“Well, that’s good because I prefer you not kill anyone when we’re fucking.”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Right? That would be awkward.”
“Extremely. I’m heading out soon. I need to pick up a few things.” He wanted an old cell phone with a sim card. He knew of several bodegas that still had them encased in plastic, dangling on hooks, covered in dust.
“Huh. I hate ‘things’, so I’ll tap out.” She moved in his arms, standing on her own instead of letting him hold her. He dropped his hold, and she spun, taking his coffee with her.
“Then I’ll see you when you’re not working.” Dixon raised his voice as she strode down the hallway. Her laughter was his only response.
At the moment he was happy they didn’t have a conventional relationship because he needed to check in with Drake. It had been too fucking long, and the fantasy football message boards had been silent. Using a public computer at a hotel business center where his father had had a business meeting, he’d finally checked his dead drop email. Other than a message sent months ago letting him know there was a new threat, there was nothing. He spent ten minutes making a new account and dropped everything he knew or assumed into the draft email.
Today his sperm donor was in the state capital, a trip he was particularly happy to take, and according to snippets of conversation Dixon had heard, the fucker was meeting with the governor, again. With his father’s political aspirations, there was little doubt as to why the meetings were occurring. It was the question of who was forcing the appointment that interested Dixon. He was getting closer. The badly blurred endgame he’d encountered when he’d first started this assignment seemed to sharpen and clear, at least in his mind.
“I’m out of here.” Joy waved at him as she crossed the living room and headed to the front door. He lifted a hand in response. Theirs was a weird fucking relationship. Dixon laughed out loud at his choice of words as it was, literally, a fucking relationship. Not a friendship, although he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy her company. They talked about the most random shit, and she pulled him out of his own mind. Most of the time. But not today. He stretched long and hard, feeling the strain of his muscles. He had things to do.
He sat on a low cement embankment at the edge of one of the many Christmas exhibits at Rockefeller Center. A mass of humanity crushed past him. He pulled out the phone he’d purchased that morning. He’d charged it while he’d made his purchases and mentally prepared for his first offensive strike against his father. He slid the back open and pulled the tiny sim card out of his pocket and inserted it back into its slot. It would take several minutes for the phone to acquire a signal. His eyes traveled almost sightlessly over the people who milled around. Fuck, he was melancholy today. He wanted to be back at the ranch, to laugh with Drake, and to tease Miss Amanda or joke around with Doc. He wanted to be there Christmas morning. Everyone he cared about would be at the ranch.
Dixon’s eyes caught on a flash of long black hair, and he shifted, thinking for a moment he’d seen Joy. His gaze worked its way through the crowd, but there was no one in sight who looked like her. He shook his head and glanced down at the phone. Maybe not everyone he cared about was at the ranch. Joy was becoming important to him. He’d admit he liked her, and sex with her was otherworldly…but she’d never consent to a relationship. She kept him at arm’s length, and she’d never deviated from what she wanted. Their relationship was quid pro quo. He didn’t have the right to suggest anything else.
He sighed and stared at the phone. After all the women he’d fucked and left, he probably deserved her attitude. Karma, it seemed, had smacked him on the ass with a metal-studded paddle. The one woman he could actually fall for only wanted him for sex. Yeah, karma filled a shoe labeled ‘serves you right, you callous bastard’ and it fit just a bit too well.
He glanced around the area again before he punched out the number he knew by heart.
"Go."
Relief washed over him. No matter how many times he told himself that Drake was okay, hearing his brother’s voice was the confirmation he needed. "Hey. Glad you’re not dead."
"Me, too. You okay?" He heard the immediate concern in his twin’s voice.
He smiled and for the first time in months told the absolute truth. "I am, for now. Out of the fucker's grasp for the moment, and I needed a sanity check. How’re things at the ranch?"
"Fuck, everything is good here. Dix, there is a new threat."
Dixon sighed, “Stratus. I know.” He’d known since Jewell’s wedding. Not telling Drake had been almost impossible.
