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Dixon races to his motorcycle, and then, suddenly, he’s gone. Nothing more than a speck on the horizon that I stare at in befuddlement.
“What the fuck was that?” I say.
Striker and Moose trade a look, and I feel entirely left out of whatever passes between the two of them.
“I’m surprised they called him,” Striker says.
“It really must be serious,” Moose says. “With the way things were between him and them, you figure they’d have to be really desperate for help to call.”
“Very desperate. After all the shit he’s pulled.”
I step between the two of them and snap my fingers.
“One of you two needs to tell me where Dixon is going. Now.”
“Fair enough,” Striker says. “You know he volunteers with the fire crews, right? Well, they just called him up for an emergency. That ring tone you heard, he got that specifically for their number. It’s annoying enough and loud enough that it could still get his attention when he was fucked up, provided he wasn’t too fucked up to work. Dixon’s had his fair share of issues; the shit that happened in Sacramento, his time in the service… he used to handle his fucking problems with alcohol and other shit I’d rather not think about. My sister and his sister helped set him straight, and he’s gotten better lately, but still… It’s a fucking shock he’d get that call.”
“Why?” It spins my head around to think that a fire squad wouldn’t want a man like Dixon in an emergency. He’s capable, powerful, experienced, brave. A man like him would be an asset to any fire squad.
Striker pauses. “Look, he’s my brother, and he saved my fucking life. I’ll never forget that. The man who he is now is someone with a death wish, and he’s created situations that have not only put his life at risk, but the lives of people on his crew, too.”
“They don’t like him, Alex,” Moose says. “Which is a shame, because, sometimes, it’s working with them that has been the only thing keeping him going. If he lost that, it could get bad…”
I feel a pit in my stomach, like I've swallowed a stone that's sinking and settling heavy against my guts. It's strange to piece together the image of Dixon — my rock-solid, fearless Dixon — as someone so haunted by demons that he'd be a liability.
Something pulls at me. He’s helped me without asking for anything in return. Now it's my turn to have his back.
I lock eyes with Striker and Moose. "Guys, I have a plan."
“A plan? For what?” Moose says.
"Dixon isn’t the type that can mend fences with his crew on his own. Or anyone. At least, not without a good nudge. But I think I know a way we can do that for him. I'm going to need your help, though," I say confidently. "Do you trust me?"
“I’m in,” Striker says, simply.
"Anything for that cutie-patootie," Moose says.
The truth is, I’d do anything for Dixon, too.
But for different reasons.
Reasons that make my cheeks hot and my heart beat in a way that it hasn’t before.
Dangerous reasons.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dixon
As I charge into the burning building with my crew at my side, my respirator hissing like a viper, the words of Captain Reynolds — a grizzled, fifteen-year veteran — hammer inside my skull: fuck up one more time and I don’t care who you’re connected to or what your service record is, you’re off the crew. It becomes my mantra as we battle a blaze inside a five-story apartment building and race to evacuate every trapped resident before the smoke and the flames can snuff out their lives. Don’t fuck up.
In that hellhole, every time I see Lucas Reyes beckon me into the inferno, I shake it off.
Things are different now. I have a reason to live named Alexandra and a purpose: finding the truth about that fateful day my life went to hell.
It keeps me focused.
The building groans around us. We go deeper.
