Missing Dixie (Neon Dreams #3)(23)

This guy is something else. “Let’s be real for a second, man. You don’t know me. You don’t know jack shit about me other than local rumors, and let’s face it, if we all believed those, I’d be able to get this chop shop shut down with one phone call.” His eyes widen and he keeps his mouth shut. Enjoy being speechless, *. “Yeah, so, I don’t know. Maybe don’t waste your precious time worrying about my intentions with Dixie. And I won’t worry about your dad’s intentions when he does thousands of dollars’ worth of work for cash only.”

Just when I think I’ve won, dude laughs. Straight-up laughs out loud like I am damn comedian.

I arch a brow and cross my arms over my chest. “Something funny?”

He takes longer than necessary to compose himself. “Yeah. You. You’re hilarious.”

“Which part exactly did you find humorous? Just so we’re clear.” I narrow my eyes, hoping he gets the message about just how close to an ass beating he is.

I can hear Ashley telling me to keep my nose clean if I want to get off probation anytime soon, but the rage is already beginning to rise to the surface. I need my damn drum kit. Now.

Once he’s got a hold on his giggling, McKinley stares me straight in the face. “Just so we’re clear, I was particularly amused by the part where the local drug dealer, you know, the one that takes sexual favors as payment from anything with a *, threatened to rat out my dad.”

The shock on my face must show. I didn’t know that was common knowledge, but there it is.

Dixie doesn’t know how far I fell the year she was in Houston, but Jaggerd McKinley obviously does. What I can’t work out is why he wouldn’t have told her already and gotten me out of his way.

“No wait, wait,” he says mockingly, as if trying to stave off another fit of laughter. “It might’ve been the part where the strung-out cokehead told me I didn’t know jack shit about him when I’m the one who rebuilt Dallas’s truck last year after you nearly killed him in it. News flash: the Amarillo PD don’t go out of their way to protect lowlife scum like drug users and distributors so I got a nice, long look at the details on the paperwork when it passed through here for insurance purposes. So, who knows, man. I guess it’s a toss-up on which part of your bullshit speech I found the most entertaining.”

There is no trace of humor in his voice. He’s good and pissed now and so am I.

If ever there was someone I didn’t want to know my business, particularly business I have successfully managed to keep from Dixie for this long, it’s her jealous ex-boyfriend.

When I speak, my voice comes out low and lethal. “You and I live on the same side of this town and I bet you’ve got a few secrets you’d rather not be made public. Daddy’s side business is probably just one of them.” When he doesn’t argue, I finish speaking my piece. “You can judge me all you want and I couldn’t give two shits what you think. But I can tell you this: if any of that information makes its way to Dixie through any channels other than me directly telling her—which, believe it or not, I do intend to do—you will wish you’d kept your mouth shut.”

It’s low, the empty threat. Well, mostly empty. But I’m panicking. If McKinley knows that much, then it’s likely there are people who know more and might be less inclined to keep that knowledge to themselves.

I thought I had more time.

I had a plan.

My plan is shot to hell.





9 | Dixie

DID GAVIN TALK to you yet?

I wake up Wednesday morning to my alarm blaring out a song called “Better Than You Left Me,” and an hour-old text from my brother.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes and squint while texting him back.

Sort of. Why?

Dallas doesn’t respond right away and he’s on his honeymoon, so I don’t really want to think about what he might be doing or risk calling and interrupting.

I take my time showering and eating breakfast. My first lesson isn’t coming until 1 P.M. so there’s no rush.

After I’ve tamed my hair into a manageable low ponytail and dressed in well-worn jeans and a black tank top with red letters that say KEEP CALM AND HUG A DRUMMER—what can I say, I have a thing for drummers—I pick up around the house and unload and reload the dishwasher. How jealous people would be if they could see my glamorous life.

It’s not until the doorbell chimes that I realize it’s time for Maisey’s piano lesson. I don’t realize how empty the house seems until I have company.

“Hey, ladies,” I say to six-year-old Maisey and her mom, Leandra.

Leandra was a sixteen-year-old rape victim who used pain pills and narcotics to try to ignore her resulting pregnancy until she couldn’t anymore. They’ve have a rough go of it and Maisey is tiny for her age, something I know Leandra still feels an immense amount of guilt over, but she’s actually one of my best students. Maybe the best.

“Hi, Miss Dixie,” Maisey says. “I practiced on my princess keyboard all week!”

“Yeah!” I give her an enthusiastic high-five. “Go you!”

Leandra grins at us and shoots me a thankful look. “She really did. She’s getting so good. I’m going to grab some groceries and I’ll be back, probably before you’re done.”