by Isabel Wroth
"I went out one night, hoping a pair of junkies who kept eyeballing me would finally do me in. Don’t know how he found me, but Veracruz pulled me out of the bar, told me he was hiring guys for a special job, and I clearly needed a mission.
“I disagreed. He beat my ass sober, told me the score and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could do something that would make up for not having done something sooner. You know?”
Dillon made an appropriate sound of agreement, unsure how complimenting her dog turned into this long-winded story about himself.
She was still trying to reconcile herself to the fact she was sitting there like a normal person, not having a panic attack.
“We pull women and kids barely past being legal out of all kinds of hellholes, take out the fat fuckers who buy them to use as sex slaves, get them home.
"We try to shut down the pipelines, plug all the leaks. Lather, rinse, repeat. I thought I'd seen enough shit, done enough, to kill that stupid, weak-ass bish inside me who didn't step up sooner for you.
“Here I am, couple’a years later, and the second you looked up and remembered who I was, every good thing I told myself I'd done to balance the scales wasn't enough.
"I really wish it was my throat that dog of yours got hold of, but apparently, I'm fuckin invincible. Cannot be vinced.”
With her reserves of adrenaline completely tapped, Dillon sat there, completely numb to what she heard.
She rarely ever had more than a few ounces of wine at a time, so maybe a mouthful of whiskey on an empty stomach helped with her anxiety.
“I dunno, kinda looks like you're heading straight for alcohol poisoning, full speed ahead.”
“Here's hoping,” Tobias told her, lifting his newest bottle for a toast.
Feeling responsible in an irrational, illogical way for Tobias’s current state, Dillon reached out and put her hand over the mouth keeping the liquid from reaching Tobias's lips.
He blinked at her in drunken confusion, not fighting too hard when she took it away and put the cap back on. She heard the part where he felt guilty for having taken part in her torture, and even though on some level Dillon knew she should be punching him in the balls or condemning him for it, she couldn’t.
In all the sleepless nights, the years of therapy, and horrendous memories of her time in that warehouse, Dillon only recalled two men being actively involved in hurting her. She only remembered John Lewis because he’d come to the hospital.
All she remembered about Tobias was his voice in her ear, promising to make the pain stop, telling her to hold on because he was going to get her out. Save her. Which he must have, or they wouldn’t be sitting beside one another right now.
“You know what I did with my life?” Tobias gave a miserable shake of his head, and Dillon acknowledged she wasn't harboring feelings of fear or hatred for this man.
He'd saved her, and gone on to save other women. That had to count for something.
“After realizing Styles used the threat of home grown terrorism to try and find his wife, the FBI gave me a shit ton of money to go along with my new identity.
“It took me a few years to stop falling apart every time a man I didn't know looked at me sideways, but with some therapy, I went to see a lawyer about doing something with it all. I buy homes and fortify them to give victims of abuse a safe place to live.”
Tobias frowned so hard furrows appeared on his forehead, his glazed eyes roamed from side to side, deep in thought.
“You're into real estate?”
Dillon shrugged, managing a crooked smile. “Sort of. I flip the houses and apocalypse proof them so whoever their demons are, the women know they have a safe place to rest and raise their families.
"I started the foundation eight years ago, and in all that time, no one from my past has come back to haunt me.
“Then a ghost breaks into my home and sends me to see a bunch of bikers, who tell me I'm being hunted by a gang of human traffickers, and a few hours later, you show up.
"Another ghost from my past, who now hunts the sort of human traffickers I was accused of helping. Pretty sure my therapist would call it coming full circle.”
Tobias nodded slowly. “If I weren't drunk off my ass, I'm sure I'd agree. You see a therapist?”
“I stopped going a year or so ago,” Dillon confessed, silently admitting what a mistake that had been.
“Duke keeps telling me I need therapy, but the booze seemed like a better idea at the time. You're not wearing pants.”
Nasa reminded her he was there by giving what sounded like a territorial growl, but Dillon didn't look his way.
“You're not wearing a shirt.”
Tobias looked down at himself and grunted. “Toosh.”
“It's, touché, asshole,” Nasa snapped rudely.
Tobias gave a good-natured shrug, rubbing the heel of his uninjured hand against his sternum as he sank down lower on the couch and leaned his head back.
“Prolly. I think I'm gonna stop drinking after I wake up. Doesn't feel as good as I hoped it would. Meh-be I'll try ffh...fherapy.”
So saying, Tobias promptly passed out. If not for the rattling snore he gave, Dillon might have assumed he'd just died.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“We'll head out as soon as Veracruz and his guys do a final sweep of the area.”
Dillon looked up from the sweet potato speared on the end of her fork, grounding herself in reality as she offered Nasa a brief smile and took a deep breath.
“It's clear as it's gonna get,” the deep voice made Dillon flinch, which of course made Elka sit up immediately to give the newcomer a suspicious glare.
The man wasn't nearly as tall as Nasa, but then Dillon didn't know many people who were actually seven feet tall. She didn’t know any, actually.
His hair was jet black and cut high and tight; his face was on the longish side, his jaw angular and square.
