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)
“In thirty-three years, there have only been four people I've given a shit about, that I'd even consider putting before myself.” He opened the glass door, his mouth dry. “The first two didn't love me back.”
“Your mother and Liv.” She stated it not as a question but as a realization as she stared at the dolls, her elbows tucked to her sides, her fingers trembling on her bottom lip.
He touched the hair on the mannequin, his token of Liv. But as the soft strands slipped through his caress, he didn't feel the usual heaviness in his chest. Instead, his pulse raced with nervousness. He hadn't intended on telling her about the hair, but he longed for her to accept all the ugly parts of him.
“I made this with Liv's real hair. Collected it for years from her pillow, her hairbrush, and directly from her scalp.” At the time, he didn't know why. A compulsion maybe? A sick one. He removed his hand and shoved it in his pocket.
“Oh, Van, I can't even...” Her voice strained with disbelief, and she cleared her throat. “Why?”
He was damaged, in the most irredeemable way. He brought shaky fingers to his forehead and gave her his back. He hated this feeling, this fucking vulnerability. “This was a mistake.”
“Van Quiso.” Her clipped tone vibrated with impatience. “You put me on that bathroom counter with my legs spread and made me talk about some scary shit. You owe me.” She sucked in a long breath and softened her voice. “I want to understand why you kept her hair. I want to know everything about you.”
Her words moved him. And the sudden support of her arms wrapping around his waist and her chest against his back found him and held him.
“I have a memory of my mother under the tin roof of our makeshift shelter. She wasn't crying or stoned. She was just sitting there, being.” He placed his hands over Amber's on his abs, absorbing her warmth. “She was sitting so close her hair touched my face and shoulder, and I imagined maybe that was what her fingertips would feel like or her kisses.” His voice thickened, his chest aching. He coughed into his fist.
She slipped under his arm and cupped his face with fire in her eyes. “My mother couldn't look at me because I reminded her of her illness. She gave birth to me, this child who embodied the worst of her sickness, and nothing I could've done would change that.” She caressed his chest. “I guess what I’m saying is...I get it. I wanted you to know I understand.”
He coiled his fingers through her hair and put his lips on her forehead. He was his mother's repulsive reminder of her slavery. Of course, he knew that, which was why he needed a relationship with his daughter. To show her she wasn't a thing he resented. To give her a father's love. “The third one doesn't know I exist.”
“The third?” Her brow wrinkled beneath his lips. She pulled back and peered around his shoulder at the display cabinet. “The small doll is the third person you...she's...” She swallowed, hard.
“Livana will be eight next month.” Another birthday he wouldn't be a part of. His throat burned with painful frustration.
She nodded, a jerky movement, as her gaze shifted over the doll, swimming with thoughts. “Livana. Liv and Van.”
Livana. The name he’d given to the child that was snatched away the moment she was born. Mr. E hadn’t even allowed him to hold her.
He touched the scar on his cheek. “Mr. E gave us matching scars when I got her pregnant.”
Her eyes squinted, probably narrowing on the hand-drawn scar on the mannequin.
With his hands on her waist, he turned them to face the cabinet, standing behind her with his arms around her mid-section, holding her tightly in case she ran. “Mr. E and his wife raised Livana.” His voice clogged, thick with painful memories. “My father prohibited us from seeing her outside of the videos he sent.”
“Videos?”
“His incentives. To ensure we didn't fuck up the meetings with his slave buyers.”
“My God—”
“I knew where Livana was the whole time and kept it from Liv.” Though he’d never been allowed contact, he’d secretly watched his daughter from a distance. “Liv would've gone after her. It was too risky.”
His stomach hardened with guilt. He could've helped her get their daughter, but in doing so, he would've lost Liv. In the end, he lost her anyway. He closed his eyes, breathing in the clean scent of Amber's hair, and opened them. That same end had brought him a woman he would never deserve. “When she shot me, I told her everything. I'd planned on telling her anyway. Mr. E killed her mother, and I knew Livana was next.”
“Jesus.” She pivoted in his arms and ran her palm across his shoulder, over the bullet wound. “She shot you and your father.” She chewed on her lip, watching the caress of her hand. “And she escaped. So why did she never mention you to the police?”