Vanquish (4 page)

God, she was so fucked up. This should've been a thousand times easier than being crowned Miss Texas. She was wearing her heels. Her curls shimmered around her arms. She could take the third step. Just like on stage.

She raised her leg with the grace that came from years of discipline. Suddenly, as if her foot had landed in the spotlight, she turned on her pageant best. Fingers relaxed and together, shoulders back, chin up, bright eyes, and big smile, she held the pose. The persona strengthened her stance. She was the best. Knowing it meant winning it. She was doing it.

The honk of a slowing car scattered her delusion. She flinched, blinked. Bright green lawns, twittering birds, and the scent of hot asphalt knocked her back to reality.

She glanced down and took in her ridiculous pose. Decked out in heels with one leg bent and a hand on her hip? Her smile slipped, and her ankles teetered.

Stop it.
She held her arms at her sides. Tingling numbed her fingers, her sense of control slipping.

Why couldn't she stop these reactions? She wanted this step, needed it.
Move, dammit.

Spots blackened her vision. The pressure in her chest... It was stifling. She couldn't breathe. Oh God, her body was giving up on her, overheating, growing heavy. The ground tilted.

She squatted to avoid collapsing and fell back on her ass, shaking uncontrollably. “Noooo.” She cried out in anguish and curled into a ball.
Make it stop hurting. So scared.

The open crack of the door wavered through her tears, an arm's length away. She crawled on elbows, stiffened by chest pain and gasping for air. She dragged her body over the threshold and kicked the door. It shut with a thunk, silencing the cars, the windows, the witnesses. She folded herself into the corner of her cage and wept.

Eventually, she peeled her tear-soaked face off the oak floor and leaned against the door. The sun no longer glowed through the cracks, and she was no closer to the mailbox.

She'd have to try again.

As if. She was still strung out and trembling like a mouse. She'd only fail.

Yeah, but she always felt that way.

She could call Zach. He might feel well enough to drive over.

Maybe he would. Or maybe she could do it herself and feel better for it. Nighttime might conceal her from onlookers.

But the predators came out at night.

Fucking ridiculous. Everyone went out after dark. Except her.

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 pussy 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.

The single-story house faced the street one block over from where he'd parked. Though no one lived there, he approached the back porch with tightening muscles, ready to slip away at the first sign of life.

Three windows and a glass door broke up the monotony of weathered brick. Heavy-duty shades blocked light from escaping. The shades hadn't moved, not once, in the six months he'd been coming to Liv’s neighborhood. A lawn service maintained the small lot of grass, but there were no flowerbeds, no lawn furniture, no inhabitants.

His black hoodie and dark jeans blended with the backdrop of the unlit house as he checked the locks on the rear windows and door, looking for a disruption in the pattern, any indication that someone had moved in.

All clear, he approached the south side that would take him to the front porch and the bench that awaited him. As he rounded the corner, he dug his heels into the wet grass, flattening his body against the vacant house.

One of two windows on the house next door cast a warm glow between the foundations. His pulse sped up, and an excited warmth of energy swirled through his stomach. Liv lived next door to the abandoned house.

He crept toward her illuminated window. His crouched position below prevented a good look at the inside, but he knew it was her kitchen.

The dark window beside it drew his attention. Her bedroom. Was she in there now? Removing her clothes? Humming a seductive melody? He closed his eyes briefly as his dick pulsed against the tight confines of his jeans.

When he regained his focus, he edged around the band of light on the grass and removed two wireless microphones from the bag, following his nightly ritual. The high sensitivity mics penetrated glass and transmitted to his phone. A whole lot safer than bugging the inside of her house.

He powered them on and left them on Liv's brick windowsills. Camouflaged by shadows, he ducked across the yard between the houses, retreating from Liv's and slipping onto the front porch of the vacant house. He strode past the bench and reached a finger inside the porch lantern. The bulb he'd removed months ago hadn't been replaced. Good. With a suspended breath, he checked the lock on the door. The knob wobbled but didn't turn, as expected.

On his way back to the bench, he stopped at the wide picture window and leaned his cheek against it. At that angle, he could see a sliver of light along the bottom of the blackout shade. Always closed with the same millimeter glow.

Though the mail was addressed to Amber Rosenfeld, the only person who came and went was Zachary Kaufman. The
Saddler's Tool Company
employee arrived at noon on Tuesdays and Fridays—a simple inquiry at the tool store confirmed the man's identity and his schedule.

After watching him for months, Van was certain the moron was using the house to grow marijuana. Given his stupid smiles and flushed cheeks when he exited the house, he was toking the merchandise during his visits.

Who cared? As long as Zachary Kaufman didn't get busted, Van had an ideal place to squat.

Hidden from the street by overgrown shrubs, he reclined on the shadowed bench of a house where no one lived and looked to the right. The elevation of the porch put him at the perfect height to peer through the two windows on the side of the house next door. The opening in the foliage gave him a sliver of sight into Liv's life.

He connected ear buds to his phone and pressed one into his ear. A few minutes later, he cracked open a beer, lit a cigarette, and watched Liv's windows like the dirty voyeur he was.

The mic picked up indiscernible voices from deep within the house, and his heart skipped. He squashed the cigarette and concentrated on the sounds in the earpiece. Footsteps?

Liv's front door opened and a tall man with dark, shoulder-length hair strode down the driveway. Van leaned his head back, slouching deeper within the hood. It wasn't necessary. Ricky wouldn't have been able to see him through the foliage.

Good ol' Ricky. The second of seven slaves she'd delivered. Seven million dollars had been paid by seven buyers. Yet seven
sold
slaves flitted in and out of her house, carting side dishes for bar-b-que parties, drinking beer, and braiding her friggin’ hair as if she hadn't spent ten weeks beating the ever-loving shit out of them.

Van had discovered the depth of her deceit the night she'd shot him and left him. He'd driven to the police station, his shoulder throbbing like a motherfucker, and watched her walk out of the station and make contact with her first slave. Fuck, he'd never in a million fucking years guessed she'd been freeing the slaves after delivering them.

During the months of monitoring her house, he'd gleaned the details from their conversations, how she'd delivered them, secured the financial transaction then killed the buyer by bullet, knife, garrote, or any means possible. The fact she hadn't been caught was beyond impressive. Perhaps, she'd made it look like they were killed by rival gangs or cartel.

She'd outsmarted him, his father, and a network of buyers. Her treachery only made him want her more. She wore his scar on her face. She was the mother of his child. She'd saved him the unsavory task of killing his father. She belonged to him.

The sac of misery in his chest contracted and heaved. As Ricky climbed in the truck and drove away, he wanted to run after him, drag him to the pavement, and pummel his face. Not because the boy was free, but because he was free to see
her
. To make eye contact. To touch.

Lighting another smoke, he stared at her windows, willing her to appear. As he inhaled the last drag, the hum of a heavenly voice trickled through the ear bud. He sagged against the bench as every molecule in his body absorbed the decadent notes.

Through the window, he saw her hourglass figure fill the doorway of the kitchen. Her full lips moved, and her voice rose in a deathless composition of memories, evoking emotions in him that patched his heart and shredded it all over again.

She glanced to the side, a smile stretching her mouth. Her hum tumbled into a laugh as Joshua appeared from the room beyond and enfolded her in his arms.