Chapter 48
Dixie
A blast of cold wind shredded my updo, and I swore at the weather. Not the vibe for a city-dwelling girl like me. My mother had moved to Torlum a decade ago, and I’d hated every visit to the bleak island. It had a shitty history, no nightlife, barely even any roads, if I was going to have a bitch.
A world away from where I’d been, and my welcome hadn’t been warm either.
There was no love lost between Mum and me. I wasn’t sure there ever had been. She hadn’t raised me. Others had done that until relatives swooped in and claimed me when I’d been a tween.
Worst day of my itty-bitty life.
And trust me, I’d had a bunch.
I’d never told Mum what happened to me. No one knew.
She wasn’t all that interested in getting to know me again now either, only side-eyeing my nails and the makeup I put on in the bathroom of her grey bungalow, commenting that whoever I was trying to impress would think I looked like a ho.
Honestly, bold of her to assume anyone on the island had taste.
Yet it was pretty accurate, that barbed guess.
Or at least it had been.
I mooched along the harbour, where fishermen came and went, trotting down the steps from the ferry port and out onto the sands. A chill settled into my bones. I missed home. Deadwater. I missed my girls and the club. The neon. Even the creepy regular who always tipped in exact change.
Though I was done with sex work, I still craved being able to flaunt my body. The thrill it gave me to have attention on me. I loved that. It made me feel in control. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling sexy again.
From my pocket, I slipped out my phone and searched on the club’s socials. Divine had a buzzing account which detailed who was dancing when and featured pictures of the girls.
Envy crawled through me at the suggestive poses and the skimpy outfits. Wearing something like that here would scandalise the locals. Mum already commented that my boob job had people talking.
If my round, expensive titties were the subject of island gossip, these people desperately needed hobbies.
I flipped through the pictures, thumbing off the page to search on Deadwater as a whole. I’d avoided doing this. It hurt too much, but I was lonely, and Little Miss Sad. I needed a dose of red-brick buildings and gloomy bridges over the fast-flowing river.
What I got were stark headlines that sickened me.
Marchant Haulage – A Front for Trafficking?
Women Smugglers: A Family’s Dark Secrets.
Horror stole my breath. Hearing my old surname when Convict’s girl came on the scene had thrown me for a loop. This brought back more memories than I knew how to handle.
With a shaking finger, I tapped on the top article. It was true. The company my grandparents had founded and operated was being investigated for suspected trafficking crimes.
A cry fell from my lips.
They’d discovered bodies on a Marchant ship. A ship I remembered the name of. Scenes from half a lifetime ago battered me, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
A horn blasted out on the water, and I jumped. A ferry approached the dock, people on the deck. Islanders returning from the mainland.
“Dixie!” a woman yelled.
My mouth fell open. I raised my hand to shield my eyes.
Lovelyn hung over the rail, one hand waving furiously.
My heart hurt more at the familiar face. She was kindness wrapped in a bow and dusted in fairy sugar. But what was she doing all the way out here?
Next to her, a massive man glowered. I shrank back so hard my soul vacated my body.
The Big Scary From Warford. The one my nightmares had on speed dial. His description fit the man Karla at Heaven had warned me about.
I stared, my perfectly painted lips in a glam little O, then a beat later, recognition followed. On the night I’d left the city, I’d seen him in the warehouse. Tyler had released him from a cell. Bad news. No doubt in my tiny mind.
And of course, thinking about Tyler sent another stab of pain through me.
God, that man. Hot as sin, muscles for days, rugged face like someone sculpted him out of pure danger. And that wasn’t even what got me. No. I was a goner for competence.
He led a whole damn team dedicated to taking out traffickers. Deadly. Furious. Enough to ruin me with a look.
If capability porn was a category, he had my subscription.
Stuck in this backwater, I’d gone premium-grade delulu over losing him, worse considering we’d never exchanged anything deeper than “hi” and “bye, don’t die.”
In real life, even if he had stolen a glance or two, he probably wouldn’t have been into it. Not with the way my luck was trending.
None of that mattered. I’d been discovered, and now I had to run all over again.
I took a backwards step, stumbling on pebbles on my retreat around the rocks.
A gloved hand closed over my mouth, cutting off my attempt at a scream. My attacker lifted me, their other arm banding around to capture me completely.
Great. Kidnapped again. Loved that for me.
And then I was being carried away, legs kicking, dignity gone, absolutely certain that this time? This time might be the one I didn’t walk away from.