by Megan Derr
"Why do I suspect that's a developed tolerance not a natural ability?"
Cheeks flushing, Greg ducked his head and resumed poking at his food. "Whatever. I'm not a loser, however much it seems otherwise."
"Didn't say you were," Dixie replied. "I know what a loser looks like. Ain't a single one anywhere in this house. Eat. Rest. I'm going before Byron comes in here to thump me but good. I'll see you tomorrow, pintsize." He hesitated, then nodded and strode off before he said or did something stupid.
He grabbed a quick bite to eat in the kitchen, then retreated to his room, ran a check on his delete programs and the news reports. Finding nothing troubling, he shucked his clothes and climbed into bed, chased into dreams by soft brown eyes and a sweet smile.
*~*~*
"You ain't supposed to be outta bed. Byron sees you down here, he's gonna drag you up there and tie you down." Dixie didn't even have to look up from the schematics he was going over. He could hear Greg's slow, halting tread as he came down the stairs and across the living room.
When he did look up, it was to see Greg giving him a look Dixie usually only saw on the faces of cranky children and wet cats. "I'm not staying up in that dreary fucking room for one more minute. The world ain't gonna end if I sit down here on the couch and watch TV and play video games."
Dixie snorted at the terrible imitation of his accent. "You mocking me, boy?"
"I would never," Greg retorted, a bare slip of a grin stealing onto his face as he settled gingerly onto the couch and retrieved the remote from the side table. "So what's going on down here in the real world? Am I officially out of a day job?"
"You're out a lot more than a job, darling," Dixie replied, turning back to his schematics. He thumbed to the next printout, then looked up again. His brow furrowed slightly at the pink flush to Greg's face. "You sure you're feeling well enough to be down here?"
"I'm fine," Greg grumbled and jabbed the on button for the TV. "Unless I'm bugging you."
"Nope. Just looking over paperwork—specifically, the security systems for the house we're gonna hit to get a Mason Chip."
Greg perked up at that, completely abandoning his interest in some weird-ass looking house hunting show. "Really? Who are we hitting?"
"I'm not sure sick kittens are allowed in on the plan," Dixie said and laughed at the withering look that got him. Setting down the papers, he picked up the new tablet he'd finished setting up that morning and carried it over to the couch.
Greg's hair was still damp from a shower, the scent of Byron's rosemary-mint soap clinging to his skin. Low-level lust curled through Dixie's body, but he shoved it away. Even if Greg wasn't still recovering and in need of rest, Dixie didn't do repeats.
"This is the target," he said, tapping his tablet and bringing up the rough overview Byron had typed up. "Robert House."
"I know him—well, of him. He's a mad scientist, right? I mean, officially he's as perfect and nigh-divine as the rest of the Pantheon. But I've heard Byron mutter about him before, read some of the reports he's lifted from emails and stuff when they slip. Bad dude."
"Yeah, but he likes living alone on a mountain," Dixie said and laid out some of the more solidified details of the plan as Greg read over the rough.
Greg frowned. "Why are we breaking into his bedroom? Does he keep the G.O.D. computer in there?"
"No," Dixie replied. "Mason Chips are put inside people, not computers. They're slowly rolling the same kind of thing out to law enforcement and all now, too, though it's still in a testing phase and not loudly broadcast to the public."
"In… you mean they're like you?" Greg asked, eyes going cartoon-huge. "Is everybody cyborged up except for me?"
Dixie cast him a look. "Are you sulking because you ain't part computer? 'Cause I'll trade you, pintsize. I'd give anything not to be loaded up with G.O.D. parts. I have a serial number, you know. I'm Bio-computer 3.1, serial number GD175-000313. I'm barcoded for life as G.O.D. property."
"That's not—" Greg flinched. "I'm sorry. That was definitely not what I meant. I didn't realize it was like that. I just think you're amazing." The last word was spoken so low, Dixie barely heard it.
Couldn't scarcely believe it when he did hear it. "Amaz… I really ain't," Dixie said quietly. "And I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, just warning you it ain't all it's cracked up to be." He hesitated, lifted a hand, wavered again, but hell if Greg didn't look like a kitten someone had left in a cardboard box on the side of the road. He gently ran his hand over Greg's head, cupped the back of it, and stroked the side of his neck with his thumb. "Don't look so sad, kitten. You'd break even the G.O.D.'s frozen heart with the power of that frown."
