Chapter 19
Ismooth my hands down my tank and, after wiping the potato salad and whipped cream—among other things—off my underwear, I button my pants and try to pull myself together. My heart’s still hammering.
Hex looks far too composed for a man who just ruined me six ways from Sunday. He runs a hand through his hair to fix the parts I thoroughly tousled.
The bar is a mess.
My skin’s still tingling. My breath won’t settle.
And right on cue, the universe shows up in the form of a creaking door and its usual middle finger.
I jerk upright so fast I nearly knock over my drink, panic flooding my system as I take in the disaster around us. Plates shoved aside, silverware scattered, lunch remnants smashed between the unmistakable evidence of what just happened.
A man steps inside, hesitating for half a second as his gaze sweeps the scene. Middle-aged, with weathered skin and the kind of presence that says he’s seen more than he ever asked for. Five minutes earlier and he’d have had one more story to add his wild tales.
A gray polo stretches tight over the roundness of his stomach, tucked neatly into khakis that look a little too crisp for the rest of him.
His boots are worn, scuffed at the toes—but they are the kind that hit more pavement than dirt.
A cowboy hat sits back on his head, casting just enough shadow to soften the sharpness in his eyes.
It gives him a vaguely relaxed appearance, one that doesn’t quite match the weight he carries in his expression.
His lips twitch—somewhere between amused and politely horrified—as he takes in the mess on the bar. Then he clears his throat.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
I could die.
Hex, on the other hand, doesn’t flinch. He just leans against the bar, easy and unbothered, like he wasn’t just… God.
The unexpected man shifts his weight, his belt creaking softly as he adjusts his stance, then flashes a badge clipped to his hip.
“Detective Bryant,” he says, introducing himself.
Were we that loud? Oh God, was there a noise complaint?
He exhales, giving the room another once-over. “Brandon Dillinger. Local business owner. Runs a pretty big startup. Lives in those new high-rise condos on the other side of town—the fancy ones they just put in. Ya heard of him?”
What does this have to do with Hex’s bar?
Hex stares blankly at the detective, but I’m starting to pick things up, to learn him. A subtle shift. A tightening of his jaw. A flicker in his eyes I haven’t learned how to name yet.
“Doesn’t sound familiar. We don’t get a lot of people from that side of town in here,” Hex says, voice calm, controlled. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Bryant replies, rocking back on his heels. “Because we have reason to believe he came through here last Friday afternoon.”
Hex shrugs. “Maybe so. I don’t remember everyone who comes and goes.”
The detective watches Hex carefully before continuing. “He’s missing. Last seen Sunday. One of the last charges on his card showed a purchase here.”
My pulse kicks up, a tight coil of unease winding through me. What exactly does he think Hex knows?
I glance at Hex, searching for some flicker of a meaningful reaction to this detective’s words, but his face stays infuriatingly evasive.
Jesus Christ. What if that whole hitman thing wasn’t just a joke? What if I just let him give me the best orgasm of my life, only to find out he’s actually dangerous?
I’m going to need a better vetting system. Immediately.
I shift, eyes catching on the discarded whipped cream can on the floor, then across the scattered remains of our reckless indulgence. Could I have been any more vulnerable?
Bryant exhales, his expression even. “We checked his condo. Unit 1407. No sign of him, no indication of where he went. Cameras were conveniently down throughout the day.”
1407. I’ve heard that before. The day in the market, when Will called Hex about a broken tap.
I glance at Hex, but if the number means anything to him, he doesn’t show it.
“And now? He’s just... gone. Disappeared sometime Sunday. Came back from the gym, and that was it. No sign of him since.
“Here’s where it gets more interesting,” Bryant keeps going, his voice sharpening slightly. “Dillinger was under investigation for the rape of an underage girl. And he’s also rumored to have ties to Ned Stauder.”
The detective pauses, letting the name settle into the room like a brick dropped into water.
Hex can no longer hide that not-so-subtle clench of his jaw.
Bryant smiles, but it’s humorless. “I figured you might recognize that name. You know, given your history, Hector.” He says Hex’s real name slow and mockingly. “Or is it still Hex these days? Ned Stauder’s known to prefer nicknames too, ain’t he?”
What history? What the hell kind of history gets you on a detective’s radar when a man disappears? And who exactly is Ned Stauder?
Hex doesn’t blink. “I’m familiar.”
“Thought so,” Bryant says dryly, clearly amused. “Given that Dillinger’s business dealings apparently crossed paths with Stauder’s illegal ventures—fights, gambling, all the usual—figured I’d check in with someone who might know the players.”
Hex’s smile spreads, but it’s unsettling in its ease. “Can’t say I’ve been keeping tabs on Ned’s social calendar—” He pauses, just long enough to make the silence stretch. “But you’re welcome to ask him yourself.”
Bryant’s eyes sharpen, hand pulling out a business card from his pocket.
“Funny you say that. We tried, but Stauder’s memory gets awful fuzzy around details like this.
Since Dillinger stopped here, and you have your own history with that crowd, I thought, it’d be wise to ask about your whereabouts Sunday. ”
Hex doesn’t hesitate. “We were on a date.”
Bryant tilts his head, unimpressed.
Hex smirks, knowing he’s covered. “About twenty-five comments on social media posts with pictures from that day will confirm it.”
I clear my throat, still struggling to keep the heat out of my face, the bourbon and orgasm not helping the effort. “It’s true,” I add quickly. “He was with me. I can show you my social posts. They have locations and time stamps.”
