Nixon understood where the vehemence came from.
But Nixon didn’t really care, either. He had tunnel vision, and in the centre of that tunnel was Vixen and the gun that had been aimed at her.
He felt the rage coursing through his veins, igniting the evil nature that lurked not far into his soul. And when Hobbs looked at him, he saw it in Nixon, and it frightened him.
“Steady,” Hobbs whispered to him. “Not here. Not now.”
After all was said and done, Nixon ordered his clean-up crew to remove the body and dispose of it. Doll had decided to join Tyrone in the surveillance room, and Flynn remained unmoving, like he was unsure of what his role was in this mess.
Nixon noticed the lost look in Flynn’s face. Jesus, the vulnerability was startling.
He looked like such a fucking kid.
“Get loaded at the bar and unwind,” Nixon told him. “Whatever you have is on the house.”
It was the very least he could do, and he knew it wasn’t enough. Flynn had saved Nixon’s girl and Nixon owed him big. For starters, Flynn was promptly removed off his shit list.
Holding her close to his arms, he could bury his nose into her hair, he took Vixen up to their apartment. He settled her into their bed and removed her heels from her feet. He kissed one of her ankles before covering her body with a thin bed sheet.
“Nixon,” she groggily whispered in her sleep.
“Shh,” he cooed, watching as she slipped back under. He stroked the face he’d memorized every line of. The face he missed every time he went away. “My sweet Victoria.”
His little vixen.
He spoke to Tyrone on the phone about what he found on the cameras. Apparently, the bum had made a few appearances, strolling straight through the main entrance of the hotel. He looked groggy and out of it, but his hand had been in his pocket, and he seemed to be in search of something.
The basement, Nixon figured.
“I’ll give the tapes a look in the morning,” Nixon said. “Thanks, Ty.”
“Sure thing, Nixon,” Tyrone replied. “I want to catch who’s responsible same as you, but it seems this guy came alone. Either he acted out of a drug-fuelled bender, or someone sent him.”
Either way, Nixon would find out.
Then he made a call and ordered two of his men to guard their door.
Just in case.
But as Nixon roamed the apartment, a glass of whiskey in the palm of his hand, mulling over the series of events that transpired, he slowly began to realize the men would be standing on guard for nothing.
Something from the past nagged at him.
It nagged.
And it nagged.
Like an itch in his chest, he couldn’t suppress it.
It nagged until he stopped pacing.
This had happened before, hadn’t it?
He froze at the realization.
Of course.
How could he be so stupid?
There was no real threat.
This whole thing had been orchestrated.
An attack that was doomed to fail.
But who was the culprit?
12.
Vixen…
I woke up in the middle of the night with my heart in my throat and my body shaking. My hands reached out around me, desperately seeking Nixon. When it touched nothing but air, I gasped in fear.
“Easy, baby,” he said from across the room. “I’m right here.”
My heart slowed down and I sagged into the mattress. I blinked several times, my sight adjusting to the darkness. Then I searched for him, wondering what he was doing out of bed.
He was standing by the window in the dark, looking out, his phone glowing in his hand. He was in nothing but his black briefs, his broad muscular back was to me. I couldn’t see his face from where I lay, but I didn’t have to. His body language was relaxed, like he hadn’t leapt across a table and saved me from a gunshot merely hours ago.
God, he’d looked so frightened for me.
I’d never seen that look from him before.
I sat up, staring at him, feeling unusually emotional. “Nixon, I’m scared,” I admitted, lips trembling.
“You shouldn’t be,” he simply responded in the most unruffled tone.
I waited for him to turn to me, to come and hold me the way he’d done in the basement. But he just stood there, more attentive to the island below. Cold again. It felt like a smack in the face. There I was, leaking emotion from my voice – an unusual feat by me – and it may as well have fallen on deaf ears.
“I’m not safe here,” I told him firmly. “You need to get me off the island.”
“You’re perfectly safe,” he replied. “What happened today was a fluke.”
I frowned. “A fluke that may have killed me.”
He didn’t respond to that. Of course. God forbid he reassure me or anything.
“Do you want me to die?” I asked, desperately. “Is that the only way you’ll let me go?”
“You always jump to this,” he replied, irritated. “I don’t even think you know why you want to go.”
I felt a spike of anger. “I can think of a million reasons why.”
“The world isn’t what you think it is, Vix.” He turned his head, glancing at me briefly. “It’s cold and dark and it doesn’t give a fuck about you.”
“I want to learn that the hard way.”
“I’m not letting you go.”
When he spoke like that – the authoritative tone present – it made me frustrated and want to claw at my face.
He stated he wasn’t letting me go like he was talking about a sweater he wanted to wear again. I felt stranded and boxed in. What was the point of living if I had no fucking say?
“You know what this is about?” I snapped, coldly. “This is you enjoying having power over someone helpless. You like being in control of me. You want me miserable.”
“Ah, right, here we go.”
“Yeah, here we go,” I growled, sarcastically. “Your captive’s doing that thing again, begging for her freedom! Oh, the fucking audacity.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, what, Nixon? Yeah, you like the power? You enjoy saving me from gun-wielding men? I think you like it when I’m scared. Scared and miserable and fucking powerless.”
“And you want to know what I think?” he retorted, turning fully in my direction. “You want to believe I’m all those things because it gives you reasons to hate me.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. “I don’t need to find reasons. Hating you is easy, Nixon,” I argued, feeling the familiar fight in my bones. “You make it very fucking easy to do.”
“So, you hate me.”
“I do!”
“Go on, keep telling me that.”
“I hate you,” I repeated, passionately.
He began to move toward the bed, and it made me antsy. I didn’t know what his reaction was going to be when he got to me. He was always unpredictable. I felt myself sliding to the other side of the mattress, nearing the edge in case I needed to bolt.
“And there you scurry,” he murmured low in his throat. “Always ready to run from me. You like the chase. This is the game you play, baby. You press my buttons on purpose.”