Dixon’s eyes are small and beady, and I’d like to carve them from his head. “Don’t answer to no one,” he says slowly, his chin tipping up insolently. “Especially not a rich prick like you.”
Inside I’m shaking, but on the surface I’m steady. It’s what the military ingrained in me, something I don’t think will ever wane.
“You talk stupid, but I happen to know you’re pretty fuckin’ smart. So why is it you’re coming around here for customers?”
“Your boy sought me out.”
“Get the fuck out.”
Dixon glances down to Troy, a satisfied smile etching his face. He stands up, and even at his full height, he’s nearly a head shorter than me.
I hate everything about the guy.
I hate the way he slouches when he walks, how he has no pride, no honor, no positive contribution to society. He’s a predator who preys only on the weak, and in my book, that makes him scum.
He slinks past me, pushing his shoulder into my arm as he goes. He’s like a ball of fluff, hardly moving me. I walk behind him, my steps loud and heavy, making certain he knows I’m on his heels.
He opens the front door and Dakota literally falls into him, as if she were reaching for the door handle when the door opened and her forward momentum carried her into the open space.
“Fuck yeah, baby,” he crows, holding on to her upper arms. “You’re making it easy for me.”
She presses away from him, face scrunched in revulsion and fear, but he keeps his grip on her arms.
If I thought seeing Troy drugged up on his bed made me mad, it’s nothing compared to watching Dixon put his hands on Dakota.
My first punch lands against his lower back. Dakota goes stumbling against the wall as he releases her, making a heavy breath sound as she hits the wood. I spin Dixon around and bury my second punch in his stomach.
“Oof,” he grunts, doubling over.
I’m not done. Dixon needs the point driven home. I push him outside and follow him through the open door. In my peripheral vision, I see Dakota, pressed against the wall with her eyes shut tight. She’s terrified, but I can’t help her now. There’s a drug dealer on my property trying to make customers out of my employees.
Dixon is on his feet, but he’s bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. He stands when I walk up to him. He looks at me with contempt, sniffles, and takes a swing.
Behind me, Dakota screams. She must’ve followed me out.
I duck out of the line of Dixon’s hand and follow up with a fist straight to his nose. Blood pours from him instantly, like water from a faucet.
Suddenly there are more people than just me, Dakota, and Dixon. Josh, Denny, Bryce, Ham, and Warner. Even Wyatt is here, and he’s probably still half in the bag. Josh grabs Dixon’s arms, pinning them behind his back, without a question to me about why we’re fighting or a thought about his own injured wrist.
“You stay off my property,” I seethe, my voice low and menacing. “You don’t talk to my cowboys. And you never, ever look at her again. You got that?”
Dixon spits blood into the dirt between us. “This is a free country, Hayden. You of all people should know that.”
“Not for you.” I tip my head closer. “Don’t test me, Dixon.”
Josh drags him back and Denny jumps in, helping him walk a struggling Dixon to his truck. I turn my back on the scene and look at Dakota.
“Are you okay?” I ask, at the same time Warner and Wyatt walk up to me.
“What the fuck happened?” Warner demands.
“Found Dixon in Cowboy House with Troy,” I growl, remembering the contemptuous and lazy look on his pinched face.
“Did he—?” Wyatt asks.
I cut him off with a terse nod.
“Fuck,” he groans.
