Missing Dixie

by Caisey Quinn

  “Good night, Dallas,” Dixie says evenly. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Text and let me know you get home safe, please.”

  “Good night, you two,” Dallas answers reluctantly. “Try not to kill each other.”

  Dixie rolls her eyes and slams his truck door. Hard.

  This is the second time in a matter of minutes that I’ve seen Dixie let Dallas know how it’s going to be. I don’t think I’ve seen that happen ever in my eleven, almost twelve years of knowing them.

  I’m still in shock as we head into the house.

  Dixie switches the lights on and I stand in the entryway still holding my bag of food and unsure of what to do with myself.

  “I’ll get you something to drink,” she says, adding “sit” and nodding toward the couch before she disappears into the kitchen.

  I follow her orders like a zombie on autopilot.

  Sitting down, I open my sandwich, unsurprised when I realize that she did, in fact, order it exactly as I do.

  “Tea or Coke or water?” she calls from the other room.

  “Coke is fine,” I answer, knowing I need the caffeine, as this is probably going to end up being a longer night than either of us is prepared for.

  Dallas is right. It’s time to tell her the truth.

  I just wish it didn’t have to come on the heels of my beating a man in front of her and her picking me up at jail. So much for being the kind of man she deserves.

  When she returns with a can of soda, I offer her half my sandwich. Or the whole thing. Or my heart and soul and whatever else she wants.

  “You sure you’re not hungry?”

  She nods. “I ate earlier.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nods again. “Positive. Promise.”

  It only takes a few bites until I’ve pretty much demolished the sandwich and another bag of chips. I drain the can of Coke while Dixie sips the one she carried in for herself.

  “I left a message for Sheila Montgomery,” she informs me. “But she hasn’t called me back yet.”

  “Good. She will. When she does, give her Carl’s name and address and any information you have on Liam.”

  Dixie watches me closely. “Okay. I will. And I called the hospital and Carl was moved out of intensive care into a regular room. He’ll be out this time tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Where’s the kid?”

  Dixie blanches like I’ve hurt her somehow. “Liam. His name is Liam. He’s staying right next door actually, with my neighbor, Mrs. Lawson. She’s nice. A little eccentric and maybe kind of crazy about her cats, but she’s a sweet lady. He’s safe there. And her cookies are probably better than mine.”

  She smiles and the tension weighing on my chest lightens somewhat.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “So . . . how long do you think Carl has been abusing him?”

  I chew my food slowly in an attempt to put off answering.

  Right here is the crux of everything that separates my world from hers. She looks at everyone and sees the light in them, the good, the potential. Whereas I see only darkness. The bad. The danger.

  “Probably since he was born, Dix. Carl Andrews basically runs the local crack house.”

  Dixie pales. “Seriously?”

  I nod. “Yeah, babe. Seriously. And by runs, I mean he lives there. It actually is his house.”

  Her brow wrinkles as I continue, explaining as gently as I know how to.

  “Crack den is a more appropriate term because it isn’t much like a house or a home at all. On the outside maybe. On the inside, these places are gutted. Sparse furniture, usually filthy, and crack pipes and strung-out junkies typically litter the floors and fill the corners.” I stare at my hands while I finish because I can’t bear to see how much pain this is causing her to hear. I’m tainting her worldview, casting my dark shadows on her light. “People come and go. Some looking for a fix, some looking for revenge if they feel they got sold something less than acceptable quality, some so high they don’t even know what they’re doing there, it’s just become a beacon they end up at because they’ve been so many times.”

  When I finally look up, she’s shaking her head. “No. No. His house can’t be like that. He has a kid. Surely someone would . . .”

  But here I sit, right in front of her. Living proof that someone might not.

  Ever.

  Dallas and Dixie’s grandparents did the best they could to help me, to keep me fed and clean and safe once I was hanging out with their grandkids. But before that, there was no one. I lived eleven years in a filthy, foodless, Hell on Earth. I guess it says something that I survived it, but I’m not sure what it says.

  “Seeing what we saw, seeing Carl hitting him like that . . . hard. It just . . . it triggered something in me. Kid barely flinched. He was used to it. Expecting it. It brought back . . . memories.”

  When I look up, it’s Dixie sitting there with her eyes closed. Tears stream silently down her face and I return my gaze to my busted hand. “I know,” she whispers. “It triggered something in me, too, Gav. If you hadn’t stopped him, you would’ve had to pull me off of him.”

  “I just lost it. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I just wanted to stop him.” The center of my chest aches. I wish she hadn’t seen any of it, seen Carl hurting a child she cares about, seen me losing control the way I did. But there’s not much I can do about any of that right now.

  “I’m glad,” she chokes out after a few seconds of quiet. “I saw the way Liam was cowering in terror. I’ve seen the way he is. Skittish. Afraid of everyone. Now I know why. I’m glad you did what you did.”

  Her approval catches me off guard. She’s literally the most harmless person I know and here she is sounding bloodthirsty and honestly glad. “It’s still not okay,” I say. “We should’ve just called the cops. It’s not the way I should’ve handled it in front of you or the kid.”

