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Alexandra
Pulsing music, a heavy crowd, and the overwhelming sensation of being watched by lusty, suspicious eyes greet us as we arrive at Cuff & Chain. This place seems to ooze tonight, and the bouncers at the door wave us in and escort us through the crowd. Dixon keeps his eyes forward, just like I do, neither of us much intrigued by the sweating, gyrating, leather-clad bodies around us. Striker’s eyes wander like a someone watching a car wreck. Moose is Moose; his eyes wander, too, but differently, and he exchanges friendly hellos and cheek kisses with everyone we pass. It takes an extra five minutes to cross the floor of the club because of him. Not that I mind that much. In a dangerous place like this, I feel even safer with Moose by my side, knowing that he’s probably lovingly fucked at least half the people in this room.
Seraphina and Kyle are waiting for us in the back lounge. Seraphina is wearing a bodysuit of leather held together by chains, with what looks like arrowheads protruding from it in every different direction. It’s confusing, disturbing, yet supremely sexual. Kyle is wearing a business suit and glasses. I get sleepy just looking at him.
He looks up at Dixon and me as we enter. “I volunteer at the Rotary Club doing their books. It took longer than I expected — they need a lot of fucking help, since they launder a lot of money — and I didn’t have time to change.”
“Rotary Club? How did you get involved with the Rotary Club?” I say.
“Their president is a member here. And one of our playmates,” Seraphina says. “Though, to be honest, he mostly prefers to play with Kyle. Like me, he is a bit of a size queen, and his appetite is insatiable.”
“Oh, you’re talking about Greg?” Moose says.
“Indeed,” Kyle says. “Another reason I was late.”
“I’m surprised you even made it out alive,” Moose says. “That man is a sexual tyrannosaurus.”
Not wanting to let the conversation go down a rabbit hole about the voracious sexual appetite of the president of the local Rotary Club, and feeling the flash drive burning a hole in the too-small pocket of my pants, I pull it out and hold it forth. “I hate to interrupt, but we have that thing you sent us for. How about we trade information instead of trading sex stories?”
Dixon and Striker both shoot me grateful looks.
Seraphina extends a hand in my direction, but makes no move to get up, so I’m forced to bring it to her. “Thank you, Alexandra.” Then she snaps her fingers, and a man steps out of the shadows and brings forward a manila folder. I open it. Inside, there’s a blurry, black-and-white photograph, a name — Erik ‘Frost’ Marquez — and a last known location in Sacramento, dated three years ago.
“This is it? This is all you have?”
“He’s a hired killer and one of the best. To expect that there’d be anything more than that on someone like him is to be incredible naïve,” Kyle says. “We both know you’re better than that.”
Fucking Kyle. He’s right, but fuck him and his ugly suit and nerdy glasses and his rumored gigantic cock. I’ve been through too much, waited too long, for something shorter than even the dumbest fuckboi’s Tinder bio.
“This is what I risked my life for? It’s like three fucking lines and a photo that looks like you copied it third-hand from an Etch-a-Sketch.”
Dixon takes the folder from me, gives it one look, then slaps it shut. “There has to be more.”
“There isn’t. Take it and go,” Seraphina says. A wave of her hand is both a dismissal and a warning — overstay our welcome and those men lurking in the shadows will make this meeting a very un-sexy event to everyone who doesn’t have a blood fetish.
We leave.
On the way through the club, Dixon slips his arm around me. Unconsciously, I press myself against him, finding some small comfort in his touch despite the fact that there’s so much disappointment in the folder in his hands. This is what I almost died for? It’s nothing. A name, an outdated address, a grainy photo — I’ll never find out the real reason my brother died. It’s a dead end.
Dixon kisses the top of my head.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “Because I was thinking the same thing. You think it’s hopeless. It’s not.”
“It’s not? It’s a crappy pic, and like, twenty words. Toddlers just learning to speak have babbled more useful information. How is it not hopeless?”
“It’s not hopeless because it’s important to you. Which means there’s no fucking chance I’m going to give up on it until we have this Erik ‘Frost’ Marquez sitting in front of us, handcuffed to a chair, giving us all the goddamn answers we want.”
“How the fuck are we going to find him based on the fucking zero information in this folder?”
“We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this, Alexandra. You have me, and everyone else in my MC, too. We’ll find him. Whatever it takes.”
Despite the doubt and disappointment that still sits deep in my heart, I manage a smile and rise on my toes to kiss Dixon. He’s trying. And knowing that this is just as important to him as it is to me gives me a small sense of hope. Miracles can happen. Even those miracles that lead to a man being captured and tortured for information about a bloody, three-year-old murder. Maybe I have a Hallmark Channel movie ending in my future, only with a lot more blood and retribution.
In the parking lot, where some techno-beat that’s so dirty I feel like I need a dozen showers is pulsing and making my bones throb and my joints ache, Dixon’s phone goes off. He has an unusual ringtone that sounds like a police siren. He answers, holding the phone to his ear and his free hand to the other ear to block out the thumping music.
Ten seconds of listening ends with him saying, “I’ll be there,” and then hangs up. His eyes go to Moose and Striker. “I’ve got to go. It’s serious. Keep her safe, will you?”
I blink. What the hell is happening?
