Missing Dixie(49)

But here I sit, right in front of her. Living proof that someone might not.

Ever.

Dallas and Dixie’s grandparents did the best they could to help me, to keep me fed and clean and safe once I was hanging out with their grandkids. But before that, there was no one. I lived eleven years in a filthy, foodless, Hell on Earth. I guess it says something that I survived it, but I’m not sure what it says.

“Seeing what we saw, seeing Carl hitting him like that . . . hard. It just . . . it triggered something in me. Kid barely flinched. He was used to it. Expecting it. It brought back . . . memories.”

When I look up, it’s Dixie sitting there with her eyes closed. Tears stream silently down her face and I return my gaze to my busted hand. “I know,” she whispers. “It triggered something in me, too, Gav. If you hadn’t stopped him, you would’ve had to pull me off of him.”

“I just lost it. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I just wanted to stop him.” The center of my chest aches. I wish she hadn’t seen any of it, seen Carl hurting a child she cares about, seen me losing control the way I did. But there’s not much I can do about any of that right now.

“I’m glad,” she chokes out after a few seconds of quiet. “I saw the way Liam was cowering in terror. I’ve seen the way he is. Skittish. Afraid of everyone. Now I know why. I’m glad you did what you did.”

Her approval catches me off guard. She’s literally the most harmless person I know and here she is sounding bloodthirsty and honestly glad. “It’s still not okay,” I say. “We should’ve just called the cops. It’s not the way I should’ve handled it in front of you or the kid.”

“Gavin,” she says evenly, suddenly moving closer to me and touching her fingers to the bottom of my chin until I look up at her. “His name is Liam. I want you to learn it. To know it. To know him. Say it.”

I can’t. I don’t want to.

Because then he’s real. Then he’s an actual person, an actual child being abused and exposed to God knows what kind of shit right up the street from me.

He is me.

I shake my head, but she isn’t having it. “Say it. Please.”

“Liam.”

It doesn’t come out easy, but I manage, choking down the bile in my throat while the images of the many possible scenarios Liam has endured in his young life flash through my mind.

“Thank you.”

Once the distraction of food and beverage is gone, I open my mouth to say something else but she beats me to it.

“Ready for that shower now?”

I pull in some much-needed air and nod. “Yeah.”

She stands abruptly. “If you give me your, um, clothes, I’ll go ahead and throw them in the washer.”

“Throw them in the garbage if you want. I know you never liked this shirt anyway.”

Dixie offers me a small smile and I accept the gift. “Nah, it’s not so bad. Besides, it’s true apparently.”

Is she flirting with me? I’m not sure so I just sit stoically and wait for her to order me to the shower. I don’t have to wait long.

“Go get naked, Gav. Toss the clothes out into the hall.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Standing and collecting my sandwich wrapper and empty potato chip bag, I glance at her. She’s biting her bottom lips as if she’s nervous.

I want to ask if she’s all right but I know I’m not ready for the answer just yet. After I’ve tossed my trash in the garbage, I head to the hallway bathroom.

The moment I see myself in the mirror, I completely forget the past few hours.

Jesus.

My left cheek has the beginnings of a faint bruise from where Carl Andrews was able to land a glancing blow before I took him down. My shirt looks like a canvas someone streaked with red and black paint in an attempt to imitate Jackson Pollock.

I’ve tried not to think about my right hand much. It aches like a bitch, deep down to the bones. The swelling has gone down a little, but I’m betting something in there is good and broken.

Part of me wants to go get my kit right now and give playing a shot just to see if I can. But the other part of me wants to put that off for as long as possible because I don’t want to know if I can’t.

I make a fist and open it a few times until the pain is too much. Turning away from the monster in the mirror, I grab the hem of my blood-soaked shirt and yank it over my head. Then I unbutton my jeans and let them fall to the floor. I step out of them before pulling the waistband of my boxer briefs down and exposing my still half-hard-from-being-around-Dixie-Lark dick.

She’s so close and the scent of her, wildflowers and vanilla and something unidentifiable that reminds me of moonlit nights by the lake, has me contemplating testing out the functionality of my hand in a way that doesn’t involve the drums. It’d probably be a good idea anyway—take the edge off so I don’t do anything stupid later.

As much as the counseling has helped, I’m still addicted to one thing.

It’s not drugs, or alcohol, or even sexual gratification and physical intimacy.

It’s her.

It’s why I can’t let go even when I know I should.

I take my now-throbbing cock into my left hand and use my right one to turn on the shower. I’ve just pulled the curtain back and prepared to step inside when the door swings open unexpectedly.