Disreputable Allies (Fates of the Bound Book 1)

by Wren Weston

  “You should have holed up somewhere and called me.”

  “How was I supposed to know you’d answer? I tried to call you after the Bullstow job, and you ignored me. I tried to call you tonight, and you ignored me. How would I know you’d actually pick up this time?”

  Tristan closed his mouth and stared at the kill switch. “I shouldn’t have ignored you before, but I would have come and picked you up if you needed me.”

  “That almost sounded like an apology. Why are you here, and on my bike, no less?”

  “Shirley’s team is already taking everything we used tonight and prepping for new paint jobs. She’s pretty pissed she’s having to redo it so soon.”

  “You could have ridden your Amazon.”

  “I could have, but I knew you’d recognize your Firefly. I got worried something had happened to you. I thought maybe you’d been pinched. I’ve been driving around for the last half-hour looking.”

  “Where are the others?” Lila asked, stretching her ankle.

  “One of the trucks is still out, but they shook off the militia. They’re just lying low until they can work their way around back to the shop. Fry and Dice made it back on the bikes before I did. Doc says Toxic and Frank will be fine, by the way. They’re in a spare room back at the shop, sleeping.”

  “And Dixon?”

  “He’s fine too.” Tristan shifted on her bike and squeezed the grips, head ducked low. “Look, Lila. I wanted to talk to you about Dixon. This thing you’re starting up with him—tread carefully. He doesn’t get mixed up with women often. Certainly not highborn women. He didn’t even know who you were at first, or it wouldn’t have gotten started up in the first place.”

  “Because highborn women are horrible monsters?”

  “Occasionally, some are. Look, just don’t… If you aren’t into him, don’t lead him on.”

  Lila stopped mid-stretch. “Okay, Mother.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “Don’t leave yourself open to it. Dixon’s a big boy. I think he can manage his sex life on his own. I know I can.”

  “Don’t you think he’s got enough shit to deal with?”

  “Yeah, I pity him.”

  “Pity? He doesn’t need your damn pity.”

  “Sure he does. He has to live with you, doesn’t he? I couldn’t imagine the horror. Now slide back. You’re on my bike. A bike I actually paid money for.”

  Tristan reluctantly scooted back, and Lila swung her leg over. She put on her helmet, which he’d stuffed into netting behind him. She barely felt it when Tristan put his hands on her waist.

  “If you don’t hold on tighter than that, you’re going to fall off. I really don’t want to see your temper when I start laughing my ass off about it.”

  He gripped her a bit tighter. She smelled his soap, the hint of whiskey, and the shop. His scent and touch were so inviting that she had to stop herself from leaning back into him. It was so inviting that she had trouble thinking about anything else while she rode. His warmth upon her back, his arms on her hips.

  The vibrating motor between her legs.

  She definitely needed a vacation. After she wrapped up the Wilson case, she’d take a week off and head to some highborn resort a million kilometers away from New Bristol, the security office, her mother, the High Council, the next season, Tristan. She wouldn’t even have to worry about condoms. Alex would slip them in her luggage for her.

  She’d done it before.

  When they rounded the corner onto Shippers Lane, Dixon pushed off the wall and flung open the dock door. The pair rode into the shop, narrowly avoiding Shirley and her team, who’d already removed several panels off the first truck.

  Two small, mismatched socks poked out an open tailgate of another, and a flash of ginger peeked out of a blanket at the other end.

  “Couldn’t get him to his bedroll. Had to move it down here. He says he wants to help,” Shirley grunted. “Told him I’d wake him up later so that he could learn how to sand down the paint. It put him back to sleep, at least for a while.”

  “He won’t sleep easy until everyone’s back,” Tristan said. “Not for a long time yet. He’ll either grow out of it, or he won’t.”

  Dixon pointed up.

  “Yeah, let’s go,” Tristan called out to Lila, who parked her Firefly away from the dock door and Shirley’s work.

  Lila took off her helmet, slipped on her hood, and trudged after the two men.

  Tristan poured himself a whiskey as soon as they reached his apartment. “I want a copy of that data,” he demanded, filling a mug with Sangre for Lila. “Dixon?”

  He pointed to Lila’s mug, and Tristan handed him the rest of the bottle.

  Dixon tipped it back and breathed out slowly at the taste.

  Lila had to agree with Dixon’s sentiment. She almost felt spoiled by a second round of Sangre in the same day. “I’ll give you the data I found on Teach, but it’s not going to help you any,” she said, removing her hood.

  “You let me be the judge of that. We might find something that you didn’t, especially if we cross-reference it with the data we took from Slack & Roberts.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing that data myself.” Lila slid her star drive into the waiting computer on his coffee table. She uploaded Teach’s account history and sipped her wine while the files from the law office saved to her drive. “You should move everyone out of the city, especially after tonight.”

  “Screw that. We live here. This is our home. We’re not going to run. No one saw our faces today.”

  “What about the bombing?”

  “They didn’t see them then, either.”

  “Yeah, but my father—”

  “I’ll think of something before Monday. I always do.”

  What next? Dixon wrote on his notepad.