“How?”
Wow, there was not enough time left in the year to explain how or reply to the thousand questions he knew Drake would have. Instead, he deflected, “Look, I don’t have time to go into it. I couldn’t respond to the dead drop. They watch me, monitor me all the time, but I was able to buy this burner cell. I accessed the internet, and I’ve opened a new email account. Tell Jewell it is under our mom’s maiden name. She’ll find it. The information I could validate is in the draft message folder. I’m destroying this phone as soon as we finish talking so there will be no way for them to trace that action. Are you okay?” He had to get Guardian the information he’d heard and the assumptions he’d made. The fantasy football board was for extreme emergencies only. Like the supposed death of your twin brother.
"I am. Lying low after a minor run-in with some goons put into motion by the Russian Mafia and backed by Stratus.” Dixon snorted at the minor run-in bullshit. The man was on record as dead. That spelled major in every fucking book he’d ever read. His brother continued, “When are you coming home?"
Fuck, get me a jet, and I’ll be there in time for dinner. "I don’t know. There have been…complications. I'm working on it." Complications—maybe that was the wrong word. Incremental glimpses of possible information on Stratus.
"What are you working on?" There was a determination in his brother’s voice that he knew well, and that didn’t bode well for Jason.
"I can’t say, and you wouldn’t understand. Besides, you knowing what I’m doing wouldn’t help." Dixon wasn’t going to pick that scab. No way in hell he’d make his brother bleed.
Drake released a defeated sighed into the phone, “I…fuck, Dix. I miss you.”
“I miss you more.” His brother had no idea how true that statement was.
"Ha. Semantics."
Dixon smiled at the verbal challenge and accepted it immediately. "Bullshit. There are no semantics. What you’re doing is shading your own reality. Our own truth." He knew he was smiling like a crazy person, so he dropped his head, trying not to draw attention.
"I miss you. Period and full stop." Drake’s smile came through the connection. Dixon could picture it.
"Still shades of your truth." Dixon countered, egging his brother on.
"Define truth," Drake responded.
"That for which there is no alternative but to believe as an absolute," Dixon threw the definition out there without delay.
"Is there such a thing for us?" Drake’s voice took on a serious tone.
“Yeah.” Dixon glanced up and watched a husband and wife smiling as they swung a child between them in that weird step-pull-swing thing happy families did. "I think love is the absolute truth."
"Love for your family?" Drake asked.
"That is one type," Dixon admitted. He found himself acknowledging another.
"You've met someone?"
Drake got him. Man, it was so fucking good to talk to his brother. He admitted what he knew, "I’m not sure, but...it’s complicated.”
"Grab onto it, Dix. Hold on tight." Drake pleaded with his brother.
If only it was that simple. He sat up and swept the crowd with his eyes. "What about you?"
"I’ve found someone, Dix. She's amazing and...just, fuck…take care of yourself and simplify those complications. Without you here, I’m as happy as I can be. I miss the fuck out of you."
Dr
ake found someone. Dammit, it was him that had been keeping his brother from his destiny, wasn’t it? He caught a glimpse of that fall of hair again and stood up, responding to his brother as he searched the crowd. "I'm happy for you, D. Take your own advice and grab onto that reality.” He moved to the right and watched Joy wrap her arms around another man’s neck. The man spun her around and kissed her firmly on the lips. Dixon spoke to himself, “It won’t last. Good things never do.”
“Dix, what are you trying to tell me?”
Fuck, he’d said that out loud. He spun and started walking away from where he’d been standing. “I…nothing, man. It’s just fucked up here. Nothing is solid. Everything is so mired in lies, half-truths, and innuendo I can’t trust anyone. Hell, half the time I'm not even sure what I feel is real." Wasn’t that the fucking truth?
"Trust your gut. Don't take any chances."