  “Gavin,” she says evenly, suddenly moving closer to me and touching her fingers to the bottom of my chin until I look up at her. “His name is Liam. I want you to learn it. To know it. To know him. Say it.”

  I can’t. I don’t want to.

  Because then he’s real. Then he’s an actual person, an actual child being abused and exposed to God knows what kind of shit right up the street from me.

  He is me.

  I shake my head, but she isn’t having it. “Say it. Please.”

  “Liam.”

  It doesn’t come out easy, but I manage, choking down the bile in my throat while the images of the many possible scenarios Liam has endured in his young life flash through my mind.

  “Thank you.”

  Once the distraction of food and beverage is gone, I open my mouth to say something else but she beats me to it.

  “Ready for that shower now?”

  I pull in some much-needed air and nod. “Yeah.”

  She stands abruptly. “If you give me your, um, clothes, I’ll go ahead and throw them in the washer.”

  “Throw them in the garbage if you want. I know you never liked this shirt anyway.”

  Dixie offers me a small smile and I accept the gift. “Nah, it’s not so bad. Besides, it’s true apparently.”

  Is she flirting with me? I’m not sure so I just sit stoically and wait for her to order me to the shower. I don’t have to wait long.

  “Go get naked, Gav. Toss the clothes out into the hall.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Standing and collecting my sandwich wrapper and empty potato chip bag, I glance at her. She’s biting her bottom lips as if she’s nervous.

  I want to ask if she’s all right but I know I’m not ready for the answer just yet. After I’ve tossed my trash in the garbage, I head to the hallway bathroom.

  The moment I see myself in the mirror, I completely forget the past few hours.

  Jesus.

  My left cheek has the beginnings of a faint bruise from where Carl Andrews was able to land a glancing blow before I took hi
m down. My shirt looks like a canvas someone streaked with red and black paint in an attempt to imitate Jackson Pollock.

  I’ve tried not to think about my right hand much. It aches like a bitch, deep down to the bones. The swelling has gone down a little, but I’m betting something in there is good and broken.

  Part of me wants to go get my kit right now and give playing a shot just to see if I can. But the other part of me wants to put that off for as long as possible because I don’t want to know if I can’t.

  I make a fist and open it a few times until the pain is too much. Turning away from the monster in the mirror, I grab the hem of my blood-soaked shirt and yank it over my head. Then I unbutton my jeans and let them fall to the floor. I step out of them before pulling the waistband of my boxer briefs down and exposing my still half-hard-from-being-around-Dixie-Lark dick.

  She’s so close and the scent of her, wildflowers and vanilla and something unidentifiable that reminds me of moonlit nights by the lake, has me contemplating testing out the functionality of my hand in a way that doesn’t involve the drums. It’d probably be a good idea anyway—take the edge off so I don’t do anything stupid later.

  As much as the counseling has helped, I’m still addicted to one thing.

  It’s not drugs, or alcohol, or even sexual gratification and physical intimacy.

  It’s her.

  It’s why I can’t let go even when I know I should.

  I take my now-throbbing cock into my left hand and use my right one to turn on the shower. I’ve just pulled the curtain back and prepared to step inside when the door swings open unexpectedly.

  “Gav, you forgot to get a tow—”

  Dixie halts the second she sees me standing there in all of my buck-naked glory. I drop my cock but he remains standing at attention.

  She just stands there, dumbstruck and holding a folded white bath towel. Pink heat sweeps across her cheeks and I want to laugh at first at how shy she seems even though she’s seen me naked before. Recently.

  “Thanks, Bluebird,” I say, reaching for the towel and setting it on the rack beside the wall.

  “I thought you were in the shower already,” she whispers. Dixie’s eyes drop to my dick and then she averts her gaze quickly and stammers. “Um, okay then. I’ll just grab these and, um . . .”

  She leans down to get my clothes off the floor and my dick salutes her as she lowers her face to his level.

  “Careful, Bluebird,” I say when I see her lick her lips and then bite that delectable bottom one. “I’m going to behave myself this evening. He may not. He definitely won’t if you keep looking at him like that.”

  She stands upright and her entire energy has shifted from nervous girl who accidentally walked in on her brother’s best friend naked to confident, bold-as-hell woman who knows what she wants and is about to take it.

  Retreat, soldier. I repeat, retreat now while you still can.

  Fucking won’t help us.

  Well . . . it might temporarily alleviate some of the tension. But I know how this night is going to go. I’m going to tell her everything, even the shit Dallas said I should keep to myself. I would’ve waited until after the battle of the bands if Carl Andrews hadn’t fucked up my whole world.

  But when her eyes meet mine and I see it—the hunger and need blooming and swirling in her darkening eyes—I know it doesn’t matter either way. She’s strung as tightly as I am from all the recent insanity. She needs a release and she wants me to give it to her.

  What my Bluebird wants, my Bluebird gets.

  I just need to give her answers first.

  19 | Dixie

  GAVIN AND I have gotten pretty good at silent conversations over the years.

  We’re having one right now.

  From the moment I saw him in the Tavern months ago, I have been in pain. A deep, wounding brand of pain that saturated my soul and seeped into the marrow of my bones.

