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I push myself up from the floor, stumbling slightly as the tequila hits me. I make my way back to the living room, glaring at Dixon.
"And how would you know that? You some kind of expert on dead bodies now? Because you’re talking like a fucking mortician. That how you get off? You kill people and then, what, play around with their bodies?"
“That’s not being a mortician, that’s being a necrophiliac.”
“Same difference.”
I know it isn’t, but I’ve got tears in my eyes, tequila in my tummy, and a murdering asshole cuffed to my radiator, so logic is out the fucking window.
“Big difference. One preps a dead body to go into a hole in the ground, the other preps himself to go into a hole in a dead body.”
“Fuck you, that’s nasty.”
“I’m not fucking around here. I know what I’m talking about. I've been a volunteer firefighter since Sacramento. I've seen things, smelled things, you can't even imagine."
“So, what are you saying?”
“I was content to play along with your little handcuff games when it looked like you had your shit together, but if you’re going to have a whiny tequila night while a dead body rots on your kitchen floor, that changes things. Let me out of these handcuffs and let’s take care of this dead body.”
“I just put you in handcuffs. I’m not taking you out right away. I’ll take care of the body myself.” My words don’t land with the effect I want them to have, mainly because I drunkenly wobble when I turn around to look at the body on the floor. “I’ve got a dolly. I’ll load him up. You can stay right where you are.”
“You’ve pissed yourself,” he replies, eyes squarely on my knees, upper thighs, and, unfortunately, my crotch.
“This isn’t pee. These wet spots are from crying.” As if that makes it better.
“Alexandra, you’re too fucking drunk to operate a dolly, much less a car. Besides,” he says, pausing a moment to sniff the air, “do you really want to fumble around with that body when he’s already done the thing that all people do shortly after they die?”
I sniff, too.
Oh no.
Beneath the odor of tequila, I catch what he’s talking about. It makes my stomach turn and my knees wobble.
I hate it, but I need his help.
Sighing, I draw the gun and then toss him the handcuff keys. Then I point the gun at his crotch. It’s shaky in my grip, but I’m confident I could still get the job done if I had to.
“Fine. Unlock yourself and grab the body. And don’t make me hurt you, because I promise I won’t just shoot you to death, I’ll just blow your dick off and then, while you’re flailing about on the floor screaming about your bleeding penis, I’ll beat you to death with it.”
He unlocks himself and gives me a shit-eating grin that makes me want to shoot him right now.
I hate Dixon Green more than it should be possible to hate someone.
“Alexandra Reyes, you really are such a pleasant person. Now, sit back and let me get that corpse off your kitchen floor.”
Chapter Ten
Dixon
This isn’t how I wanted my night to go.
What seems like a lifetime ago, I was a man about to escape his problems for a night with a woman with a sharp tongue, sexy eyes, and seductive hips. Now I’m a man with knuckles bloody from killing someone, who’s lifting that same someone up from the kitchen floor, smelling the unmistakable smell of that man’s post-mortem release, and I’m burning up with some twisted sensation of hope that maybe I’ll find out that what I thought happened with Lucas Reyes isn’t the truth. Then, at least, I can give Alexandra the closure that she so desperately needs.
And rub it in her face.
Because damn, do I hate that conniving snake. Drugging me, tying me to a chair, making me save her life, then handcuffing me while she gets drunk on tequila and threatens to shoot my cock off? She’s absolutely fucking insane.
Yet every time I look at her and see the pain she’s been living with, my heart beats in a way it’s never beaten before.