His brother’s warning echoed in his ears and wasn’t it fucking appropriate? He barked out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, making a leap of faith could get me killed. Better to put my head down and do what I need to do, right?”
"Walk away, Dixon. Get the fuck out, now."
"I can’t." He couldn’t. Guardian needed information, and he was now poised to get it. He was too fucking close to turn tail and run. He had a strategy in play, and he’d given too much to this mission to tuck tail and run.
"Dix..."
He interrupted his brother before he could get going. "Yeah man, I know. Listen, I need to go. I'm safe, for now, and I'm being maudlin. Feeling fucking homesick, maybe. Keep your head down and protect what’s yours."
"I will. Take care of yourself. I love you."
He choked up at that. "And I love you. Later, D."
"When? When’s later, Dixon?"
He had no fucking clue. "Got to go. Merry Christmas, Drake. Whatever it takes."
"As long as it takes, Dix. Merry Christmas, little brother."
Dixon ended the call and then broke protocol. He knew his brother. He knew sure as shit what Drake would do, and he needed the big guns to sideline him. His phone call with Jason was short and to the point. Stay out until called in. It took fifteen seconds. There was no way anyone would trace that call. Dixon popped the back off the phone and lifted the sim card. He dropped the phone in a trashcan and bent the sim card as he walked. When it cracked between his fingers, he dropped the first piece in a pile of snow and walked over it before crossing the street with sixty or seventy other people. The second piece landed somewhere in the middle of the road.
Chapter 9
"Your father wants to see you." Smith's voice pulled Dixon's attention from the stack of documents his father had buried him under this morning. He wasn't a fucking lawyer, nor was he a secretary, and yet his father had determined that Dixon needed to read and understand all the supporting documentation for the legitimate businesses under Simmons Scepter, Inc. Such a pretentious name for the fucking company, but hey, that fit his old man's crazy like cream filling in an Oreo. Perfectly.
"Thank you." Dixon stood and reached for his coat. Smith didn't leave, standing firmly in his doorway. "Did you need something?"
Smith cast his eyes down the long hallway. "Be careful." The man's words were barely audible from the distance he stood.
Dixon continued to put on his jacket. He fixed his collar and buttoned his suit jacket before he stepped around the desk and approached Smith. He stared the man in the eyes. "I am extremely careful, Mr. Smith. I am a survivor," he said just as quietly. He held the man's eyes until the guy nodded and backed away from the door, allowing Dixon into the hall.
It took thirty-seven steps to reach his father's office. He knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. When he received it, he opened it and walked in. The fire in the fireplace blazed. His father was sitting in one of the large chairs facing the fire. There was a crystal decanter and two glasses on the table between the chairs. "Dixon, please come in and sit down."
Dixon's eyes swept the room before he complied. This was a new dynamic, and fuck him if it didn't set his nerves on edge. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in the chair. "You asked to see me?"
"I did. I wanted to share some news. I'll be going to the state capital again. You will go with me."
"Yes, sir." The response was immediate. He was rather proud and disgusted by how eager the words sounded.
His father poured a portion of the dark amber liquid into both glasses before handing one to Dixon. "After the holidays, the governor is announcing my appointment to the vacant Senate seat."
Dixon blinked in surprise. He hoped he nailed it. He had no doubt his father had been salivating over the open seat. He raised his glass and spoke, "It's about time. Congratulations, sir, you deserve nothing less."
Dixon waited until his father took a sip. He let the liquid touch his lips but didn't drink a damn bit of it. There was no way he'd ever allow himself to relax around this fucker.
"Indeed. I'm sure you're aware that the media will require access to you and will, unfortunately, dig into your brother's tragic death." His father's eyes latched onto him and were evaluating his smallest reactions.
"I'm sure you'll provide me the information I need to be successful in promoting the correct image to enhance your appointment." Dixon relaxed into the chair where he was sitting, and his gaze drifted toward the fire and lingered there. His father's gaze drilled holes into him, and the weight of his stare was a tangible thing.