Bryant holds my gaze a second longer than I’m comfortable with, his expression keen and assessing.
Does he think I’m lying? That I’m just some na?ve idiot covering for a man I barely know?
Worse—am I?
Finally, he nods. “Alright.” He taps his fingers against the bar, his card resting just beneath them.
“If you think of anything else—anything about his visit that day, or Stauder’s dealings with Dillinger—give me a call.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns and walks out, leaving the odd encounter hanging between Hex and me.
I wait until the door clicks shut behind the detective before letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The tension unspools in frayed strands, coiling tight again just beneath my skin.
I don’t need to look at Hex to feel the pressure building, radiating off him.
I feel I’ve just been caught in the middle of a storm brewing beneath that calm exterior.
Maybe I’m standing in the eye right now.
But what the hell happens when I step out and right into its fury?
I grab a napkin—because that feels like the normal thing to do—and start wiping at a spot on the bar that definitely won’t make a dent in the mess. My brain is caught somewhere between what the actual fuck and play it cool, Sable.
Hex doesn’t say anything, just patiently watches me, which somehow makes it worse.
I shift a glass. Move a plate. Straighten a bottle that’s perfectly aligned with the containers.
Act casual. Keep it together. Don’t let him know you’re mentally falling through the goddamn floor.
“So,” I say, voice a little too high, “that was… uh, interesting.”
Hex hums in agreement, offering nothing more.
I nod—because nodding seems like the right move—and adjust another glass two inches to the left.
“And when he asked about your whereabouts Sunday…” I glance at him, forcing my expression into something that probably doesn’t look as normal as I want it to. “That wasn’t… a weirdly tense moment for you at all?”
Hex leans against the bar, arms crossed. “Not really.”
I blink at him. Wait. Then—because I’m not as cool as I want to be—I blurt out:
“That market we were at is right next to those condos the detective talked about…”
“It is.”
“Did you kill Brandon Dillinger?”
“Yes.”
I drop the glass. It clatters against the bar.
Okay. Okay. Okay. You can process this.
“Oh. Right. Of course. You just…” My brain whites out for a second. I clear my throat, reaching to pick it up, my hands visibly shaking. I turn back to him. “Wait, what?”
“I killed him.” He says it with the kind of certainty reserved for obvious truths.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“I—okay.” I nod too many times, the glass forgotten.
Hex just fucking calmly watches me, and I can’t tell a goddamn thing he is thinking with that perfect, expressionless face of his.
That’s it. I hate that look!
I spin on my heel, taking two steps before coming right back because where the hell am I going?
Nowhere in my thirty-nine fucking years of existence did “accidentally give an assassin a blow job” make an appearance on the bingo card. It’s hot…
IN THEORY!
“So,” I say, trying to swallow the mild hysteria bubbling up. “You just… casually… commit murder.”
Hex exhales through his nose, a subtle sound that means he’s either amused or pretending not to be annoyed. “It wasn’t casual.”
“Oh, wasn’t it?” My voice cracks. “Because you sure as hell made it sound that way. Do you like football? Yes. Have you ever been on a plane? Yes. Have you ever murdered someone? YES?!”
He sighs, rolling his neck to perhaps relieve tension. “The underaged girl he raped? I know her. Her dad is a regular here.”
I stop fidgeting, my stomach twisting. “Oh.”
“Dillinger came in Friday,” Hex continues. “Wanted the girl taken care of. Thought she’d fuck things up for his business if she came forward with her story.
“He runs a shell company for Ned Stauder and has to keep up appearances. Got the feeling he’d done this before and gotten away with it. He heard things about me and how I take care of problems.”
Hex reaches for Bryant’s card and studies it. “What he didn’t realize was that I don’t clean up the messes of depraved bastards who dig their own graves while preying on the innocent. So, I contacted her dad.”
My mouth goes dry. “And?”
“And he showed up that night with his brother—the girl’s uncle. They were gonna handle it themselves.”
I stare at him. I recall the two men I saw him talking with that night. “But?”
Hex meets my gaze evenly. “I’m more experienced.”
My whole body locks up. Experienced.
My stomach does a slow, uncomfortable flip. I lick my lips, my voice coming out way too thin. “So you’re a hitman.”
Hex smirks, shaking his head. “No.”
“Oh, forgive me for being confused,” I snap. “You just confessed to murder, and somehow made ‘I’m experienced’ sound like a goddamn Yelp review for plumbing.”
“I’m a handler.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a difference.”
I throw my hands up. “So I’ve been fucking told. But please, do tell.”
Hex leans forward, elbows on the bar. “I handle shit for people that need the help.”
I gape at him. Handle shit. For people.
So… Murder? Vengeance? Finding lost dogs?
I take a deep breath, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Okay,” I say, my voice faint. “What you’re telling me is… you’re the kind of guy people call when they need a problem solved.”
Hex nods.
“And sometimes the solution is”—I wave my hands erratically—“taking someone out?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just watches me, calm as fucking ever.
Finally, he shrugs. “If it needs to go down that way.”
I take a measured breath. Credit to half a Wim Hof YouTube video and a panic attack last April.
Right. Cool. No big deal.
Just exchanged oral sex with a man who straight-up unalived someone last weekend. During our fucking date.
I stare at him for another long second before my brain short-circuits completely, and the only thing I can think to say is: “…Well. That’s not terrifying at all.”