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“I’ve hated you for years. Hunted you for almost as long, too. All because of what I thought happened on that day. You’ve caused so many people so much pain, but now’s your chance to make things right. To help heal the wounds you’ve caused. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to find out what really happened? Or do you just want to die and leave me to suffer? Are you that selfish?”
My cheeks are wet with my tears, and the salt stings the abrasions left on my face by the attacker’s blows. I feel pitiful, begging like this, and must look pitiful, too, because something cracks inside Dixon’s dark eyes and he releases a sigh.
“Fine. I’ll help you.”
He extends his hand and I shake it the way my father taught me — firm grip, with an extra squeeze and a hard grind on his knuckles; it’s subtle, but enough that he knows it’s deliberate and hopefully he makes the connection that I have no problem grinding other parts of him if he pisses me off.
“Thank you,” I say.
In that moment, something close to a smile comes across his face and it’s as if a weight has left his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment before, and his voice is different. Stronger, determined, yet still a note of doubt lingers. Not that I blame him. For years he’s had a story written on whatever he has that passes for a soul, and now, that story may be wrong.
“I can’t think that we’ll find anything that changes what happened. I was there, I know what I did, but maybe…” He almost sounds hopeful.
Good. I want him like this — hopeful, determined, focused. If whoever arranged my brother’s murder is the same person who sent this man to kill me, they’re dangerous and they’re determined to cover up anything that could point to their involvement. I need Dixon on my side, as disgusting as that sounds. But that doesn’t mean I have to trust him.
Because he is who he is: a cocky asshole and a killer.
Then my eyes leave Dixon’s and land on the gun on the floor. I need Dixon, but I still can’t trust him. Quickly, I make a move and snatch the gun from the floor and train it upon him.
“Alexandra? What the hell are you doing?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
My grip on the gun is steady as I level it at Dixon's chest, the cold metal reassuring against my palm.
"Just taking precautions.”
"You always this charming to your partners?"
"Only to those who've earned my special brand of hospitality."
Circling around him warily, I make my way to the kitchen, keeping one eye on Dixon and one on my destination.
“Have you forgotten that I wouldn’t mind if you shot me to death?”
“Have you forgotten that there are many places to shoot a man that won’t kill him? That they’ll only just make him suffer, bleed, and be without the use of his cock for the rest of his life?”
“God damn.”
Opening a drawer, I rummage through until I find the handcuffs — there, between a whisk and a spatula. The shiny bracelets glint tantalizingly under the fluorescent lighting.
Dixon cocks an eyebrow as I toss them to him.
"What's this? Handcuffs in the silverware drawer?"
"Believe it or not, Dixon, some people actually have active romantic lives. And some of us like to be prepared for every eventuality."
As if he should even be surprised that I keep a pair of handcuffs in the kitchen; it’s where all the booze and chocolate are kept. How could it not be an ideal location for having sex? Or at least starting the act? Seinfeld didn’t have it wrong, even if the observation came from watching George Costanza stuff cold cuts into his mouth while crawling beneath the covers with a woman who was way out of his league.
Not that I remember the woman’s name, but all of them were out of his league.
"Now, shut up and cuff yourself to the radiator," I order, motioning with the gun towards the clunky old heater in the living room. "The sooner we establish trust, the sooner we can get to work."
“This is how you establish trust?”
“Where are we starting from? You are still the most likely suspect in my brother’s murder, and I did just watch you kill a man in my kitchen.”
“To save your life.”
“Still doesn’t negate the fact that you killed him. We’re starting from, like, negative trust. Oh, and I still hate you and everything about you and still might shoot you for the hell of it. So… Handcuffs, radiator, now.”