Greg had leaned into the touch, eyes dropping, and Dixie could tell from the way he froze and the abrupt way he pulled free that he hadn't meant to give in to being petted. "I'm not a goddamned cat."
"If someone ever figures out how to turn a cat into a human, honey, it's gonna come out an awful lot like you. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."
"Shut up," Greg grumbled. "Give a man a compliment and he mocks you, so typical."
Aw, hell. Dixie had never been great at talking to people, but he wasn't usually completely fucking horrible at it. Maybe he should quit talking. Greg was the tactile sort anyway. Gently turning his head, Dixie slowly bent and pressed a kiss to Greg's slightly parted lips.
There was damned good reasons he didn't do repeats, and the heat that shot through him like a live wire was a stark reminder. Not enough of one to make him pull away, though. Instead, he went full on stupid and pressed the kiss deeper, curled his fingers into Greg's hair, determined to see if he could coax a purr.
He'd just about gotten it when a door slammed, making him jerk back. Dixie moved out of Greg's space barely in time as Byron came barreling in. "It's a goddamned madhouse—what in the hell are you doing out of bed?" He started to say more, then snapped his mouth shut and peered at them, eyes flicking back and forth. His scowl deepened. "Seriously? Bad enough you're out of bed, how about you wait until those ribs are healed before you try getting laid."
Greg flushed. "I'm fine."
"You're not that fine."
"Ain't your business," Dixie drawled. "What were you shouting about before you started going stern father on us?"
"Huh? Oh." Byron shook his head. "It's a fucking madhouse out there. Everyone is still pissed about the stunt we pulled last week, and apparently Minder took down someone today who is a pretty heavy hitter in the city. Caught him harassing a couple of young women in an alleyway—what Minder does best, except this time he took down a big fish, which is not what he does in any way, shape, or form."
Greg stirred. "I gotta go."
Byron and Dixie both looked at him. "You're not very good at keeping secrets."
"You'd be surprised," Greg said, "but it doesn't take a genius to figure out what kind of friend I'd have in this city that would know my abilities, my identity, and be seriously protective of his own. Not for smart people who pay attention, anyway. I've got to go. I'll be back when I can."
Dixie pushed him back down on the couch when he started to stand. "Simmer down. You gotta go, fine, but you ain't going alone. It won't take much, in your state, for someone to knock you down again, and as hot as we all are right now, ain't a chance we'll be able to get you out again. Let me go with you."
"Minder won't like that," Greg said.
"We helped get you out of trouble," Byron replied. "He has to know we can be trusted at least that far."
"We'll work out the details on the way because I'm going, that's that," Dixie said. "Don't make me use the 'you made me burn down my house' bit, 'cause I will."
Greg flipped him off with both hands. "Fine. I'm going to get dressed, and nobody is helping with that."
Dixie almost joked that it wasn't like he hadn't seen it all before, then decided he didn't want to find out what Greg could do when he was properly riled. "Guess I'd better get ready, too." He stood, waited until Greg had
vanished. "You gonna watch us the whole time, I'm guessing."
"Yeah, but only to track movement. I'll keep an ear to the police and G.O.D. too. I'm really super fucking twitchy at the idea of you two being on the streets."
"Ain't nobody gonna notice that slip of a thing, and we all know people don't like to stare at me too long," Dixie said with a sigh. "My newest ID is still clean, and most everyone who looks close will see the glasses and mark me off. It's stupid how often that dumb trick works."
Byron snorted. "You're telling me. Get a move on. I'll go fire up the systems. But you both owe me a fucking drink when you get back."
"I'll pick you up a six pack of something." Dixie darted into the storeroom and picked a few handy little tricks that could easily fit into the leather jacket he shrugged on. Though he preferred his own hat, it would draw too much attention at present. He settled for a dark blue ski-cap, then shoved on thick, black-rimmed glasses that had a few bells and whistles of their own.
