Chapter Fourteen
Alexandra
“How many more times are you going to do that?”
I straighten, wiping my face. There’s perspiration on my forehead and my vision swirls at the edges. “Probably a lot more times before the night is over.”
In the distance, drunken laughter fills the gaps between the sounds of a pumping rock band. More than once, there’s the sound of a gun firing skyward. Cars, motorcycles, trucks, a few SUVs with black-tinted windows all line this long stretch of driveway off a country road in the mountains east of Sacramento. We’re on the borderland between the dry Central Valley and the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, but it was long ago that we crossed the border between sane and insane. It smells like sage brush, dry pine, and sulfur. Because this might actually be hell.
No, it is. It definitely is.
“Wife? If you’re feeling ill, we can get back on my bike and I can take you home. Nothing is more important to me than your health.”
He says it so easily, so casually, that it makes me even more nauseous. I turn back to the base of the scrappy pine I was just kneeling against, and spit up a little.
It’s sick. But what twists me up even more is that there’s a part of me deep down that shivered in a not-unhappy way at hearing those words.
“I hate you so much right now,” I say.
“What is it, my love? Tell me, and we’ll figure it out. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
There’s a smirk on his face that I want to smack off with the thick end of a baseball bat. Dixon laughed his ass off the moment we left Seraphina and Kyle’s bar, having agreed to pretend to assume the fake identities of the couple of nomad, free agent biker hitmen named Lars ‘Bison’ Buckowski and Maria ‘Destiny’ Delray.
“You want to know what you can do? Go to hell.”
“You think it’s heaven, being married to you?” He says, then pauses, just long enough for me to open my mouth to retort, but not long enough for me to actually speak. “Because it is. Still wish you would’ve taken my name along with taking my heart.”
“I like to think Maria, as dumb as she was for falling for you, was at least smart enough to hold on to some shred of dignity by not taking your name.”
“Getting married to you was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Dixon says, grinning, as we walk along the stretch of driveway toward the gated compound in the distance. Even this far away, it’s clear the security is intense. Besides the walls topped with barbed wire, there are two men toting guns in holsters on their waist out front, watching our approach like a pair of hawks with a hard-on for murder.
“You know, we’re not even there yet. You don’t have to talk like this.”
“How can I fight it? Love is just such an overpowering emotion. It guides my life. It’s… destiny.”
What remains of my lunch rises in my throat. “I hate you.”
“Hate you, too, princess.” The words slide off his tongue with an ease that sounds forced. “Shame you got a stripper’s name for a fake identity. Yet, it suits you, Destiny.”
I stay silent. I can’t speak. The only thing that wants to come out of my mouth right now is vomit.
Which gives me an idea.
I turn and look down at his boots — they’re genuine leather and glisten like they’ve been freshly shined. They mean something to him. And it’d mean something to me to soil them with a bit of…
“Don’t you fucking dare, or I will give our identities away as soon as we get to those guards,” he says, as if reading my mind.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I’ve still got that death wish, remember?”
“You really don’t care about the truth?”
He shrugs, his eyes forward and on the gate as we draw closer. The two guards both have their hands on their weapons. We’re in range, and any mistakes now — intentional or not — will be fatal. “I do. But don’t think there isn’t a part of me that wouldn’t derive some serious satisfaction from seeing that shocked look on your face just before the end. Might make the whole mess worth it.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, but I hate you enough that it just might be worth dying for.” His voice drops low, burns with warning. “You need to decide now, princess: are you going to cooperate, or are you going to test me to see how far I’ll go?”
I go silent, thinking, while we continue our walk.
Eventually, we get close enough that one guard with a clipboard comes forward.
“Names?”
Dixon looks at me, that heavy question burning in his eyes.
I swallow. It’s up to me to decide: death, or the truth behind my brother’s murder. But is the truth worth the cost of pretending to be married to Dixon Green?
”I’m Maria Delray, and this is my handsome husband, Lars Buckowski.”
Dixon lets out a quiet chuckle and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Good job, princess.”
The guard consults his list and gestures for the guard behind him to open the gates. “Welcome to the party, ‘Bison’ and ‘Destiny.’”
I clasp Dixon”s hand, feel the rough callouses that speak of hard work and the grip of handlebars. His thumb brushes against my skin in a slow caress that doesn”t match his gruff exterior. It sends a jolt up my arm that I try to dismiss as irritation.
”Easy there, Lars,” I mutter through clenched teeth, ”any tighter and you”ll crush my hand.”
”I just love you so much, Destiny, that sometimes I can’t control myself.”
As we parade through the crowd, acting every inch the enamored outlaws, I feel his other hand draw me closer by the waist. It”s supposed to look affectionate, but it”s possessive too, and only happens after several men openly eye me up and down. I hate how right it feels to be pressed against him. His scent is intoxicating, a mix of leather and something uniquely Dixon that I can”t quite name.
”You actually clean up pretty nice when you try,” he says, his voice low and teasing.
I roll my eyes. ”Stick to the script,” I mutter.
“The one where we’re supposed to be happily married? Because I’m giving it my all, princess, and fucking deserve an Emmy for it. But you, you look like you’re prepping to read the eulogy at a funeral.”
