Page 100 of Gangsters and Guns


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Chapter Thirty-Eight

RORY

By the time I wake up, Alistair is gone. The sheets next to me are cold, telling me he’s been absent awhile. The pills are no longer there, and some of the water is drank, so I settle a little, knowing he might not be in pain. Not physically anyway, mentally… I’m not so sure after what I saw last night.

Troubled, I pad to the kitchen to grab a coffee, giving Mischief some love on the way as he happily winds through my feet. I blink at the note and open the oven to find breakfast in there. It smells delicious, and after pouring myself a mug of coffee, I sit down to eat it, sharing bites with Mischief until it’s all gone. Hell, I even consider licking the plate because it was so good. Who would have guessed Alistair Dixen could cook?

The silence in the apartment stretches on, and I frown as I look around. In the morning light, it feels so lonely, so empty, especially after having him in here last night. I slept in his arms… It’s the first time I have ever done that with a man. I can still feel his heartbeat and tight embrace. I felt so safe.

So loved…so not alone.

Has one night really made me consider how lonely I truly am?

Loneliness when you’re alone in the dark staring at the ceiling of your moldy trailer is one thing, but feeling alone in the lap of luxury in the morning light proves that maybe, just maybe, I am. Lonely, that is. But the Dixen brothers aren’t the type to stick around and hold me. Well, I didn’t think they were, and I’m not the type to let them past my walls so easily. Not to mention the complication of me lying to them and working with the police to betray them.

Yet a part of me wants it again. To be held in their arms—yes, even Maddox’s—all night. To feel safe and protected. To feel…anything but bitter and angry at the world.

Is Alistair the same? Is that why he does drugs? For all his riches, I saw so much pain in his eyes last night. I’m running from my own demons, so it makes sense that he could be too. But what are they? What is he running from or desperately trying to forget?

It seems rich or poor, we are all messed up.

Just then, my cellphone rings, not the one the brothers gave me, the one Bronson did. I scramble to answer it. “Meet me in ten minutes, my office,” he snarls and then hangs up.

Shit.

I rush to get dressed, knowing if I don’t go, he can haul my ass back to jail. I have to play nice, play by his rules…but I have a few questions of my own as well. I thought I could do this, betray these people when they were just a name, but now they have faces. They walk my dog. They gave me a home. A job. Yes, they can be assholes, rude, cruel, and demanding, but they mean more to me now than a random investigation.

They are the Dixen brothers, and whether I like it or not, they have slowly started to creep into my heart, and my silly brain has begun to think of them as mine.

Shoulders squared in determination, I bid Mischief goodbye, toss on a jacket, tuck my hat down low, and hurry down the stairs, not wanting to wait for the slower elevator before I scurry outside. I’m rapidly lost in the crowded street, taking extra care to blend in after Rogan so easily followed me. Bronson will give me answers today, or me helping is over.

I have to know the truth.

All of it.

* * *

I catchthe bus to the station, and by the time I get there, I’ve rehearsed what I’m going to say at least twenty times, but when I walk in and find an irritated Bronson waiting for me, I swallow, and my determination falters for a moment.

He jerks his head and turns, so I follow him down the corridor to his office, where he shuts the door behind me before rounding his desk and sitting in his chair. Ignoring the stacks of paperwork and half filled coffee cups, I sit down gingerly on the opposite chair.

“You rang?” I say, arching an eyebrow, trying to stay calm.

“I didn’t get your report,” he snaps, and before I can interject, he carries on. “You know the deal. You’ve been there almost three weeks now, and I have nothing but some stolen documents. I need more.”

Eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring, I lean in. “Maybe if I knew what I was—”

“That isn’t the point.”

I stand up and smash my fists onto his desk as anger, fear, and confusion swirls through me, creating a volatile mix. My perfect, practiced speech goes out the window. “It is the point! How can I research, learn, and spy on them for you if I don’t even know what I’m looking for? You said they killed someone, who? When? Why? I need more, and if you don’t tell me…”

“You’ll what?” he prompts, leaning back in his chair, but a glimmer of respect shines in his eyes at my outburst.

“I’ll quit and go back to jail, and you can bring them down yourself.” I’m going out on a limb here, believing he’s as desperate as I am, only not for freedom, but to catch the killer and to bring the Dixen brothers down.

He observes me with pursed lips before he opens his top drawer, grabs a manila folder, and tosses it at me. I frown and sit before grabbing it. He says nothing as I gingerly hold it and flip it open. I recoil at the images displayed inside. It’s of a man with half of his face blown off. He’s naked and covered in burn marks. Patches of his skin are missing, as if someone carved chunks out of him to see what his bones looked like. His eyes are swollen shut, his teeth are broken, and most of his nails are missing. Obviously, he was tortured, his face locked in a permanent, silent scream. He died in pain.

Terrified and alone, like I often feel as well.

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