His lips were almost feminine in their pouty thickness, his nose long and wide, separating his chocolatey brown eyes.
His skin was a rich, beautiful coppery tan, and he had muscles stacked on muscles beneath his black tee and dark green cargo pants.
“We're good to go any time after rush hour. That cool with you, Nasa?”
Nasa gave a short nod, glancing at her briefly before pulling a tablet from inside his vest.
“I'll check the satellite trajectories to be sure.”
“Dude!” Veracruz sighed heavily. “You're not being watched by the government.”
Nasa brayed a short bark of incredulous laughter.
“I worked on projects so top secret, the people in charge of creating them didn't even know the whole story.
"I might not be a terrorist, or some kind of anarchist, but I could fuck shit up for Uncle Sam so bad the economy would never recover. You ever wonder why I don't fly? Or leave the state very often? I'm on every watchlist there is.”
The commando rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively through the air.
“Whatever, Mr. Universe.”
He turned his deep, soulful eyes on her, and Dillon felt as though she'd stepped into one of those full body scanning tubes at the airport. Exposed to the marrow of her bones. Veracruz gave a manly jerk of his chin, giving Elka a respectful look.
“I've seen my share of working dogs, but you've got the best. Who trained her?”
Dillon licked her dry lips, feeling the rough edges catch on her tongue.
“Joshua Warren.”
The man gave a hike of his thick black brows, smiling appreciatively. “He still using his kid as the practice dummy?”
“Um, far as I know. You know Josh?”
“We've met a time or two. I'm Issac Veracruz.”
Eager to rid herself of the fluttering feelings of anxiety, Dillon asked the only question she could think of that could make it happen. “What happened to the bodies in my yard?”
Amusement colored Veracruz's gaze in an instant, as though he knew what she was tryi
ng to do.
“What bodies?”
Nothing in the entire world pissed her off more than being treated as though she were stupid, or too fragile to handle the truth.
Logically, Veracruz was probably trying to be kind, maybe even trying to protect her, but she needed to know.
God forbid the cops got involved and she didn't know the story being told.
“I shot a man in the chest and my dog mauled another man to death at my order. I'd like to know what happened to their bodies.”
Dillon added a 'please' as an afterthought, watching Veracruz lose a bit of his mirth.
He looked at Nasa, for permission or advice she wasn't sure, but that simply would not do.
“I appreciate that you came to help me. Yes, I had a meltdown and what you saw freaked you out. I have issues, but I'm not so fragile you need to ask permission to speak to me like an adult from someone who is neither my lord, nor my master.”
Nasa folded his arms over his chest to give Veracruz a shit-eating grin and said not a word, letting his buddy dig himself out of his own hole. Veracruz shrugged and told her the truth.
“We cleaned up the mess, dug your bullet out of the one guy's chest, and took the bodies to a crematorium for disposal.
"I had Matt and Kris deliver their colors to a local hangout—no, they weren't seen,” Veracruz told Nasa with a hint of affront. Granted, Nasa was staring at him like the guy had grown another head.
“Their colors?” Dillon asked in confusion.
Nasa gave his sleek leather vest a tug, waving his fingers at the patches that proclaimed him Treasurer of Perdition MC.
“Every MC has their own name and logo, colors that identify them as members. It's a priceless item that holds value only to the club and its owner because every man who wears their club colors earned it.”
Veracruz nodded in agreement, using two fingers to tap the spot on his own chest where Dillon's bullet had found its mark on the dead Leviathan.
“You put a hole through their gang logo, which is about as big a 'fuck you' as it gets.”
Dillon swallowed the saliva that pooled in her mouth, hoping she had enough control to keep her breakfast from making a reappearance.
“I was aiming for a lung.”
“You most definitely hit one,” Veracruz confirmed proudly.
It was starting to set in now, the shock of having taken a life. No matter how evil he might have been, no matter what he would have done to her with that huge knife he'd had in his hand, she'd taken his life and used her dog to kill his buddy.
It was something she'd discussed extensively with Joshua Warren. He'd told her this would happen, the shock that would come once she accepted she was no longer in danger, that her survival instinct had won out.
Dillon couldn't accurately say how many hours Josh spent training her to protect herself. To use Elka in the same manner Dillon might use her gun to defend herself.
“It's you or them, Dillon. When your life is on the line, you use whatever you have on hand to make sure you're the last bitch standing. If someone is coming at you with the intent to hurt you, you use a gun, a knife, your dog, you use a damn rock if you have to. Whatever it takes to survive.”
“Dillon?” Nasa's stern voice cut through her thoughts, and she focused on his too handsome, too scruffy face instead of the shock.
She'd asked for the truth, and if she broke down again or puked, she would forever more be seen as a victim by these strong men—someone who needed to be handled with kid gloves.
“I had clothes and a silver case in my truck. I need it.”
“Your Bronco is parked downstairs in the garage, stuff's in the back,” Veracruz told her as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“It's a pretty distinctive vehicle and my suggestion would be to at least paint it before getting back on the road. I know a guy—”
“I'll take care of it when we get back to the compound,” Nasa rudely interjected.
