A gray polo stretches tight over the roundness of his stomach, tucked neatly into khakis that look a little too crisp for the rest of him. His boots are worn, scuffed at the toes—but they are the kind that hit more pavement than dirt. A cowboy hat sits back on his head, casting just enough shadow to soften the sharpness in his eyes. It gives him a vaguely relaxed appearance, one that doesn’t quite match the weight he carries in his expression.
His lips twitch—somewhere between amused and politely horrified—as he takes in the mess on the bar. Then he clears his throat.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
I could die.
Hex, on the other hand, doesn’t flinch. He just leans against the bar, easy and unbothered, like he wasn’t just…God.
The unexpected man shifts his weight, his belt creaking softly as he adjusts his stance, then flashes a badge clipped to his hip.
“Detective Bryant,” he says, introducing himself.
Were we that loud? Oh God, was there a noise complaint?
He exhales, giving the room another once-over. “Brandon Dillinger. Local business owner. Runs a pretty big startup. Lives in those new high-rise condos on the other side of town—the fancy ones they just put in. Ya heard of him?”
What does this have to do with Hex’s bar?
Hex stares blankly at the detective, but I’m starting to pick things up, to learnhim. A subtle shift. A tightening of his jaw. A flicker in his eyes I haven’t learned how to name yet.
“Doesn’t sound familiar. We don’t get a lot of people from that side of town in here,” Hex says, voice calm, controlled. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Bryant replies, rocking back on his heels. “Because we have reason to believe he came through here last Friday afternoon.”
Hex shrugs. “Maybe so. I don’t remember everyone who comes and goes.”
The detective watches Hex carefully before continuing. “He’s missing. Last seen Sunday. One of the last charges on his card showed a purchase here.”
My pulse kicks up, a tight coil of unease winding through me. What exactly does he think Hex knows?
I glance at Hex, searching for some flicker of a meaningful reaction to this detective’s words, but his face stays infuriatingly evasive.
Jesus Christ. What if that whole hitman thing wasn’t just a joke? What if I just let him give me the best orgasm of my life, only to find out he’s actually dangerous?
I’m going to need a better vetting system. Immediately.
I shift, eyes catching on the discarded whipped cream can on the floor, then across the scattered remains of our reckless indulgence. Could I have been any more vulnerable?
Bryant exhales, his expression even. “We checked his condo. Unit 1407. No sign of him, no indication of where he went. Cameras were conveniently down throughout the day.”
1407.I’ve heard that before. The day in the market, when Will called Hex about a broken tap.
I glance at Hex, but if the number means anything to him, he doesn’t show it.
“And now? He’s just... gone. Disappeared sometime Sunday. Came back from the gym, and that was it. No sign of him since.
“Here’s where it gets more interesting,” Bryant keeps going, his voice sharpening slightly. “Dillinger was under investigation for the rape of an underage girl. And he’s also rumored to have ties to Ned Stauder.”
The detective pauses, letting the name settle into the room like a brick dropped into water.
Hex can no longer hide that not-so-subtle clench of his jaw.
Bryant smiles, but it’s humorless. “I figured you might recognize that name. You know, given your history, Hector.” He says Hex’s real name slow and mockingly. “Or is it still Hex these days? Ned Stauder’s known to prefer nicknames too, ain’t he?”
What history? What the hell kind of history gets you on a detective’s radar when a man disappears? And who exactly is Ned Stauder?
Hex doesn’t blink. “I’m familiar.”
