Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
The toiletries were grouped in fours, labels aligned. Not a pill bottle in sight.
His research on agoraphobia had come up with a plethora of anti-depressants to numb the disorder, but the recommendation for treatment was consistent. She needed exposure.
He breathed deeply, letting loose a smile. Yeah, he'd expose her, all right.
The prior night, he'd verified she didn't have a landline phone. Now, he found her cell on the charger in the kitchen, and worked the stylus from the case with a gloved finger. A couple taps showed there had been no calls or texts since he'd checked the night before. In fact, the log's six-month history only showed two contacts. One was a Dr. Emery Michaels, whom she hadn't spoken with in five days.
The other was Zachary. His last text—will u keep the lights on this time?—induced the same bloodthirsty, muscle-tightening reaction he'd had the first time he saw it. His vision blurred and the phone case groaned in his clenched fist. He set it down and strode to the front door with determined steps.
By this time tomorrow, he would be quite intimate with the fuck digger.
The next night, Van drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in the Saddler's Tool Company parking lot, listening to “Stay Wide Awake” by Eminem and waiting for Zachary McToolLess to leave work.
His jaw ached from clenching, and his muscles were stiff from his shoulders to his ass. Where the fuck was his target? The store had closed a fucking hour ago.
He squinted through the dark empty lot and reached for the camera on the seat beside him. Flipping through the photos, he paused on the shots he'd snapped at the schoolyard that morning. Long brown hair, angelic face, and a glowing smile, Livana looked so much like Liv it made his chest hurt. But as he studied a close-up of her features, he recognized his own thick eyelashes fringing her brown eyes and the exact shape of his lips outlining her grin. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.
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.