Chapter Twenty
Dixon
Hours pass in bed, sometimes holding each other, sometimes sleeping, sometimes — much of the time — fucking. Through it all, questions hang between us.
What’s changed? Have I changed?
I don’t know if I’m ready to accept that I have, or that I will.
But I know that, in no uncertain terms, I want the truth about Lucas Reyes.
I want to know if someone set up that meeting between my old MC and the Crimson Fury to fail the way it did. I want to kill them in the slowest, most painful way possible.
Sometime during our stretch of kissing, fucking, and sleeping, I’m woken by Alexandra returning to her bedroom with wet hair and a towel wrapped around her body.
From the living room, the sound of one of her podcasts is playing. Some host is jabbering away in a serious voice. “When Maria purchased that ax from the hardware store, she put herself on a statistically designated path: the path to becoming a killer. The numbers inarguably show that 100% of people who buy axes eventually end up using them to commit murder. In fact, it is so ironclad that, among statisticians and morticians alike, it is known as Bunyan”s Law. But what about those people who own axes and aren”t murderers, you ask? Well, they received them either from a friend or a family member who likely was, or is, an ax murderer.”
“What are you listening to?” I say.
She shrugs. “One of my favorites. It’s ‘Axes and Exes — When Relationships Go Wrong.’ I like to listen to it while I get ready.”
“You aren’t planning on going to the Cuff Chain, are you?”
She laughs. It’s a light laugh, and I wonder if that’s how she’d sounded before her brother died. It both makes me smile and breaks my heart, thinking about how much darkness I brought into her life that day.
“Not without you. I wouldn’t go in there without protection.”
“We’ll need backup when we go to turn the flash drive in. I don’t trust Seraphina and Kyle not to try something.”
“Especially that Kyle. How sketchy can you get?”
“I know. Who the fuck but a deviant goes by the name ‘Kyle’ when they’re living that lifestyle? Surrounded by a bunch of people wearing all those outfits, doing all that kinky shit, with names like Seraphina, or Angelus, or Octavius, fuck, I feel like I’m naming the cast from Gladiator, and then you just have fucking Kyle over there chilling in the corner like his name isn’t massively out of place. It’s not right.”
”Maybe he”s so twisted he doesn”t need a moniker to stand out. Maybe he wants us to know. It could be that’s part of his kink.”
“So, if you’re not going to the Cuff Chain, where are you going?”
“Some of us have jobs.”
“You’re seriously going to work?”
“Yes. And I’m going to Cuff Chain after. Listen, I may have devoted most of the last few years of my life to discovering the truth about my brother’s death, but just because I want to murder the person responsible doesn’t mean I’m not a contributing member of society. People need alcohol, Dixon, and I need to give them that alcohol. Plus, I want their money, so I can afford the things I need.”
“Like this amazing apartment?”
“Again, this place was a necessary evil. I needed to live somewhere where people don’t ask questions.” She puts on a bra, panties, jeans, and a shirt. I take a moment of silence for losing sight of the best naked ass I’ve seen in my life, then take a moment to appreciate the sight of the best ass in jeans that I’ve ever seen in my life. “Something on your mind? Because, if you’re committing it to memory, you better hurry. I’m leaving in ten.”
“Not without me, you aren’t. With all the people we’ve pissed off, not to mention the fact that a hired killer did just break in here to murder you, I am not letting you out of my sight.”
“Are you trying to say you care about me, Dixon Green?” She says with a smirk that would rival one of my own.
“Not a fucking chance. Fine. Maybe. But I also want the truth. And if I walk into our meeting with Seraphina and Kyle with the flash drive, but without you, I’ll look like an unreliable bastard.”
“And if I object to you stalking me at work?”
“You can either let me come along with you to work, or you can deal with the fact that I’ll show up to your job anyway, because there’s no way in hell you can keep me out of that bar.”
“Fine. But you sure as fuck aren’t coming in to work with me without a shower.”
“I’ll use deodorant. It’ll be fine.”
“Dixon, you smell like you’ve been dipped, head to toe, in every kind of sexual fluid. And you know why? Because you have been. Deodorant won’t cover that mess up.”
“Dipped six times over, and unless you were faking those screams, you loved it. I don’t think I need a shower. I’ve smelled worse. In the Marines, I was on—”
“I don’t want to hear about you getting covered in the sexual fluids of an entire battalion of Marines. All I want to hear is either you getting back into bed or you getting into the shower. Got it?”
“Fine.” I shower. I dress. It takes four minutes, because the military taught me to be quick at both, or else I’d suffer the naked shenanigans of grown men with the emotional and mental maturity of heavily armed toddlers.
Not long after, we’re parking outside her bar and I follow her inside.
My guard post for the evening is a barstool with an old cushion that’s had a very particular butt groove worn into it, which tells me one extremely determined man has probably made this spot his post for at least the last couple of years. While Alexandra starts her prep work for her shift — cutting limes, washing mint, and prepping orange and lemon peels for cocktails — I get bored and start imagining what strange man would be so determined to grind his ass into one particular stool over such a long period. It’s a big groove, too. Wide. Expansive, even. It feels like two blimps landed side-by-side.