  “I’m going to speak with Chairwoman Wilson tomorrow.”

  “And if you don’t find out anything?” Tristan’s if sounded more like a when.

  “It’s my business to find out things. Let me worry about that.”

  “I’m not a man who’s fond of being handled. This is my job, remember? I brought it to you.”

  “Yes, I’m assisting.”

  “Assisting me or taking over? Do you even know the difference?”

  Lila drained the rest of her mug and grabbed her satchel, ignoring his taunt. “May I change somewhere?”

  Tristan waved his arm absently toward his bedroom.

  His new room was very much like his old one back at the hotel. He owned very little, just a bed and a dresser. A dented filing cabinet tilted in the corner, rusted at the top. Papers poked out from several of the drawers. Weapons were strewn about: knives, bows, guns of various calibers, even a mace nailed to the wall, perhaps for decoration. The string of bottle caps hung on a peg near the window, all containing letters and numbers scribbled inside with permanent black marker. Lila had studied them once, trying to figure out Tristan’s code, but it was impossible to tell what they meant. She had her suspicions. Something so innocuous could contain valuable information, a way of passing information to Dixon or the rest of his people should something happen to him.

  Lila didn’t like to think about it.

  She changed clothes quickly and instantly felt more like herself. She wished she had grabbed her militia boots before she left that evening, but that small comfort would have to wait.

  She emerged moments later with her bundled workborn clothes and stuffed them back into the satchel. She handed it to Tristan before sitting on the couch beside Dixon, who had poured her another glass of wine. “Last one, okay?”

  Dixon offered her a small, mischievous smile.

  “I mean it.”

  “What is this?” Tristan said, holding her satchel awkwardly by the strap.

  “I need someone to wash them”


  “You want us to do your laundry now? We aren’t your slaves, chief.”

  “I’m not asking you to be, but I can’t exactly have the house staff wash them. My mother left instructions for them to throw away any unmarked clothing, just to make my extracurricular activities more difficult. I’d use the cleaners I normally do, except that they reek of smoke and gasoline.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “Isn’t it? I thought you wanted my help. You have machines for this, don’t you? Just get one of your people to toss them in.”

  “These people aren’t my slaves either.” Tristan tossed the satchel back to her. The flap came loose in midair, and her clothes scattered across the floor. The smell of gasoline rose up from the sooty mess. “I’m not yours, either.”

  “Why must everything be a fight with you? Why do you take everything so personally?”

  “How am I supposed to take it?”

  “It’s just business.”

  “Business? I forgot. You’re a highborn heir. Everything is always business for you,” he said. “While we’re on the subject again, stop shooting down my orders in front of the others. It subverts my leadership and makes everyone confused. It’s also annoying.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for having better plans. Here’s some advice: if you want to be a better leader, think before you blurt out your thoughts and stop being so sensitive.”

  “Would you say that to another chief? To one of your commanders? Do you undercut them all the time?”

  “My commanders think before they act.”

  “Of course, because everyone is so perfect on your highborn—”

  Dixon held up his notepad. Relax. She hacked Liberté for us.

  “You’re taking her side?”

  Dixon shook his head.

  “Good. She didn’t do it for us, and you know it. She doesn’t do anything if there’s not something in it for her. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Dixon stood and returned Lila’s clothes to the satchel. He pointed to himself, winked at Lila, and hung her satchel on his doorknob.

  Tristan shook his head. “Tread carefully, Dixon.” He retreated to the window and took a long pull on his whiskey.

  Dixon pulled Lila up from the couch with a laugh and put his hand around her waist. He twirled her around the room until she giggled alongside him, dancing to imaginary music, still hobbling on her ankle but not caring one bit. They seemed to hear the same tune, and she leaned back perfectly when he dipped her. She might have been at the Closing Ball, dancing with a highborn senator.

  “Stop fooling around, Dixon. We need to talk about tomorrow.”

  Dixon ignored Tristan. Instead, he scooped up Lila, a still giggling Lila, and pushed her against him, holding her close. All at once, he tilted her chin and pressed his mouth to hers.

  Lila closed her eyes this time, sliding her fingers around Dixon’s neck, letting out a little moan when he sucked on her lip and bit down, just enough to make her gasp.

  She smelled…nothing. Nothing but La Sangre de Las Flores.

  When she opened her eyes, Dixon pulled away, twirling her once more around the room.

  Their dancing didn’t seem as lively as before. The steps weren’t as fluid. She hadn’t even been thinking of Dixon as they kissed.

  She was mostly thinking about getting laid.

  “What did you mean about—” Lila said, turning, but Tristan had already gone into his bedroom and closed the door.

  Dixon chuckled at his absence and plucked Lila’s riding jacket off the back of the couch, helping her put it on. He then grabbed her hand and led her out the window in the corridor and onto the fire escape, checking first that no one was around to glimpse her face.

  He motioned for her to sit beside him and put his arm around her shoulders, warming them both up. His breath heated her cheek and came out in smoky wisps from the chill. His stubble brushed against her skin.

