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“You sure?”
“Yes. You rest.”
I hand her the shovel and sit down on the sand.
We fill the rest of the grave in silence, our movements synchronized in a somber dance.
"I'm holding you to your word," she says once we're done, her voice steady but fatigued. "If you're lying…"
"I'm not lying, princess," I interject.
Alexandra nods once, sharply. "Then let's get out of here."
“Where to?”
“My place. We have a mess to clean up, and I have cold beers in my fridge. There’s enough for both of us.”
“Scrubbing blood off a floor is thirsty work,” I say, the hint of a smile on my face.
We reach her car and I head for the driver’s door, settling into the seat with a relieved sigh. She skips by the passenger side door and slips into the back. As I slip the keys into the ignition, I hear a familiar sound: the hammer of the gun being cocked into place. It’s a motion that’s unnecessary to shoot the damn thing — in fact, the only use for it is to send a message.
“You can put that away. I’ve got no plans on dying until we figure out the truth about what happened to your brother.”
There’s a chuckle, and the kiss of cold steel on the back of my neck.
“That’s nice to know, but we got a long way to go before I trust you, Dixon. Settle for the win you’ve already got: I’m willing to share my beer with you. Now, drive before I change my mind.”
Chapter Eleven
Alexandra
I reluctantly roll out of bed, the late afternoon sun streaming through my window and probing deep into my eyes to remind me of just how many drinks I had earlier. My head hurts like it’s been cracked with a sledgehammer, and my tongue feels less like my tongue and more like some dry snake in my mouth. Yawning and groaning, I stand and stretch.
Memories of earlier in the day surface in the late afternoon haze: sharing beers with Dixon, ending with a tequila nightcap — or, to use the more correct term, morning cap — and then directing him at gunpoint to handcuff himself back to the radiator and leaving him a bottle of Gatorade. It’s not abnormal for me to wake up around this time of day. I am a bartender, after all, but it is abnormal for me to wake up feeling this much like crap.
I’m not at my best right now.
But not my worst, either. Things got real dark for a real long time after Lucas died.
I stumble my way to the bathroom and revive myself in a steaming hot shower. Clean, dressed in fresh clothes, I go to the kitchen to make some coffee.
“About fucking time.” Dixon’s voice comes from the direction of the radiator. It’s sharp enough to make me wince.
“The time is the time. So what?”
“Been here for fucking hours, that’s what. Haven’t I fucking proved myself enough that you can dispense with the handcuffing bullshit?”
I snort and turn my attention to the coffeemaker, which is a way better use of my time. “Didn’t realize Marines were such big babies that a few hours stuck to a radiator is enough to make them cry. Did they really send you to a war zone, or was it actually a daycare?” The coffeemaker burbles and the divine scent of fresh coffee wafts through the kitchen, bringing a smile to my face despite the crying coming from my living room. “Coffee will be ready soon. You want a sippy cup?”
“So kind of you. Yes. A cup and my freedom would be nice.”
“Keep up the attitude and you won’t get either of those things.”
With the coffee ready, I pour him some. But as I hand over the cup, something unusual at his feet makes me pause just before the cup changes hands.
“What happened to your Gatorade? I gave you a red one. Why is it yellow?”
“You filled me full of beer and Gatorade and kept me cuffed here for hours, so I had to make do.”