So, I have one thing to base my imagination on: this man has a juicy ass.
“Reggie sits there,” Alexandra says. “You’re going to want to move.”
“I think Reggie can sit somewhere else tonight. I’m good here.”
“Reggie is a retired NFL defensive lineman. That stool is specially made for him. There are titanium rods in the legs. So, not only is it literally a special seat for him, but he will wreck you like Godzilla on Tokyo if you don’t move.”
My mouth is half open for a retort when a hand the size of San Jose lands on my shoulder and squeezes it with the same amount of pressure the earth exerts on coal to turn it into a diamond.
“You mind moving for me, buddy?” The voice is deep, but friendly. Like a volcano rumbling joyously, happy in its purpose, and content to burn an entire town to ashes. “You look comfortable, but that’s my seat. I’ll buy you a drink for the inconvenience of moving. Alexandra, get this guy a round on me.”
Turning, I shift my gaze upwards, straining my neck to meet eyes with a mountain of a man whose smile seems too gentle for the sheer power behind his handshake. With a nod that is equal parts respect and self-preservation, I slide off the stool, feeling like a child moving away from his father”s favorite chair.
”No problem. I”ll take you up on that drink.”
Reggie grins, a massive set of teeth lighting up his face, making him seem more like a giant friendly bear than a force of nature capable of destruction. He takes his seat, the stool not even creaking under his weight — those titanium rods doing their job. I take another spot at the bar next to Reggie..
“Give him some of that stuff from the special bottle I have you keep behind the bar for me, Alex,” Reggie says.
Alexandra pours a drink. It”s something amber and smooth, undoubtedly more expensive than what I would typically order. I raise the glass to Reggie and take a sip. It’s smooth, smoky, and something I’ll have to sip and appreciate, or else I’ll look like an asshole in front of the former NFL lineman.
The bar slowly fills up with the night crowd, and Alexandra moves behind the bar with practiced ease, her smile never waning as she makes small talk and cocktails. I watch her from my new perch, noting every exit, every patron who lingers too long near her station. I”m supposed to be here for her protection — or at least that”s what I tell myself — but there”s something else at play.
Or rather, someone trying to get some play.
He sits at the center of what’s definitely a bachelor party, surrounded by eight other wannabe gorillas, pounding shots, his chest — several times, literally, while hooting — and shooting looks at Alexandra that, as the night goes on, get more and more blatant that he has one thing on his mind and he’ll only accept one answer, too. With every round they order, the tips get larger and Alexandra’s forced, please-leave-me-the-fuck-alone smile gets wider, while Bachelor Boy’s looks get more intense.
“You’re staring at that boy like you’re going to kill him, or you’re going to have to buy him a drink before you pop the question.” Reggie’s voice is a Richter-scale rumble in my ear. “My advice in the first case is: ‘don’t try it.’ And my advice in the second case would be to make sure you’re deep in the alley, at least ten yards past the dumpster, if you want privacy. The lights from the parking lot illuminate more than you’d think. Now, if privacy doesn’t matter to you, that’s fine. Just make sure you wait until after I’ve left before you fuck that boy, because I have no interest in your lovemaking.”
“It’s neither of those options. No killing, no fucking,” I say. “He’s loud and annoying, but that’s about it.”
“You sure? Because you sure are sitting up straight every time he even gets close to Alexandra. You have a thing for her?”
“No. I’m sitting up straight because I was in the Marines and posture matters.”
It’s the lamest fucking excuse, and Reggie and I both know it. But he doesn’t call me out on it.
“Posture is important. You got that right. Now, me, sometimes I get tempted to worry about Alex, but then I remember that she’s handled worse. That boy over there is nothing more than a dumb, drunk child who’s going to make some other man or woman really unhappy for as long as they take to wise up and divorce his ass. Just enjoy your drink and relax.”
He’s right.
I know it. I can see how experienced Alexandra is at handling jerks like him, and I’ve seen firsthand how tough she can be in a fight.
But with every round, that fucking bachelor thinks the extra handful of bills he hands over entitles him to grab a handful of her ass. Alexandra dodges it well at first, but by the fourth time, he’s standing, waiting for her with cash in his hand, a sick smile on his face, and when she grabs the money and heads back to the bar, he follows.
Then he grabs what definitely isn’t his.
Her eyes go wide.
Mine do, too.
Because that son of a bitch just crossed the fucking line..
The stool scrapes against the wooden floor as I stand, my eyes locked on my target. The moment I do, the eight other men in his party stand up as well. I make it four steps toward combat before a look from Alexandra — a look that’s as cold as ice — makes me stop: ‘I’ve got this,’ it says.
“Poor boy thinks he’s won the lottery, but he’s about to find out otherwise,” Reggie chuckles.
Alexandra steps in close, her voice a velvet purr that only the bachelor can hear. Her hand traces a line up his chest before coming to rest on his tie. With a quick jerk, she pulls him down to her level, until they’re face to face. Then she pulls it tighter until the knot is choking him.
”You seem to be under the illusion that what you want has any bearing on what you”re entitled to. Let”s clear that up right now,” she says.
