Now seven-years-old, she was safe and cared for by Mr. E's widow, the woman who had raised her. But nothing compared to a father's love and protection. He'd never had that, and he'd be damned if his daughter grew up without it. She needed him as much as he needed her, but she was ferociously guarded by Liv and her circle of freed slaves. He knew Liv would never allow him even a brief encounter. Unless he could convince her.
Ten minutes later, a pickup appeared from behind the building and took off in the opposite direction. It was the same truck he'd seen parked in Amber's driveway while scoping Liv's house.
His heart rate elevated. He threw the Mustang in drive and followed at an unassuming distance. Fifteen miles brought them into the heart of Austin's entertainment district, surrounded by historic buildings, old-fashioned neon signs, and live music.
Was her fucktoy headed for a bar? If so, he'd soon have a new drinking buddy.
Monday night traffic was predictably sparse. Zachary parked beside a little bar off Sixth Street called Cyanide and went inside with a prissy little hop in his step.
Okay, maybe he'd imagined the hop, but fuck if he couldn't see how Amber let that skinny rodent put his dick in her. He pressed a fist against the burning sensation in his chest and parked in a nearby lot. When his blood pressure cooled to normal, he locked up and strolled to the bar.
The sky was dark, but the interior of Cyanide was darker. Soft electronic beats and a thin crowd set a casual ambiance. He wove around the high-tops and winked at a gaggle of college girls who openly stared at him with we're-dumb-and-in-heat googley eyes.
Van's white button-down shirt opened at the collar, and his crisp, dark jeans rode low on his hips. Not his usual attire, but he was dressed to kill.
He found his target straddling a stool at the bar and chugging a domestic beer—alone. He approached, thumped the counter, and nodded at the silver-haired bartender. “Three shots of tequila. Neat, not chilled.”
When the old geezer reached for Jose Cuervo, he growled. “No, man. I said tequila.” Fucking Americans. “If it doesn't say one-hundred percent agave, it's not tequila.” He scanned the top shelf and pointed at the bottle of Real Gusto. “That one.”
As the bartender poured the shots, Van grabbed a stool two down from Zachary without acknowledging him. A few minutes later, he splashed the first shot down his gullet, relishing the smooth, complex flavor. Then he leaned back and waited.
It didn't take five minutes before the first bitch approached Van.
“Hey, there.” She cocked a round hip against his knee. “The girls and I voted.” She flicked her claws at a table of giddy women in the corner. “You are by and far the sexiest man in three counties.” Her gaze landed on the scar on his cheek and skittered away.
When her eyes returned—they always did—he made a show of checking her out, from the fake-baked tits to the sparkled heels, and moved his leg away from her hip. “Not interested, honey.”
She huffed. “You're no fun.”
He held his mouth in a flat line of no-fun and didn't blink.
She picked at a plastic fingernail, lingering two seconds too long, and strode away.
Five women and five rejections later, the cock stuffer beside him finally spoke. “You...uh...gay or something?”
Van threw back the second shot to smother the raging words burning up his throat. Fucking twat. Yeah, he fucked men. For his one-night delights, all he required was a submissive body and a clean hole. So what? He also made dolls with the same hands he fingered assholes with. If any of that made him gay, then he'd take it up the ass all the way to hell.
No, that wasn't true. He hadn't endured it that way since he left the ghetto. Now that he was free of his mother's drug-dealing bottom-feeders, he was the one who did the fucking.
Tilting his head, he looked directly at Zachary for the first time. Those twinkling, beady blue eyes made him want to gouge them out and pop them between his curled fingers. “Just want the right girl, man.” The girl Zachary Kaufman would never fuck again.
The beady eyes blinked. “Damn, dude. All those women you turned down seemed pretty fucking right to me.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I want a gorgeous girl with spirit, know what I mean? Quick wit, blond hair, brown eyes, big tits, and lots of personality.” He rubbed a finger on the counter, delivering the spiel with a monotone, down-on-his-luck kind of vibe. “You know, someone...unusual. Special. With crazy little quirks and stuff.”
A laugh choked in Zachary's throat, and he shook his head. “Boy, do I have a special girl with quirks.”
Bastard didn't have shit. He covered his scowl with the third shot, slammed it down, and tempered his tone. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. She's got my damned head reeling nonstop. It's messed up, but I keep going back for more.”
Motherfuck, he didn't want to hear this, but he needed to know the depth of Zachary's attachment. Killing him would be gratifying. And messy. But that wasn't his style. Manipulating him was the smart play.
Van bounced his eyebrows, and his insides twisted with nausea. “She hot?”