Returning to the couch, he laced on sturdy work boots, and last, pulled on dark blue fingerless gloves.
When Greg returned, Dixie had to admit he looked like some ridiculously pretty, dangerously competent Hollywood style cat burglar. He wore dark-washed jeans and a deep green sweater, a peacoat in steel gray, and fine-rimmed glasses that shimmered faintly for a moment.
Dixie grinned. "Looks like we're both trying to look smart."
"One of us is succeeding," Greg retorted with a matching grin. He popped the pills cupped in one hand, swallowing them dry. Next he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out gloves that were about a hundred times finer than the ones Dixie wore. They were the custom-made, butter soft lambskin type that fit like a second skin and had to be peeled off finger by finger.
Thoughts of what it would feel like to have those gloved fingers running over his skin were firmly shunted aside. He'd gotten stupid on the couch earlier, and had Byron to thank for restoring his sanity. He wasn't gonna slip up again. No matter how much he wanted to every time those pale, pretty eyes fell on him.
"So where we headed, smartass?"
Greg snickered and pulled out his phone, read something, then tucked it away again. "Corner of Belle and Piedmont, know it?"
"Yeah, there's a dive there I've gone to a couple of times to pay for information," Dixie said. "I think Byron goes on a semi-regular basis."
Byron shrugged. "People don't ask questions unless they're paying for the answers. Everyone else makes a point not to see anything. Speaking of information, take this." He thrust a small, thick manila envelope at Greg. "Your new alias. How long should I expect this to take?"
"At least a couple of hours," Greg replied. "Not more than say five, and I'll let you know if that changes. Minder can be difficult to track down even when he wants me to."
Dixie stifled a sigh. "We need to stop for caffeine if this is going to be a game of hide and seek." He lifted a hand in farewell to Byron, paused in the kitchen to nab the keys for the Camaro, and led the way down to the parking garage.
The Camaro was one of his favorites, only three years old and still as pretty as the day Byron had obtained it, dark, dark red and gleaming. He settled behind the wheel, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Traffic and law enforcement surveillance, city limits. Register car to Alias – Chris VanDyke."
"Let's see what my new alias is," Greg said as they pulled out of the garage and into traffic. "Marco Hannigan. Byron sucks at coming up with names."
"Now that's not nice," Dixie said, shooting him a quick grin before putting his attention right back on traffic. "Somewhere in the world is a very nice person named Marco Hannigan and you just hurt their feelings."
Greg rolled his eyes. "At least the ID has glasses, so that won't look weird. Marco, Marco, Marco. I don't think I look like a Marco."
"I'm sure it could be worse."
"True. It could be John Smith, which I definitely don't fit." Greg smiled crookedly, then sorted through the papers, stuffing a few things in his wallet and stowing the rest in the glove compartment. "We won't be in the bar more than a few minutes. You can wait for me on—"
"Not a chance," Dixie said. "The minute I let you out of my sight, you're gonna get in trouble."
Greg slumped in his seat, wincing slightly, so he must still be in pain despite the meds he'd taken. "I'm not the hopelessly incompetent idiot you all take me for, you know. I've managed quite well by myself for years and years. I didn't start getting my ass kicked on a regular basis until I fell in with Byron. Even Minder doesn't get me in a tenth of the trouble Byron brings down on my head."
"Fair enough, but I still ain't letting you out of my sight," Dixie replied.
When they reached the bar, he circled around the block until he found an empty space to park in that left plenty of room for getting out quick. "Lead the way."
In the end, the whole thing went so quickly that Dixie barely had a chance to scope the place. Walking slowly and stiffly up to the bar, Greg spoke in low tones to a bartender with a shaved head, one eye, and three fingers on his left hand missing. The man laughed at whatever Greg said, then slapped a slip of paper into his hand. Greg handed over a fold of cash and slipped away back toward Dixie. "Let's go."
"Yes, boss," Dixie replied as he followed Greg back to the car. "So what's that?"
"Minder never stays long in the same place, and he's never direct about where to find him. Prefers to have me bounce around a few times. Anyone else trying to do it might be able to puzzle out one or two clues, but they'd never get all three."
