Forget it. She'd tried once already and failed.
But she'd stepped outside. Three huge steps. Not four. That was the opposite of giving up.
Damn right. The corners of her mouth relaxed. They might've even curved up a little. She rose on quivering legs and walked to the bedroom. She needed to change clothes and fix her makeup. Maybe it would take her all night to walk twenty-four steps, but she'd do it. The alternative was unimaginably worse.
For a while, Van pretended he didn't miss her. Not her fierce looks or her hot, wet * or her beautiful agony. The ache she'd left behind should eventually seal up and scab over like the wound in his shoulder.
But it didn't. It inflamed and festered until he had woken weeks later, twisting in sweat-soaked sheets and fucking his fist, unable to think about anything but Liv Reed.
That was a year ago, and still, she possessed his thoughts every second of every day. He imagined the satisfaction she must’ve felt when Mr. E died. The quiver in her arms as she hugged their daughter. Her thighs spreading for that cumgargling bible-basher, the fuck who had stolen his place in her life. That shit really fucked with him.
Stagnant air coated his skin in a wet sheen as he locked up his 1965 Mustang GT Fastback. To think the humidity in Austin was relatively mild this time of year. In a couple months, the heat of summer would suffocate his nightly walks.
The hood of his sweatshirt sloped over his forehead, his chin tucked discreetly to his chest. The street's only source of light flickered overhead, months overdue for repair. Somewhere in the distance, the trill of a frog warbled through the silence, calling in the darkest hour of night.
If he were a man with uncontrollable urges, he would've grabbed Liv the night she'd killed his father. When he'd followed her from the police station to Joshua's farm, the bullet wound painful but patched up, he could've snatched her from the cocksucker's bed and taken her to Mexico with him. If he were a psychopath, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself.
Instead, he gave her six of the seven million they'd earned in slave trafficking, the gift alerting her he was still alive. When he'd healed from the bullet, he'd looked for her in the one city he knew she'd be.
Surrounded by one-story bungalows, he strode across the suburban Austin street, dangling a grocery bag from one finger. He cut between two houses as if it were a Sunday stroll. As if it weren't past eleven on a Friday night.
His strides fell in harmony with his pulse, steady and confident. He'd cased the neighborhood long before he'd claimed this route. He knew the names, habits, and lack of awareness of every resident for two blocks. Knew the elderly occupants on either side of his shortcut had been tucked in bed for hours.
Past the overgrown side yard, ducking beneath the low-hanging hickory behind the houses, he followed the path he'd taken hundreds of times. If he weren't trying to pass unnoticed, he might've whistled one of Liv's favorite tunes.
She loved their child so selflessly, he knew she'd never take Livana from Mr. E’s wife, the only mother Livana had ever known. Though he’d known his daughter’s location since the day she was born, he’d only ever seen her through the lens of a camera—Mr. E’s video footage her first six years and his own camera the last year.
Christ, he wanted to meet her, to touch her angelic face, to hold her tiny hand, and look into her brown eyes and see them smiling back. But she lived with Mr. E’s widow, who hadn’t been part of his father’s slave ring but was wrapped up in the aftermath of the police chief’s death. Authorities didn’t know Van existed, and his freedom depended on maintaining that anonymity.
It'd only taken him a couple weeks to find Liv in a modest rental house minutes from where Livana lived. No surprise she hadn't spent the money he'd given her. Perhaps she'd never touch it because of where it came from and the memories that clung to it.
Which was why he'd kept one million. It served as a parachute should his daughter need it. Livana had come into the world same as him—born of a slave and a slave owner. He would do whatever was needed to ensure she didn't end up like him.
But he didn't mistake his intentions as selfless generosity. He didn't want the fucking money. He wanted Liv. He wanted his daughter. Whether he deserved them or not, he would have his goddamned family.
Loose, curling bark snagged his hoodie, and the ground covering was redolent of sweet peppermint as it stirred beneath his sneakers. He broke from the trees, sheltered by the black sky, and crossed the backyard of his destination.