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“Dixon.” A deep, commanding voice demands my attention from the right, down at the front of the stage.
I look down, meeting the dark, unflinching gaze of Holden. His jaw tics, even as he keeps his line of sight trained on my face, never dipping lower than my eyes.
“Get the fuck off that stage,” he growls.
For a brief, fleeting moment, I almost listen to him. I do want off this stage. It’s way too damn cold for this, and when it comes to cold water, my feelings are similar to a house cat. Absolutely not a fan of this.
“Or what?” The words leave my mouth before I even have a chance to think it through.
I don’t want to be up here. I didn’t even know what kind of contest this was, but now that I do know, it’s certainly not worth the money to me, personally.
But if he would just fucking ask nicely.
If anyone else had come to demand I get down from this stage, I would have gladly relented and thanked them for the rescue.
But fuck him. Fuck him for telling me what to do or having the audacity to act like he hates me one hundred percent of the time then suddenly come to the rescue.
He grits his teeth, taking a visible deep breath before speaking again, his dark eyes glinting with rage. “Get the fuck down, or you’re done working at the ranch.” His hard gaze is unflinching.
“Is that a threat?” I bite back.
I’m sure he’d love to get rid of me. It’s clear as day that he hates me for what my father and my uncle did even though his entire family—including Dolly—don’t blame me at all.
Holden was locked up in prison while the rest of them gave me a shot at proving I’m not the same as the rest of the Dixons.
He’s stuck in the past, stuck where everything first went up in flames.
Then, it hits me.
He blames me.
I can see it etched on his face. He blames me, the daughter of the man who put him behind bars.
His voice is cold. “It’s a promise, Dixon.”
10
HOLDEN
The struggle to keep my eyes locked on to hers is a battle within what little honorable parts of me are left.
I don’t have any right to fire her for this, but I’d say almost anything to get her off this stage and out of the spotlight illuminating her body for every pervert in the vicinity. Duke doesn’t seem to give a fuck that she’s up there, which pisses me off. It’s his job to protect her, not mine. As long as she’s with him, she represents our family.
She lifts her chin defiantly, taking a step back from me. I saw the look on her face when they poured the bucket of water over her head, and she had been completely unaware of what was about to happen.
Why the fuck do you care?
Something about the look in her eyes, like she’s terrified, reminds me of a mouse caught in a trap. The protective-older-brother instinct in me kicked into overdrive.
That’s it. She’s Dolly’s friend. That’s what this is. She’s my little brother’s pain-in-the-ass girlfriend.
Maybe it’s due to the time I spent in prison, listening to how the lowest men in society talked about women. Maybe it’s the fact that my brother is acting casual about the compromising position his girlfriend is in when he should be hauling her ass off the stage.
Whatever it is, I’m incapable of standing by and letting it happen.
“All right, girls, let’s see you shimmy! Remember, it’s a one-thousand-dollar prize!” the announcer’s voice booms over the microphone.
I turn to see that it’s greasy Old Harry himself, beady eyes leering at the stage. Every man in the room is, like they’re helpless to stop themselves.