"We gotta do this two more times?" Dixie thumped his head against the headrest, then jabbed the key into the ignition. "This boy better be the bag of tricks everyone says, all I got to say."
"He's… Minder is special, and I don't mean that in some snide, condescending way. You've no idea what he can really do—no one knows, because if they did, he'd probably have a serial number like you."
Dixie made a face. "Then we'll be damned certain that dealing with us never comes back to haunt him. I wouldn't wish my fate on anyone." He drummed his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel. "So where we going next?"
"City square, west side, there's a candy store."
"You got it." He took a left at the next light to swing back in the opposite direction and head downtown. "Am I allowed to know all the interesting stories that allow you two to play this irritating game?"
Greg laughed. "It really says something depressing about our world that I'm so quick to trust a man called Turncoat when I've never trusted anyone except Byron and Minder, but not enough to let them cross paths even if Minder had been okay with it. I can't tell you all of them, since some aren't my story to tell, but the candy store one is just me. Minder wasn't there. I told him the story one night. Some kids were harassing the clerk there, and I mean harassing. I called them out, wound up getting harassed myself, and they went fucking nuts. Started throwing candy, shoving me around. Thankfully the shop clerk called the cops the second their attention shifted so it didn't last long. But trust me, you haven't lived until a bunch of fifteen-year-old assholes beat the shit out of you with jawbreakers and lollipops. I had toffee in my hair for like a damned month."
Dixie frowned, turned to look at him when they came to a red light. "I thought you said you didn't get beat up much when it wasn't related to Byron and Minder."
"There's a couple of exceptions," Greg mumbled. "I can't say it was a surprise, given what I called them and the tone I used. Better me than that poor clerk. He looked like he was about to cry and I would have too in his position. Seriously, they were using candy as their weapons, and I think they were affected by something, though I never found out for sure. The worst I got was a bloody nose and some bruises."
"I can't tell if I want to shake you till your damned teeth fall out or kiss you senseless. Either way, you're a damned idiot, and it's luck alone you're still breathing."
"Pretty sure you've settled on shaking, not kissing," Greg muttered, scowlin
g out the passenger window. When they reached the candy store, he barely waited for the car to come to a stop before climbing out of it.
Dixie heaved a long sigh and beat his forehead against the steering wheel. Damn it all to hell, why was Greg so confounding and why did he give a damn? They had nothing to do with each other outside of getting the Mason Chip. He needed to shut his mouth, focus on the job, and then work on setting up a new life.
But when Greg returned a few minutes later, Dixie leaned over and dropped a quick, hard kiss on that vexing little mouth. When he drew back, Greg's skin was flushed pink. He licked his lips, which did nothing to help put Dixie's mind back on work. "What was that for?"
"I do actually prefer kissing to shaking," Dixie said as he pulled back into traffic. "I don't keep meaning to say the wrong thing. You're good at causing me to make a damned fool of myself."
"Well, you think I'm the biggest idiot on this side of the country, at least, so I'm not even sorry," Greg replied with a grin. His fingers fluttered briefly over Dixie's thigh, and yeah, Dixie was definitely going to need to feel those damned gloves against his skin at some point.
Shit, shit, shit. He didn't do repeats, but something about Greg had him ready to schedule repeats clear into next year. "Stop distracting me, pussycat. Where we headed next?"
"Stop calling me that," Greg said, but Dixie didn't miss the renewed flush to his cheeks. "Whitefield township, know it?"
Dixie snorted. "Whitebread? Yeah, I know it. Smalltime G.O.D. live there."
"Well, we're only going to the park across from it, and we won't have to get out of the car," Greg replied.
Still too close to the Dogs for Dixie's piece of mind, but it wasn't like he hadn't beat the shit out of two of them recently. "Let's just make sure we're quick." He turned right at the end of the street, drove across downtown until he reached the highway, and took it until he reached the fancy little suburb full of rich folk with old money and lots of skeletons in the closet.
At Greg's direction, he pulled up to the curb alongside a fancy little birdbath. Rolling down the window, Greg reached beneath the birdbath and retrieved something, motioned for Dixie to drive on. After a few more seconds he said, "Back downtown, the Robin building. All the way to the roof."