  I am in love with someone who is not good for me. Someone with darkness and addictions and more secrets than I can even imagine.

  And I love him.

  And love him.

  And just when I think I can’t, I love him some more.

  Somewhere out there is a guy, an Afton Tate type who would make me laugh and come over and bring pizza and we’d have all-night jam sessions and really sweet and enjoyable sex and live happily ever after.

  I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in meeting that guy. Ever.

  I’ve probably met him a dozen times over already.

  It’s this beautiful, tortured man in front of me that I want more than I want air or water or food.

  That I will always want.

  My heart belongs to his heart. And whether he thinks he deserves me or not, his soul is forever connected to mine.

  “I’m not good enough. I don’t deserve you. I can’t give you happily ever after,” Gavin’s eyes tell me.

  “You can and you will,” my eyes answer right back. Just in case he’s not picking up the telepathic message, without a word I remove every stitch of clothing I have on.

  His eyes widen and his exposed cock jerks suddenly. I take a step forward but he puts his hand out to stop me.

  “Blue—”

  I cut off what we both know will be a futile attempt at protest and take his hand in mine, guiding him into the now-steamy shower behind me.

  There are questions in his gaze as he watches me beneath the spray of water. I move backward enough so that there is room for us both. I grab the bar of soap from the shelf built into the wall and lather it into my hands until they’re covered with a thick, foamy layer of bubbles. Placing my hands on Gavin’s chest, I begin to wash him and finally he closes his probing eyes.

  We can have a question-and-answer session after.

  I need this.

  He needs this.

  Sometimes that’s all love is. Giving the other person what they need despite the price, despite the sacrifice or possibly painful outcome.

  My hands glide across his chest, stroke up and down the thick bands of muscle on his arms, and linger across his chiseled abdomen.

  “You’re beautiful,” I attempt to tell him with my appreciative stare.

  He smiles and I know he knows.

  I twirl my finger to let him know he needs to turn around and he complies. Leaning forward, he braces his arms on the wall while I scrub his back and legs.

  His entire body twitches when I slip a soapy finger between the firm cheeks of his ass and I giggle.

  “Easy,” he says under his breath.

  I smack his right ass cheek lightly.

  “There. All clean.” Next I step out of the line of the shower spray and watch while he rinses off.

  I am wet in every way possible right now.

  “My turn,” Gavin says evenly, palming the bar of soap I just returned to the tray.

  He gives me a much more thorough washing than I gave him, covering every inch of my skin with his strong, soapy hands.

  I moan involuntarily when he digs his fingers into the flesh on my thighs and again when he massages my neck and shoulders. I’m practically panting when his fingers begin tracing the taut peaks of my breasts. He’s behind me with his arms around me and I can feel his erection against my backside.

  My body goes limp against him when he kneads my nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Gavin.”

  “Hmm?”

  I smile because he’s distracted—by me. By my body. Our connection is so powerful, I can hardly believe we denied it as long as we did.

  I need him to make all the pain go away. What happened between us, the ways we’ve destroyed each other over the years, the lies, the images from the attack, the concerns about Liam. For right now, I need to be selfish and I need him to give me what I need.

  “I need . . . I need the truth, please. And maybe this isn’t the time or place and maybe there will never be a time and place that feels right but . . . I need it. The other night,” I begin
to tell him, feeling unexpectedly desperate for him to know the truth. “I didn’t mind the . . . dirty stuff. I liked it.”

  His head snaps up and his eyes meet mine. “I took it too far. I—”

  “I can handle it, Gav. If you need a hate fuck or a punishment fuck or a talk-dirty-to-me fuck, I can handle it. As long as it’s not meant to teach me some type of bullshit lesson about how terrible you are.”

  I press my mouth to his, enjoying the sensation when he breaches the seam of my lips to sweep his tongue inside.

  “I am so sorry, baby,” he says while burying his face in my neck. “You know I didn’t mean any of the—”

  “I know, Gavin. I know you better than you think I do. I want all of you. The light and the dark and the broken parts.”

  “I am all broken parts,” he says into my ear. “That’s all I am.”

  “We are all broken. That’s how the light gets in,” I tell him, quoting something I read years ago in high school. Hemingway, I think it was. I remember reading it and thinking immediately of Gavin, but then I am always thinking of him in one way or another.

  Gavin washes and rinses my hair and his own and shuts the water off. I’m vaguely aware when he wraps me in the towel I brought him.

  I want to protest when he lifts me off the ground and carries me to my bed like a bride over the threshold but I can’t make my mouth form words. The room blurs and disappears.

  “Looks like you’re sleeping in the buff tonight, Bluebird,” he tells me as he tucks me into my bed.

  “Stay,” I mumble, growing sleepier by the minute as the last twenty-four hours crashes down on me hard. “Please.”

  “I am,” he tells me. But I mean here, in my room, in my bed. I’m too exhausted to verbalize it so I just pull at him until he gets the message and crawls into my bed, naked and damp from the shower, beside me.

  “Sleep, baby. I’ll be here when you wake up.”