With a flick of her wrist, she twists his arm behind his back. Then, in another move, she slams his face against the bar so hard the room fills with an audible slap. She wrenches his arm again, and the man gasps in pain.
”This is your one warning,” she snarls. ”Touch anyone here again, and I will personally ensure you have to walk down the aisle on crutches. Do you understand me?”
He nods and gasps, “Yes,” several times before she releases him with a push that sends him stumbling back into the embrace of his shocked friends.
“Good, now sit back down and behave yourself or get the hell out of my bar.”
“Not like we want to keep drinking here anyway, you fucking cunt. Let’s go, guys. Leave this fucking bitch and her weakass drinks.”
The room goes quiet, except for Reggie’s whisper. “Oh shit, he’s done it now.”
As I walk past his stool on the way to the door, I hear Reggie stand. He places a hand on my shoulder, slowing me. “They’re drunk, but those odds out there are pretty damn well stacked against you. You care about Alexandra enough to go nine-on-one?”
I don’t even have to think about it.
“I’d take on the whole fucking world for her.”
Alexandra catches me saying that, and I meet her eyes in that moment. My look at her is clear — you know I can’t stand by when anyone speaks to you like that.
And her answer is a tiny smile and a nod.
“Then you ain’t taking on those shitheads alone,“ Reggie says. “Walk a little slower, though. I ain’t so fucking young that I can go running to an alley fight. Oh, and fuck, I just realized I’m about to throw down with you, but I only know you as ‘Marine.’”
“It’s Dixon.”
“Nice to meet you, Dixon. Let’s go teach some fuckheads a lesson.”
“Have a beer waiting for me when I get back, princess,” I say to Alexandra as I head to the door.
She rolls her eyes but starts filling a glass.
Outside, it’s cold. Unseasonably so. Fog has rolled in from the sea and makes the air so thick it’s choking. It smells like seaweed rotting on the beach. The men are slow-walking to their party bus. It’s lit up with running lights, tinted windows, and music so loud it makes my bones vibrate.
The bachelor spots us first. He sneers. ”What the fuck do you two bitches want?”
Reggie doesn”t say a word, he just cracks his knuckles and fixes them with a gaze that would freeze hell over. The group hesitates. There”s something about an old lion that makes hyenas think twice. Especially when that lion is the size of four hyenas put together.
“You guys stepped in it tonight,” I say.
“What? By calling out that stuck-up cunt?”
Reggie and I trade a look. “They just want to keep on digging their own graves, don’t they?” He says.
“Seems like it.”
My eyes go back to the group of drunks, who are slowly walking towards us, fanning out to encircle Reggie and me. I keep my focus on the bachelor. It doesn’t matter what the others do, he’s the one I’m coming for first.
“You know, I came out here to see whether you really were as much of a dumb piece of shit as you seemed,” I say. “I thought that, maybe, once you got some fucking fresh air into that brain of yours, it’d function enough that you’d realize what a mistake you made and maybe you’d save yourself the beating by going in there and apologizing.”
“Apologize for what? Because that fucking bitch doesn’t know how to take a compliment?”
Before the bachelor can blink, I move. It”s surgical; two steps in, pivot, and my fist connects with his jaw — a clean, satisfying crack.
I hit him again, twice more, before he crumples like a sack of wet sand.
The rest hesitate; Reggie doesn’t; he wades into them like a bear into a stream of salmon. There’s no grace to his movements, just raw, unstoppable force. Fists fly; grunts and thuds punctuate the night air, filling every moment between beats from the terrible music that thumps and thuds from the party limo. I laugh and charge into the fun, each move precise — a strike to a throat here, an elbow to a solar plexus there. I don’t have Reggie’s size or raw power, but I’ve got speed and years of training that make me just as deadly.
It’s over in minutes. The men lie scattered on the ground, groaning and clutching various injuries. Reggie is grinning, despite a split lip and a growing lump on the side of his head. I grin, too, even though there’s a wicked bruise forming somewhere on my ribs and a clicking in my jaw that I know is going to hurt like hell in a few hours.
But it’s fucking worth it.
I lean over the moaning bachelor and grab him by the hair, lift his head off the ground.
“Now, I want you to get back in your limo, get the fuck out of here, and if I ever see you around this bar again, I won’t go so easy on you.”
Then I release his head, and it thumps back to the pavement. It’s a satisfying sound, even better than the pained moan that comes after it.
“And get some better fucking music. God damn, haven’t you boys ever heard of Marvin Gaye, Al Green, or, hell, even some Four Tops? Anything’s better than that techno-pumping Cancun Spring Break beach party bullshit you boys got going on. Grow up a little,” Reggie says. He looks about ready to hit the downed bachelor over his music choices, and I put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.
“Let’s go back inside, Reggie. Have a drink, take it easy.”
“You think your lady will pour me a free beer, too?” Reggie says.
Smiling, I nod. It isn’t the prospect of a free beer that has a smile on my face, nor is it how gratifying it is to teach a disrespectful piece of shit a lesson. It’s hearing that phrase from someone else’s lips — my lady.
“Yeah, Reggie, I think my lady will.”