Hostility flared between the two men, making Dillon's heart skip a few beats. Uncertainty had her shifting in her chair to allow her an easy exit if she had to suddenly leap back out of the way.
Veracruz didn't seem put off at all, smirking at Nasa knowingly as he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked back on the heels of his huge shit-kickers.
“I think Dillon made it clear you're not responsible for her, Nasa. Did you even ask her whether or not she wants to go back to Austin with you?”
Nasa bristled with aggression, moving to stand toe to toe with Veracruz.
“Back the fuck off.”
“Big brother giving you attitude again, Sarge?” A big, beefy dark-haired man with beautiful olive skin came strolling into the room, sucking down what looked like a protein shake.
He wasn't classically handsome, but there was something absolutely striking about him.
This guy was a bit shorter than Veracruz, his shoulders were wider, his body just as thick and heavy with muscle.
In the bright lights of the kitchen, Dillon got a good look at his eyes, and was startled by the exotic yellowish gray circled in a jagged edge of emerald green.
He wore the same leather vest as Nasa, but other than that, the three men couldn't have been less similar in size or appearance.
“Always. I was just about to ask this nice lady whether or not she wants to go home with you degenerate fuckers.”
The newcomer gave a dark chuckle and tipped his shaker bottle at Veracruz, shooting her a wink.
“Better than sticking around here to re-up with the B-team. Our clubhouse is way cooler than yours.”
“Is not!” Veracruz retorted hotly.
“Is so. You don't even have a game room, or a media room, or a bomb shelter, or a booze room, or an underground garage, or a shooting range.
"All you got is a three-story stripper pole in this ugly-ass building and no strippers. You should get Mr. Universe here to hook you up, he designs the ultimate dude-dwellings.”
“If you two fuckers are done takin’ the piss,” Nasa snapped, planting his feet wide, folding his arms over his chest.
Her heart started to race for reasons other than fear as she imagined Nasa standing over her like that while she impatiently waited for him to touch her. To soothe her. To drive her insane with the wildest pleasure she'd ever known.
It was neither a sane, nor normal reaction. She had to get away from him. Now.
Dillon shakily pushed to her feet and skirted her way around the table, putting it between her and the three large men taking up all the air in the kitchen.
“Dillon, where are you going?” Nasa clipped out, his tone edging towards the demonic growl she recalled from the other day at his compound.
“Somewhere else while the three of you shake your balls at one another.”
Protien Shake gave her a sexy grin but kept his trap shut. She could practically see the steam starting to roll out of Nasa's ears.
“Do I have to ask permission to take a shower?”
“Of course not,” Nasa murmured, his tone softening when he looked her way. “Everything you need is upstairs.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say she highly doubted everything she needed was upstairs, but Dillon refrained and felt three pairs of eyes follow her as she left the kitchen.
When she pushed open the door to her temporary bedroom, she discovered the clothes covering every inch of the bed.
Jeans, shorts, T-shirts, tank tops, bras, three different pairs of shoes—biker boots, sneakers, and a pretty pair of sandals—night gowns, underwear both practical and sexy, two different dresses, three rompers, socks, and an oversized sweater.
Every article of clothing, except for a sexy black leather jacket and the biker boots were shades of blue. Her favorite color.
That certainly couldn't have been in any file or part of Tobais's retelling of their time spent in a black site. How had Nasa known blue was her favorite color?
On the bench at the foot of the bed was a bag
full of all her preferred brands of toiletries.
“Fucker went through my stuff at the house,” she muttered under her breath, both insulted and relieved.
Everything on the bed were indeed things she would have picked for herself. More expensive than what she would have normally chosen, but still.
Taking into account another long car ride was forthcoming, she picked out a pair of cotton bikinis and the matching bralette, the soft, stretchy jeans, and a T-shirt in the same denim color.
She grabbed the bag of toiletries and crossed the hall to the bathroom, locking the door behind her to indulge in a long hot shower. She washed, scrubbed, and shaved until she felt human again.
Dillon used the brand of deodorant she liked, brushed her teeth with the peppermint toothpaste she preferred, rubbed the moisturizer she splurged for into her face, and smoothed the pomade she always bought into the too long strands of her hair.
Everything was familiar to her. The smell of her products, her routine—it was comforting to have them.
There was even a bottle of the perfume she rarely ever wore. Such a little thing.
A lot of little things that added up to a much-needed sense of normalcy despite the circumstances, and Nasa made sure she had them all.
Elka butted her hip and gave a soft whine to get her attention. Dillon smiled down at her, stroking her silky ears.
“Guess I was wrong.”
*****
The ride back was for the most part uneventful. She'd now been officially introduced to Raid, Damon, and the rest of Veracruz's team.
Dillon struggled to appear unaffected by the way they all treated her like she was fragile. Tiptoeing around her as though one wrong word, one wrong look, would send her into another tailspin.
It was beyond humiliating to know all of them had seen her completely lose her shit. The only other person who truly knew the depths of her PTSD was her therapist, and she hadn't seen Dr. White for over a year.
Dillon hadn't had a nightmare in months, she’d been feeling better, so Dillon hadn't made an appointment despite Dr. White's really bitchy secretary reaching out more than once to get Dillon back on the books.
