Chapter Thirty-Seven
Alexandra
Cheap Chinese food sits in little cardboard boxes on the coffee table in front of us, alongside a six-pack’s worth of empty beer bottles. Dixon’s couch tries to suck me into its cushions like quicksand and make me fall asleep. But I can’t sleep, as exhausted as I am, because any second now, Ghost could contact us and I could have the answers to the questions that have weighed me down for the last three years. Every so often, I nod off, and the man beside me, my unlikely rock through this tumultuous storm, nudges me — on my orders — to stay awake. Every time I snap back to alertness, my mind goes to the question that sits between us unaddressed, while both of us do our best to ignore it, even though I feel its frightful potential.
In each moment I catch him staring off into space, and in every time I catch myself drifting, a simple, scary refrain echoes in my head: things are going to change soon.
My life is on the cusp of something monumental, and I have no idea what it could be. Maybe I learn that someone else is responsible for my brother’s death, or it could be…. it could be terrible. I hope for the best, but there’s a part of me that fears the worst. I can spend so much time thinking about what it would be like to move on — to end a night of work at the bar, to come home to Dixon, or go to the clubhouse and spend time with him and the guys and the ol’ ladies, to think about simple, lovely things like where we want to ride, or what to have for dinner, without worrying about who he really is — but there’s a scary, dark refrain in my head casting doubt on who I can trust and just what I’ll find.
What if Erik doesn’t give me the answers I’m looking for?
Or what if the answer he gives me is something I don’t want?
A fearful part of me wonders what I’ll do if it all leads back to Dixon. If the life I’ve constructed around me is built on nothing more than lies and my brother’s grave.
I don’t want to think about it.
I have to do something else.
So, when Dixon sets down his chopsticks, I set down my beer and leap on him with the fervent desperation to lose myself in him for what might be the last time.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers as I crawl into his lap and press my lips to his, grinding my ass into his groin, crushing my lips to his.
“Shut up,” I whisper, half to him, half to the doubtful voices in my head. “Shut up, and fuck me.”
There”s an urgency in the way his hands move over my body, as if he”s trying to chase away the darkness surrounding us with every touch. His fingers trace a line of fire down my spine and I shiver. Dixon says nothing. He doesn”t have to; everything we need to say to each other is spoken through our eyes and the desperation behind each burning kiss.
This is an escape.
This is survival. In the heat of our passion, the world outside fades away, and all that matters is the two of us. We grab at each other, desperate to feel something other than the fear and uncertainty that consumes.
”I need you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible above the sound of our ragged breathing. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dixon captures my mouth in a searing kiss that leaves me breathless. His tongue thrusts against mine, mimicking the rhythm of our bodies as we move together, seeking solace.
”You’ll always have me,” Dixon growls, his voice rough with desire. ”Always.”
I tug at his shirt, pulling it up and off, revealing a muscled chest, within which beats a heart in perfect time with my own.
”I love you,” I whisper.
I tighten my grip on him, touch him, caress him, committing every part of him to memory. Maybe things will work out for the best, but maybe they won’t. If they don’t, I want to hold on to moments like these as tightly as I can.
”I love you too,” he replies.
Kisses grow into something more. Moments become minutes entwined together that stretch into the morning, and the early red rays of the sunrise filter through the windows. Still, I cling to Dixon, desperate, hoping for the sense of peace that seems just beyond the horizon. This man is the one I want, this life is the one I want, but as hard as I try, I can”t shake the feeling that our love might not be enough to shield us from the truth.
When the red-gold rays of sunrise turn to the undeniable post-dawn golden sunshine, Dixon’s phone pings.
He stirs, reaches for it, and as he reads the message on the screen, his eyes go wide and my heart stops.
“It’s Ghost. Erik Marquez is ready to talk.”