
He’s drunk. He is completely out of his head drunk.
29
Santos
It takes me a minute to focus my eyes on Madelena. She is stunning in the shimmering black gown. I chose it especially for her, but I missed seeing her in it tonight.
The high heels emphasize her long, slender legs, and one thigh is exposed by the dramatic slit of the dress. I don’t know if it’s the years of self-imposed celibacy or what that have me so drawn to this woman. I want her. But it’s not only physical. I have a responsibility to her—but again, it’s not that simple.
I drag my gaze to her face. Her hair is coming apart, and her makeup is smudged, with remnants of deep red lipstick across her cheek. Her eyeliner is smeared, the whites of her eyes pink.
She hugs my jacket to herself. I’m not sure she’s aware of how tightly she’s holding it, and on the back of one hand I see the same red as on her cheek. It’s the hand she used to wipe it away.
“Where were you?” she asks quietly, her gaze cautious, a line creasing the space between her eyebrows. That relief I thought I saw moments ago has vanished. Was it there at all? Does it make sense that she’d be relieved to see me?