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“We need to talk about this thing between us,” he says.
I swallow. “What thing?”
A raised eyebrow is his reply.
Did I miss something?
Is he fucking with me? Or is he flirting with me?
“The dead body, our mission.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Just that. Not how, despite the fact that I kept him chained to my radiator and planned on killing him, I couldn’t keep my eyes to myself while he was changing and he damn well is aware of that fact.
“Right. That. I think we should start asking around about him. Show his picture, the tattoo, see what turns up.”
“That’s a great idea. If you want to get killed.”
“Really? What do you propose, genius?”
“Well, princess —”
“Stop calling me that.”
“It’s literally accurate.”
“Just shut up and tell me what your bright idea is.”
“Do you want me to shut up, or do you want me to talk? Figure it out, princess.”
“Talk, asshole.”
He grins at me. It’s a grin I want to punch off his cocky face.
“This guy’s probably a hired killer. Makes the most sense, considering everything we know about him. Just showing his picture around town is a surefire way to tip off whoever hired him we’re onto them, which we sure as fuck don’t want, because then you’ll get more hired killers knocking on your door. We need help, and we need to be discrete about our investigation.”
“Help? What, you want to call in one of your brothers from the MC? No way.”
I object to the idea for many reasons — like the fact that, if it this story turns out to be a dead end, and Dixon is still the one who killed my brother, it won’t be as easy to kill him if he’s got one of his club brothers around.
“Where we’re going to have to go to look into this guy, it’s going to be dangerous, and I really doubt you’re going to let me have a gun. So we need backup.”
“No, you’re not getting a gun. And you’re not getting backup from your MC, either. That’s non-negotiable.”
“You’re a real fucking treat, princess. We’re supposed to go hunting for killers, without backup, without me having a gun, with no other information other than a photo and a description of a roadrunner tattoo? This isn’t Mission Impossible and I sure as fuck ain’t Tom Cruise.”
“Thank fuck, he’s strange.”
“He is. Listen, I got an idea. Let me call someone—”
“No.”
He continues, completely ignoring me and making me want to punch his smug smile off his stupid face. “I’ll call someone unrelated to the club. If there’s a man who knows their way around the underworld and how to get into all the dirty crannies, it’s this guy.”
“How the hell do you expect me to trust you?”
Dixon pauses, gives me a smile that, if it could speak, would say ‘Bless your heart’ in the most Southern of Southern accents and leave me speechless for days.
“I don’t. But you’ll take one look at this guy, and you’ll know he’s no biker. His name is Moose, and he’s just the man we need.”
