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“You two seem happy. Well, I know I can’t speak for you, since we haven’t spent much time together, but Smokey seems happy. He carried a lot of shit with him after what went down in Sacramento, but once he met you… It’s changed him. I’d never tell him this to his face, but you’ve done a lot to help him heal, and you’ve given him a purpose to work towards. I enjoy seeing him happy again. Honestly, Alexandra, I’m grateful that my friend’s finding himself again because of the love that you two share.”
“Wait, you wouldn’t say this to his face?”
I can’t believe one of the nicest things anyone’s said about my relationship with Dixon and the effect I’ve had on him is coming from a blood-covered interrogator in the parking lot at a mechanic’s shop.
What even is my life?
“I have a reputation. It serves me well. But if these guys found out that I enjoy a good Tessa Dare or Julia Quinn book as much as I enjoy ripping out some guy’s fingernails while he weeps like a newborn, my life would change in ways I don’t want it to.”
“You read Tessa Dare?”
“Yes. Tessa Dare, Julia Quinn, Meghan Quinn and sometimes Sarah J. Maas, too. What can I say? I love love just as much as I love torture. In a lot of ways, they’re kind of the same thing, you know?”
“Excuse me?”
His voice picks up speed, enthusiasm, and I can tell I’ve unleashed something that he’s never shared with anyone and is ecstatic that he finally has an audience. God help me.
“They both involve testing, probing, even pain. A good romance will take you right to the breaking point and beyond, just like torture. They have satisfying endings, too. At least, the good ones do — torture sessions and romance novels, both. You know, I’ve even been writing something in my spare time about this ex-interrogator and one of his former captives and…”
“I need something to drink.”
I can’t deal with this.
I race into Reid’s Repairs. Unfortunately, Ghost follows, still talking about his book idea, which actually doesn’t sound that bad, except I’m in no mood to listen to it, because the man I love is interrogating the man who holds the secrets regarding my brother’s tragic murder. Plus, I’m not Ghost, I don’t think I could find this situation romantic at all, ever. I go to the beverage fridge that the guys keep in the corner, and a faint sound catches my ear.
It sounds like a scream.
A very quiet scream.
Followed by a much-louder crash and one of the doors in the back thumps inside its frame.
Ghost and I trade a look.
“What was that?”
“Fuck. That’s where we’re keeping Erik Marquez. That door’s fucking reinforced and the room’s soundproofed. We shouldn’t be able to hear shit unless they’re having a real fucking party.”
My blood boils and the door thumps again, harder this time.
Whatever the hell Dixon is doing in there, it sounds brutal.
“He was supposed to come get me as soon as Erik Marquez was talking. I thought you said that he was about to break?”
“He was. I know what I’m doing.”
“Then why does it sound like a fucking war zone in there?” I don’t even wait for Ghost’s answer; Dixon broke his promise, and I am not letting him get away with it. I try to open the door, but it won’t budge. It’s locked. I whirl on Ghost. “Open this door.”
“Smokey won’t be happy if I do that.”
“Either open this door or get ready for me to rip your fucking head off.”
“Alexandra…”
I stare him square in the eyes.
“You know the power of love and the power of violence — hell, you’re writing a fucking book about them both. Do you really think you have any chance of stopping me? Open the fucking door, or I will inflict more pain on you than you’ve done to all your torture victims combined.”
I doubt I could take Ghost in a fight, but I also doubt he wants to see what Dixon’s reaction would be to finding out he hurt the woman who will become his ol’ lady.
