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“No, no. But if I admit it—” I whisper brokenly, “—that makes it real. I can’t do that.”
“It’s alwaysbeenreal, love. You’ve just never wanted to stare it in the face before.”
I press my fingers against my eyes until fireworks bloom, red and angry ribbons.
Dexter was mad at me because he was scared.
He shouted at me to stay because he was so torn up about losing me.
He’d stormed in barking crap and protecting me from myself because he was afraid for my life.
…he wasn’t angry because Haute’s business with me ruined his big payday or because I didn’t listen.
His aggression came from a place of fear, the way a cornered dog lashes out.
Oh, God.
So maybe the way he treated me wasn’t okay.
But neither was the way I shot down his concerns. We both made mistakes, and now I’m here, sitting at Nana’s table and staring into my wine like it holds all the answers to life rather than more questions I hate I have to ask.
My heart doesn’t give me a choice.
Why did we have to yell and freak out and blow everything to smithereens?
Why couldn’t I just tell Dexter Rory I was falling in love?
26
SWEET REVENGE (DEXTER)
Archer’s about three seconds from becoming a human hand grenade.
He paces around the office, yanking his tie down his neck. Sweat blooms under his arms.
I’m sure I look just as disheveled. Hell, maybe worse.
Even Patton isn’t looking like his usual lazy and collected self. His face is flushed under his scruff as he watches Arch pace around, the same way a curious bird might observe a caged tiger.
“This is bad,” Archer says for the fifth time. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, we’ve established that,” I say. “Now we need a solution.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Not so easy.” The pen I’m holding snaps, spilling black ink across the table. “Shit, what next?”
“What about the cameras? Is there any way we can get the surveillance footage from the laundromat?” Patton asks.
“Not a chance,” Archer answers before I can. “Not without a warrant, and we won’t get it before Haute’s pals descend on Dex and Juniper for messing with their stash.”
“My friend on the Kansas City PD said as much. But she’s stepping up patrols for my house and the Sugar Bowl. If they want to give us a real mafia send-off, they’ll have their work cut out for them. More likely they lay low and delete the footage as soon as they see it,” I say. “Haute’s like that, too. His first thought is covering his tracks.”
“The money will be gone, too, so there’s no real proof. If we’re not careful, he’ll slip through our fingers and your dumb ass will wind up hiding out in Casper, Wyoming, shoveling a hundred tons of horse shit to pass the time.”
I wince, hating that he’s too right.
I can’t stay in Kansas City if we don’t get this un-fucked promptly. I’ll be lucky to grow my beard out and find enough firewood to split in my hermit crab cabin, trying to stave off insanity.
