AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He nods, his nerves evident as his Adam’s apple dips when he swallows deeply. “Ethan wants Hannah to know he’s sorry. And he wants you to know that…he loves you. He never stopped.”
Punky is deadly quiet, his poker face in play. I know what this means to him. To know that Ethan forgives him and still loves him will mend a small piece of Punky’s broken heart.
“They’re all right?”
“For now,” I reply, “which is why tomorrow, I want you to kill that motherfucker and bring them back home.”
A long, comforted sigh leaves him. “I promise ya, I will.”
He launches for me, meeting me halfway as I do the same thing to him. I slam my mouth to his, kissing him frantically because we’ve wasted so much time.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around him.
“I am too,” he confesses against my lips. “I don’t want ya doin’ anythin’ yer not comfortable with.”
I know what he means.
I didn’t think I’d freak out the way I did seeing Punky take Brody’s life. I was the one who suggested it, after all. But actually seeing Punky take that knife and end my father’s life was something I’ve never experienced before.
“Is that why you wear the face paint?” I ask. “Because it helps you to wear a mask?”
Punky nods. “In some ways, yes, yer right.”
“Will you, will you help me with mine?”
I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but what I do know is that I need to be prepared to fight. I need to be prepared to kill. Maybe if I detach myself, I can do so without the darkness eclipsing the light.
He kisses the tip of my nose before breaking apart.
I watch as he retrieves the face paint from the coffee table. “Are ye sure?”
I nod.
The way he observes me has me wetting my lips, as I’m suddenly worried I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
He lifts me and walks toward the kitchen, placing me on the breakfast bar. We’re now equal in height. He gently brushes the hair from my face, peering longingly into my eyes. He doesn’t want me to kill, but he won’t leave me defenseless, which is why he unscrews the lid on the white paint.
Circling his fingers and coating them with white paint, he gently applies it to my face. I close my eyes, getting lost in his precise strokes. I recall the first time I saw him wearing his war paint. It took my breath away.
There was something almost tranquil about it, like that face allowed Punky to be himself. I know he sees himself split right down the middle, wearing both those faces on any given day.
I hear another container opening and feel the bristles of a brush delicately paint around my eyes and nose. I don’t move a muscle as this is somewhat hypnotic, trusting someone so deeply. But Punky isn’t just someone—he’s everything and so much more.
I know he’s done when he lays a soft kiss on my temple.
Without haste, I open my eyes and take in the world with new eyes. Punky stands before me, and the look reflected on his face sets a fire within.
“Your turn,” I whisper, wanting him to know that I love all the faces he wears.
With a nod, he repeats the same action he did to me. But he doesn’t need a mirror. He knows every stroke by heart, and I suppose that’s because he’s worn this face since he was five years old.
I’m caught in a spell, watching him transform into the man who is as much a part of him as his natural self is. Once he’s done, he stands before me, offering himself to me—the good and the bad.
“I want ye to have somethin’.” He removes the silver chain around his neck and places it into my upturned palm.
When I see what it is, I shake my head. “I can’t. That was your mom’s.”
“And now, it’s yours,” he says, folding my fingers over the brooch which hangs off the chain.
