Page 273 of The Lies We Play

“Fuck,” I say. “She might not want to see me.”

Creed looks at me for a few beats. “She’s coming,” he announces. “She’s coming for you.”

My lungs forget what they are for.

His thumb resumes that small, minute motion beside the tattoo.

Something in me makes a sound that doesn't leave my mouth. It is three syllables. The only three syllables my body has any business making in this room tonight, and I will not let them out.

My phone vibrates once in my pocket.

The alarm.

A ten-minute warning.

Creed’s thumb has not left my wrist.

“I have to go soon,” I say.

He nods.

Only once.

“Aren will be downstairs.”

I look at him.

“He was your driver before . . .” Creed’s voice trails. “They fired him and changed his line of work slightly.”

Something old and defensive moves through me. “Did you hire him?”

“Not exactly.”

The answer comes fast. Clean.

Then he adds, “I paid for the structure that made him possible.”

“I’m trying to take care of you,” he continues. “This time they won’t take you away from me.”

It is a promise.

It is also a confession, stripped to the bone.

I want to ask what he knows. I want to ask how much he has spent, who he called, what he threatened, how many doors he opened with that contained that voice and that dangerous patience. I want to know what kind of man loves by building exits in the dark.

Not tonight.

Not yet.

“You’ll be home soon enough,” he says.

Home.

I almost laugh, but there is no humor in me. “Where is home?”

The question is reckless. I know that as soon as it leaves me.

Creed looks at me. “Wherever Liv and you are.”