Page 83 of Darkest Deeds

Ava

The sun is bright.

Instinctively, I shield my face and cover my eyes.

“What’s wrong, girlie? You never work the daytime before?”

I glance to my left and stare at the aging heavyset man all but salivating at my bare legs. He thinks I’m a hooker. Not that I’m shocked. When I flagged him down on the side of the road half naked and desperate, he probably thought he’d get a free blow job.

Free.

I’m free.

Staring out the window at A1A, the phrase repeats over and over in my head, but it still doesn’t seem real. How can it? For twenty-four years, my reality has been a forsaken hell even the worst nightmare wouldn’t dare conjure. Constant torment at the hands a vicious man determined to steal more than my freedom—he craved my sanity.

“What day is it?” I ask, still staring at the street.

“Friday.”

I shake my head. “No, I mean the date.”

“December 22nd.”

I roll my forehead against the glass. “Of course it is.”

If I wasn’t so shell-shocked, I might laugh at the irony of gaining my freedom on the day I caused Niko to lose his. As it is, I’m still trying to process the fact that I haven’t taken a breath like this in eight years. Hell, it could’ve been even longer. I’m not sure. Time isn’t a concept I’m familiar with anymore.

A low grunting sound diverts my attention back toward the man who’s currently staring more at my bare thighs than the road. He shifts in his seat as one hand disappears from the wheel into his lap.

I swallow hard.

The guy is big. The kind of big that I could easily outrun on the street, but trapped in a car he has all the advantage.

Tucking my legs underneath me, I wrap Niko’s huge leather jacket tightly around me like a suit of armor. “The corner up here will be fine.”

“You sure?” he asks, the hand buried in his lap finding its way to my knee. “My house isn’t far from here, and you look like you could use a warm bed.” His calloused fingers caress my skin as they inch higher.

No. Never again.

Glancing over my shoulder, I hold his eye as I grab his fingers and bend them backward. “Let me out.”

“Fuck!” He jerks his hand away and turns the wheel so fast the side of my head smacks against the glass. Horns honk behind us as he pulls to the side of the road and slams his foot on the break. “You’re one crazy bitch, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I say, yanking the door open and climbing out before he changes his mind. “But you picked me up, so what does that make you?”

I barely have both feet on the pavement before he guns it and peels back into traffic. I bite my cheek, a rare South Florida breeze reminding me how little I’m wearing underneath the jacket. I’m not sure what to do now. I paid attention to every road sign I could, so I know I’m in Hollywood, not far from Fort Lauderdale. I didn’t think much past getting out of the car, but I’m sure as hell not going back to Mikhail’s house or anywhere near Seven.

So I walk. And I walk. Then I walk some more. I walk as the sun climbs higher in the sky. I walk as more and more people crowd around me, offering the occasional curious glance, but never offering to help. I keep walking when tiny shards of glass cut my bare feet. I walk even though I’m exhausted, but I never complain.

I’m outside without having to look over my shoulder.

I walk until I reach the infamous Hollywood Beach Boardwalk, listening as the city wakes up and a handful of pedestrians become crowded tourists. Colorful Spanish-speaking markets and bars line the sidewalk along with aggressive street vendors. I’m lost in thought, and the higher the sun rises, the more I realize my feet are numb and my head is filled with nothing but him.

That’s not normal. Nothing that’s happened is normal, but having the constant image of a man who a few hours ago beheaded my father and held a gun to my head can’t be sane. Of course, sane isn’t exactly a word I’d use to describe anything I’ve done the last few weeks, so why try to put myself in that box now?

Still, I can’t find a logical reason why Niko let me go. I didn’t give him any reason to. I hid like a coward. I never told him his mother was alive. I never told him I planned to shoot my father’s other leg then walk out and let him burn alive.

So why?