  “Dixon, we need to talk,” she said, trying to ignore how nicely his body felt against hers. She pulled away, but he stiffened and held her in place.

  He gave her a little squeeze and pulled out his notepad, writing with one hand in the dim light that streamed through the window in the hall. I know. It’s cold, though.

  “What do you know?”

  That we would never work.

  Lila sighed. “That’s not what I was going to say, Dixon.”

  We’re friends. I know. I feel the same way.

  She turned in his grasp and stared at his face. “What on earth are you doing, then?”

  He grinned and scrawled on his notepad. This time, Lila watched him as he wrote every word. I said I wanted to kiss you. I didn’t mean I wanted more.

  “Why?”

  Jealousy is a powerful motivator.

  A hammer hit Lila’s chest as she read his simple words. Dixon and Tristan always roomed together, always seemed to finish each other’s thoughts, and always moved with the precision of one person. Other things came to her, like Tristan’s annoyance after Dixon had kissed her and his constant overprotectiveness toward his friend.

  “Wait a minute. You and Tristan are together?”

  Dixon’s jaw opened so wide that she could make out the small nub of his tongue in the back of his mouth. “No!” he mouthed, then wrote it out, adding many gratuitous exclamation marks. Gross. He’s my brother.

  “There’s nothing gross about—”

  Dixon pointed at brother again, then gross.

  “Wait? He’s really your brother? As in you both share a parent, you’re not just friends?”

  Dixon nodded.

  “Same mom?”

  Dixon shook his head.

  Lila leaned back into the building. Tristan’s father had been a highborn. She could only guess at the man’s morality now that she knew he had slept with two slaves on his family’s estate. It wasn’t wrong for the highborn to bed the poorer classes; it wasn’t even wrong to intermarry, though it made life more difficult for the couple. It was only immoral for a highborn male to have unprotected sex with a female slave, creating children forced to grow up in servitude. No wonder Tristan and Dixon felt bitterness toward the highborn. Their father had used his slaves for more than just work.

  That was no highborn man. Not a proper one, anyway.

  “Who are you, Dixon? I could never figure it out. It shouldn’t be hard to find the identity of a man like you, but no slave children aged out of the Holguín estate who met your description. Only Tristan’s.”

  Dixon shrugged. Mystery. He winked.

  Lila didn’t like that answer. Her mind flashed back to the dance around the apartment and how he had twirled her so perfectly. It was as though he had been born to do it, as though he practiced, as though he’d been tutored by a dance master. “Just now, when you danced. That was a waltz. A perfect waltz. You’ve had training.” Her mouth opened wide and she stood up, still shocked. “You’re not from the poorer classes at all. You’re a highborn. Your father was highborn, and so was your mother.”

  Sit down.

  Lila sat.

  Long story.

  “You had a slave chip.”

  He tapped long story again with his finger. It was clear he would not tell the story that night, but it didn’t matter all that much.

  Lila could do her own search.

  I know you, he wrote, seeing her expression. Don’t dig into my past. I’ll tell you some other time.

  “When?”

  Dixon shrugged. One day.

  Lila shook her head. “I don’t know if I can promise that, Dixon. I’ve seen the marks on your back and your tongue. How does a highborn man end up like that, much less a slave?”

  Try? For me?

  “I still don’t understand why you kissed me like that. Twice now. That wasn’t a kiss bet
ween friends, Dixon.”

  No, it was a kiss between highborns. He pointed back to the top. Jealousy is a powerful motivator.

  “For what? Whose jealously?”

  Tristan’s.

  “So Tristan would be jealous of whom?”

  Me. I can’t talk, but I’m not blind. He walks into a room, you look. You walk into a room, he looks. I’m tired of the looking and the fighting. Fuck already.

  Lila coughed. “What the—”

  Dixon pointed to fuck already.

  Lila’s face grew warm. “Why would you even think—”

  He pointed once more. I can’t talk, but I’m not blind. Jealously is a powerful motivator.

  “Jealousy? If this was just about making Tristan jealous, why did you spend a year trying to figure out who I was?”

  To see if you were worthy. Don’t worry. You passed that test. He paused for a moment, considering his words carefully before beginning again. You’ve been so busy that you’ve walled yourself off from men, and I bet you never even noticed. Someone had to wake you up.

  Lila ignored the last bit. “It’s not like that with us. We can barely stand each other.”

  He only fights because he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants.

  It was hard for Lila to understand that. She walked into rooms every moment of every day, not just asking, but demanding. She didn’t ask for obedience; she expected it from everyone around her. She placed those who did not offer it into two groups: those who should be demoted because they couldn’t handle authority, and those who were to be promoted, for they were intelligent enough to have better solutions than hers and fight for them. She tried to surround herself with the latter sort. She valued them. She needed them in her position. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Slaves can’t ask. Dixon scratched out his words before beginning again. Slaves can ask, but they’ll never get. Not from the highborn. He’s okay with others, but with the highborn, he’s stuck in the past.

  “I don’t—”

  He told me you’re quitting. You’ll be gone soon. He’s running out of time. He’s still not asking for what he wants, and he’s being an idiot. So are you.

  “Fuck you.”