Van grunts, accepting the loss.
My skin itches with nerves and restlessness.I reach for my smokes, and her eyes narrow the second the flame flares.
“Are you the smoke police?”I take a drag.
“Hardly.”She gives a feminine snort.Then continues to glare.
“Want one?”I hold out the pack.
She accepts it without hesitation.
My hands shake as I strike the lighter again, cupping the flame for her.I hate that she notices.
She leans in, inhales, and tips her head back through a long, slow exhale like she’s been waiting years for it.Her shoulders loosen.Her spine eases.The entire jungle sighs with her.
Then she pins me with a stare that could peel paint off steel.“If you tell my husband I smoke, I’ll crush your precious little jewels under my boot.”
My balls recoil into my body, running for cover.
I can’t tell her I’ve memorized the portfolio for every member of the inner circle.So I slap on my dumbest face.
“Which one is he?”I tilt my head, squinting a little.“Tall, dark, and handsome?Big, bronze, and scary?”
“Don’t fuck with me, boy.”She steps into my space, leans in, and exhales a slow, intimidating stream of smoke.
Her dark eyes imprison mine, daring me to shrink.
I don’t move.Don’t cough.I blink through the haze and let it wash over me, because flinching would be a mistake.
“Your poker face isn’t bad.”She straightens and returns to the railing.“But no one wears a mask as well as I do.”
“She’s not wrong,” Van says unhelpfully.
“My husband…” She prompts, waiting for me to fess up.
“Joshua Carter.”I wipe my palms on my shorts.“Retired linebacker with pale green eyes and black hair.”
“He willnotfind out about this.”She waves the cigarette.
“Your secret.Buried.Unmarked grave.”
Van chuckles and ruffles my hair.
Then something wild happens.
They pull up chairs.Casual.Like this is a patio in the suburbs and not the nerve center of a criminal mythos.
Liv crosses her legs, stiletto hooked on the rung, cigarette balanced just so.Van pours tequila.Time loosens its grip.And we… Hang out.
They gossip about inner-circle nonsense, who’s having the most sex, who’s pretending not to care, which spouse grovels the most, which one never uses the gym, which Gomez sister can kick Van’s ass.Liv razzes Van about leaving toothpicks everywhere.Van fires back about her reorganizing the kitchen like it’s a crime scene.
They argue like siblings.
It’s bizarre.Deeply so.These two share a history born of horror, captivity, and coercion.Things that should never lead to a shared life, let alone a shared daughter.Yet here they are, sniping and smirking and passing tequila like normal people who forgot to be notorious criminals.
The topic of Dove comes up, of course.Her love of vintage engines and her interest in fixing Van’s 1965 Mustang.Van says Luke’s cars run better after she touches them.Liv grins like she’s already claimed her.
I laugh more than I expect to.I relax more than I plan to.
