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Before I can protest, his hands are on my face, my neck, with a touch that is both commanding and shockingly gentle.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s called first aid. I don’t know if you noticed, but that man beat the shit out of you and tried to choke you to death.”
He runs a finger along my cheek, and I flinch, from the warmth of his touch, from the look in his eye — tender, caring, deep, yet enough to inspire visceral, burning hatred in my heart — and from the pain that flares through my body.
“Ow. How the hell do you know this shit?”
“It was part of my medical training.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. Firefighter. I told you that already.”
“Seriously? You’re really a firefighter?”
“Volunteer. But, yeah. Outside the MC, I put in my time with a local fire crew.”
“You’re lying.” I shake my head, even though the action sends my brain bouncing inside my skull and makes Dixon hold my head still by putting my chin in an iron grip.
“Why do you think I’d lie about that? I don’t give a shit about getting into your pants,” he says, and those words send a flash of something like regret blazing through my body. Why do I suddenly care about whether he wants to get into my pants? “I’m also way beyond the point of needing to impress you, because I did just save your life.”
“Still doesn’t make up for you being a murdering asshole.”
“It doesn’t. But this murdering asshole is going to check you over for a concussion, to make sure you don’t have any brain damage. Well, other than your pre-existing brain damage and your rampant bitchiness. Follow my finger with your eyes, OK?”
I do, while I seethe over the fact that he’s not as awful as I’d hoped he’d be.
“Am I concussed?”
“No. You’re just angry and beat up a bit. Also, a bit of a bitch.”
What an ass. I hate that he’s saved my life.
“Great, tell me something I don’t know.”
Dixon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns from me and goes to the dead body of the attacker, who is fouling the linoleum floor of my kitchen with his blood. Kneeling beside him, he grabs the ski mask and rips it off. The motion lifts the man’s head off the ground and sends it dropping back with a loud ka-thunk. For nearly a minute, Dixon looks down at the man. His gaze is so intense, so focused, that I don’t even think to speak, nor do I even move for the attacker’s gun, which is laying so temptingly close by on the floor. I just look at him. There’s something playing out behind his eyes, like he’s deep in a memory that is both vital and painful.
Finally, he nods, and he turns to me.
“Alexandra, look at him.”
“I’d rather not.”
“No, look at him. Does he ring a bell?”
My eyes go to the dead man’s face, then back to Dixon.
“Fine. I’ve looked at him. Never seen him before in my life.”
A second passes where Dixon looks me over with a weighty stare that leaves an impression on my chest. I breathe deep as he opens his mouth, his words coming slowly and filling me with a sense of anticipation and dread.
“You sure you haven’t seen him?”
“No. Are you as dense as you are awful? I already told you I haven’t seen him. Why?”
“Because when your brother was murdered, he was standing right beside him, wearing the same MC patch.”
