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I go silent, thinking, while we continue our walk.
Eventually, we get close enough that one guard with a clipboard comes forward.
“Names?”
Dixon looks at me, that heavy question burning in his eyes.
I swallow. It’s up to me to decide: death, or the truth behind my brother’s murder. But is the truth worth the cost of pretending to be married to Dixon Green?
"I’m Maria Delray, and this is my handsome husband, Lars Buckowski.”
Dixon lets out a quiet chuckle and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Good job, princess.”
The guard consults his list and gestures for the guard behind him to open the gates. “Welcome to the party, ‘Bison’ and ‘Destiny.’”
I clasp Dixon's hand, feel the rough callouses that speak of hard work and the grip of handlebars. His thumb brushes against my skin in a slow caress that doesn't match his gruff exterior. It sends a jolt up my arm that I try to dismiss as irritation.
"Easy there, Lars," I mutter through clenched teeth, "any tighter and you'll crush my hand."
"I just love you so much, Destiny, that sometimes I can’t control myself."
As we parade through the crowd, acting every inch the enamored outlaws, I feel his other hand draw me closer by the waist. It's supposed to look affectionate, but it's possessive too, and only happens after several men openly eye me up and down. I hate how right it feels to be pressed against him. His scent is intoxicating, a mix of leather and something uniquely Dixon that I can't quite name.
"You actually clean up pretty nice when you try," he says, his voice low and teasing.
I roll my eyes. "Stick to the script," I mutter.
“The one where we’re supposed to be happily married? Because I’m giving it my all, princess, and fucking deserve an Emmy for it. But you, you look like you’re prepping to read the eulogy at a funeral.”
“Like the funeral of my brother that you murdered?”
“Fuck. Touche.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
There’s a touched look on his face, and it’s delicious.
“I don’t want to hurt your little feelings. Get your head on straight, stop fucking around — and fucking with me — and don’t lose sight of why we’re here.”
“You are one ice cold bitch.”
I close my eyes and take a vaso veladora of mezcal from a passing server, the grooved tequila-sipping glass feeling wonderfully tactile and real against my fingertips amidst the surreality of being surrounded by criminals with my life depending on pretending to be Dixon’s adoring wife. I sip the mezcal and it’s everything I want — a smoky sweetness that lingers on the back of my tongue and burns all the way down.
“No. I’m not. I have a heart, and it has been through the most excruciating pain. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t want to break down into tears. I’ve forgotten the number of times that I’ve screamed myself hoarse because the world is so fucking unfair that it would rip the life from someone who had so much to give. No matter how much I end up physically hurting you, my dear husband, the best I can manage is to get even for the immense torment you have put me through.”
Each word hits him like a blow, and I see the smugness drain from his face.
“You’re right. Fuck, I’ll ease off. We’ll do this for Lucas. Whatever it takes, we will get that information.”
“Thank you.”
His arms feel strangely comforting around me. But before I can savor the moment or dissect the mixture of emotions swirling in my stomach, a slick man in a suit that screams more money than taste — there’s fucking dollar bills sewn into the lining of his suit jacket — interrupts us with a shark's grin.
"Mr. Brock requests your presence," he says.
Dixon nods, his demeanor shifting to cool and impassive so quickly it gives me whiplash.