“Like the funeral of my brother that you murdered?”
“Fuck. Touche.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
There’s a touched look on his face, and it’s delicious.
“I don’t want to hurt your little feelings. Get your head on straight, stop fucking around — and fucking with me — and don’t lose sight of why we’re here.”
“You are one ice cold bitch.”
I close my eyes and take a vaso veladora of mezcal from a passing server, the grooved tequila-sipping glass feeling wonderfully tactile and real against my fingertips amidst the surreality of being surrounded by criminals with my life depending on pretending to be Dixon’s adoring wife. I sip the mezcal and it’s everything I want — a smoky sweetness that lingers on the back of my tongue and burns all the way down.
“No. I’m not. I have a heart, and it has been through the most excruciating pain. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t want to break down into tears. I’ve forgotten the number of times that I’ve screamed myself hoarse because the world is so fucking unfair that it would rip the life from someone who had so much to give. No matter how much I end up physically hurting you, my dear husband, the best I can manage is to get even for the immense torment you have put me through.”
Each word hits him like a blow, and I see the smugness drain from his face.
“You’re right. Fuck, I’ll ease off. We’ll do this for Lucas. Whatever it takes, we will get that information.”
“Thank you.”
His arms feel strangely comforting around me. But before I can savor the moment or dissect the mixture of emotions swirling in my stomach, a slick man in a suit that screams more money than taste — there’s fucking dollar bills sewn into the lining of his suit jacket — interrupts us with a shark”s grin.
”Mr. Brock requests your presence,” he says.
Dixon nods, his demeanor shifting to cool and impassive so quickly it gives me whiplash.
”Lead the way,” he says.
We follow him through the sea of high rollers, killers, and schemers. The buzz of dangerous energy here is like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on my skin. But as Dixon walks beside me, I feel safer than I have since my brother died. It”s a ridiculous thought. I hate it, but it”s there — persistent and illogical.
We”re ushered into a room that seems to be Brock’s private lounge. A full bar lines one wall, with shelves stocked with whiskeys, tequilas, and scotches older than I am. Mr. Brock sits behind a desk in one corner of the room, watching us with eyes like burning coals in his craggy face, assessing us as if we”re horses at an auction.
”Bison, Destiny,” he greets us with a nod, his voice gravelly with age or too many cigars — maybe both.
Dixon responds with a grunt. “Brock.”
I wave. My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth; there’s something about how Brock is looking at the both of us that sets my skin crawling.
“Bison and Destiny, Bison and Destiny…” He stands and circles around his desk, stopping at the bar to pour himself a drink and peer at us over the rim of his glass. A twinkle in his eye reminds me of the look I saw on the primary subject of the serial killer documentary A Bundyful Life: Ted’s Twisted Tale, in the very worst way. “You two have quite the reputation.”
“When you do what you love, with who you love, well, you have a damn good time doing it,” Dixon says. “Is it any wonder we have a rep?”
Brock grunts, swirling the dark liquor in his glass. “The head of the Colima cartel certainly spoke highly of you. As did The Greek out of Austin.”
“Enjoyed working for them both.”
“I’ll bet you did. If you actually are Bison and Destiny, that is.”
“Fuck, did someone give my wife and I different crazy-ass nicknames?” Dixon retorts. He’s trying to sound relaxed, but I can see the tension in his jaw and the veins standing out on his forearms that show he’s a moment away from launching himself at Brock. “Because it took us some time to get used to being referred to as a stripper and a large bovine animal, so whatever they switch to calling us better be within that same realm or else I’m going to have a fucking bear of a time with it. Unless they’re calling me ‘Bear.’ That’d be fine by me. Always thought that was a badass name.”
“No, that’s quite far from the mark, which is quite surprising coming from a marksman with your reputed talents,” Brock says. Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. We’re surrounded. As Mr. Brock speaks, his voice coming in a laconic, deadly drawl, Dixon tilts his head, as if struck by something, and then looks at me. There’s weight in his look. It says, be ready. “And while there was not much to tell of your physical descriptions, which is to be expected in our line of work, where discretion is important, there was one particular piece of your identities which was very clear, and that it isn’t —”
“Hold that thought, because my wife is looking so damn good that I got me a hard-on that just won’t wait,” Dixon says. His words come sharp, quickly, at nearly the same speed at which he leaps on me.
What the fuck? Is he really hard?
His movement doesn’t just surprise me, it seems to shock Mr. Brock into silence as well. His mouth drops open, stunned, while mine… well, mine is busy, as Dixon places his hands on the back of my neck and with a quickly whispered, “Just go with it,” presses his lips to mine and kisses me deeply.
Then deeper still.
Tongue touching mine, teasing it, flicking it, while his hands leave my neck and slide down my back to grip my ass.
Then he grinds himself against me.
And he is hard.
My brain short-circuits, every thought replaced by the feel of Dixon kissing me, the solid warmth of his body pressed against me.
We could die at any second — killers are circling, just waiting for the word of the shark who is staring at us over his highball glass. And yet, I don’t give a damn about any of it.
All I can think about is how good it feels to have Dixon’s lips on mine.
And how that is one gigantic problem.