"I will not allow any flaws to taint me. As my most likely heir, you are not in a position to make even the smallest mistake." The warmth had faded from the man's voice.
His father had discarded the pretense of respectability he wore like a second skin, and the real nature of the psychopath was bared and ready to strike. But all of that was suddenly of secondary importance. His gaze whipped from the fire to his father. Dixon leaned forward. Most likely heir. If his sadistic father had another child, he would take down anyone or anything to make sure that child never lived through the hell he and Drake had been through. "Most likely heir? Drake is dead. Who else is there?"
A single eyebrow rose as his father stared at him. "Why? Would you kill to keep your birthright?"
"I've killed for less." Bile rose in his throat, and he choked it down. There was no doubt he'd burn in hell for the things his father had forced him to do.
His father's head cocked as if he was considering the comments Dixon had flung back at him. Dixon lifted his glass and took a drink simply because the residue of bile was burning the back of his throat.
"A fortuitous choice of words." His father turned and stared into the fire as he spoke, "As an act of loyalty, I will require you to perform a service for me."
His subconscious demanded him to ask what type of service. He wanted to know what type of sick test would be next, but the questions never fell from his lips. He would be killing someone to prove his allegiance to his father. Guardian knew the bastard well. Dixon took another sip of his single malt which tasted like battery acid. Instead of demanding answers, or swinging his fist into the fucker's jaw, he stared and considered the fire as he spoke. "You know I'll do whatever it takes." For as long as it takes, you motherfucker. I'll see you burn in hell.
"We shall see, my son. We shall see." His father responded almost as if he'd read Dixon's thoughts. "I will also need you to move into The Residence with me."
Dixon placed his drink on the table. He stood up and went to the fire. He withdrew the poker and opened the decorative screen with the tool. His mind was scrambling for the correct way to handle the demand. He nodded and bent to roll a particularly large log. As he split his attention from his father to the fire, he said, "I can do that tonight if you'd like, but may I ask if you've taken into consideration how having your grown son living in your residence would look to the public? The whole 'failure to launch' scenario has played out poorly for numerous politicians recently. Add the fact that I work for you, and having me under your roof may be a liability i
n the public's opinion." Dixon added another log to the fire and used the poker to shut the screen before replacing the tool and looking over at his father. "What does your PR management team say?"
"I don't have a PR management team."
"You should consider it, sir. People who do nothing but look out for your best interests and ensure you're only seen in only the best light." Dixon sat down in his chair and once again picked up the crystal glass.
"The people I'm working with are taking care of that portion of my nomination. They want to meet with you. I'll arrange it after I've reminded you of your allegiances. Let's call it remedial training. Your weaknesses will not taint me."
Fuck, he never assumed shit would fall apart so quickly. He needed time, but it was obvious psycho-dad had other ideas. One thing he knew for sure, he couldn't endure another of his father's ‘training sessions’. If the man got him into one of those rooms, his father wouldn't come out alive—of that he was positive. No, he would not be tortured again. So, he did what he'd been trained to do, he looked for an advantage and kept the bastard talking. "Why remedial training?"
His father's gaze swept in his direction. "Because, Dixon, I don't trust you farther than I can throw you. You waltz back into my life and assume I will open my arms and return you to the fold." The man lifted his glass to his lips and took a drink.
"What have I done that hasn't been in complete alignment with your wishes and desires?"
His father chuckled. "You're good. I'll give you that."
"I'm sorry?"
Dead eyes turned to him. "Yes, you are, and you're flawed." His father stood and walked toward the fire, his back to Dixon.
Dixon's eyes swept the room again. The blinking red camera in the corner of the room caught his attention. It had never been on when he was in the office, and yet the camera tracked...his father. Not him? Who would have eyes on his father other than...Stratus.
"I'm not flawed," Dixon responded and stood before almost reaching for the weapon behind his back, freezing his hands on his hips out of gut instinct.
Dixon Page 9
