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"Lead the way," he says.
We follow him through the sea of high rollers, killers, and schemers. The buzz of dangerous energy here is like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on my skin. But as Dixon walks beside me, I feel safer than I have since my brother died. It's a ridiculous thought. I hate it, but it's there — persistent and illogical.
We're ushered into a room that seems to be Brock’s private lounge. A full bar lines one wall, with shelves stocked with whiskeys, tequilas, and scotches older than I am. Mr. Brock sits behind a desk in one corner of the room, watching us with eyes like burning coals in his craggy face, assessing us as if we're horses at an auction.
"Bison, Destiny," he greets us with a nod, his voice gravelly with age or too many cigars — maybe both.
Dixon responds with a grunt. “Brock.”
I wave. My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth; there’s something about how Brock is looking at the both of us that sets my skin crawling.
“Bison and Destiny, Bison and Destiny…” He stands and circles around his desk, stopping at the bar to pour himself a drink and peer at us over the rim of his glass. A twinkle in his eye reminds me of the look I saw on the primary subject of the serial killer documentary A Bundyful Life: Ted’s Twisted Tale, in the very worst way. “You two have quite the reputation.”
“When you do what you love, with who you love, well, you have a damn good time doing it,” Dixon says. “Is it any wonder we have a rep?”
Brock grunts, swirling the dark liquor in his glass. “The head of the Colima cartel certainly spoke highly of you. As did The Greek out of Austin.”
“Enjoyed working for them both.”
“I’ll bet you did. If you actually are Bison and Destiny, that is.”
“Fuck, did someone give my wife and I different crazy-ass nicknames?” Dixon retorts. He’s trying to sound relaxed, but I can see the tension in his jaw and the veins standing out on his forearms that show he’s a moment away from launching himself at Brock. “Because it took us some time to get used to being referred to as a stripper and a large bovine animal, so whatever they switch to calling us better be within that same realm or else I’m going to have a fucking bear of a time with it. Unless they’re calling me ‘Bear.’ That’d be fine by me. Always thought that was a badass name.”
“No, that’s quite far from the mark, which is quite surprising coming from a marksman with your reputed talents,” Brock says. Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. We’re surrounded. As Mr. Brock speaks, his voice coming in a laconic, deadly drawl, Dixon tilts his head, as if struck by something, and then looks at me. There’s weight in his look. It says, be ready. “And while there was not much to tell of your physical descriptions, which is to be expected in our line of work, where discretion is important, there was one particular piece of your identities which was very clear, and that it isn’t —”
“Hold that thought, because my wife is looking so damn good that I got me a hard-on that just won’t wait,” Dixon says. His words come sharp, quickly, at nearly the same speed at which he leaps on me.
What the fuck? Is he really hard?
His movement doesn’t just surprise me, it seems to shock Mr. Brock into silence as well. His mouth drops open, stunned, while mine… well, mine is busy, as Dixon places his hands on the back of my neck and with a quickly whispered, “Just go with it,” presses his lips to mine and kisses me deeply.
Then deeper still.
Tongue touching mine, teasing it, flicking it, while his hands leave my neck and slide down my back to grip my ass.
Then he grinds himself against me.
And he is hard.
My brain short-circuits, every thought replaced by the feel of Dixon kissing me, the solid warmth of his body pressed against me.
We could die at any second — killers are circling, just waiting for the word of the shark who is staring at us over his highball glass. And yet, I don’t give a damn about any of it.
All I can think about is how good it feels to have Dixon’s lips on mine.
And how that is one gigantic problem.
Chapter Fifteen
Dixon
It shouldn’t feel this good.
Or this right.
Until our lips touched, all I’d felt for Alexandra was a mix of pity, regret, and a whole hell of a lot of hate. It’s a mutual feeling, too; just as much as she’s enjoyed torturing me, I’ve enjoyed watching her squirm as we’ve gotten deeper into this underworld mess with Seraphina, Kyle — the man with the inexplicably boring name — and now Jeremiah Brock. Hell, making her life miserable is one of the main things keeping me going.
But this kiss complicates things.
