“I’m fine,” she says quietly. “Tired.”

I call bullshit. Dixie Lark is not a good liar. Fine is typically not a word you want to hear in the female vocabulary. Ever.

Dallas glances over at our exchange and I decide to save it for when we’re alone—though I’m not sure when that will be. I have a lot of explaining to do, a good bit of begging, and probably some down-on-my-knees apologizing.

Tension and anxiety twist my insides into a complicated knot and I decide it’s best to hold off on the sandwich while riding down a bumpy road in a pickup truck.

Dallas puts on his left blinker to head toward the highway and Dixie puts her hand on his arm.

“He’s going to the house. With me.”

Huh.

I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her tell Dallas what to do. And technically she’s telling me what to do, I suppose, but I do not feel at all inclined to argue. Except . . .

“I kind of need a shower. And clean clothes.”

“You can borrow some of mine,” Dallas says evenly as he drives on past the left turn.

“Okay. Thanks, man.”

Dallas kind of grunts out his version of “you’re welcome” and we continue to their house in silence.

When we pull into the driveway, I expect all three of us to get out and go inside but Dallas leaves the truck running.

“You’re not staying?” Dixie asks him as she climbs out.

I watch their exchange, feeling a little like a voyeuristic third wheel and a lot like something is being discussed silently between them.

Dallas shakes his head. “I’m not. I’ve been away from Robyn for long enough.”

“That’s a five-hour drive, Dallas,” Dixie reminds him, sounding unhappy about his leaving us alone.

He grins and nods. “I’m aware of this. I’m good. I’ll text you when I get home.”

“I don’t have to stay if Dallas isn’t,” I tell Dixie quietly. The last time we were here alone, I was a monster of epic proportions. I can understand why she wouldn’t be too thrilled for a sleepover.

Her eyes are tense when she looks up at me. There is so much there.

Dixie Lark in the daylight is beautiful. The sun seems to seek her out specifically and beams of light shoot off her skin and hair as if she were an ethereal creature come to life just to stand in sunshine. But at night?

At night her eyes gleam and moonlight turns her skin into a color that I have never seen on anyone else. Her ink paints a beautiful portrait on her delicate skin and it makes me wish I could draw or that I had a decent camera so I could capture the way she looks against the stark darkness of night.

“I want you to stay,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear over the rumble of Dallas’s truck engine. “Please.”

I have to close my eyes for a second because watching her right now will send my dick the wrong message entirely.

“Listen, I hate to be a dick,” Dallas breaks in, “but we only have a few days until the Phi Kap gig, then the battle, and your hand looks like hell, Garrison.”

Both Dixie and I snap to attention at his interruption of our moment. He’s facing us, leaning forward on his steering wheel and looking like he’s barely resisting the urge to throttle us both.

“More importantly, you two obviously have some major shit to work out and I can tell you both from personal experience, if you can’t find some sort of common ground before the show, there’s no point in even bothering. Either one or both of you will be distracted and we’ll ruin any shot the band has at winning.” He glares for a minute but then his gaze softens. “I love you both and I won’t try and tell you how to live your lives or what I think is the best solution for everyone. But I will tell you that while I understand that nothing can be resolved in one night, I do think it would be a good idea to tell each other some hard truths.” He hits me hard with a pointed stare. Then his tone softens slightly. “Better now than the night before the battle.”

“Good night, Dallas,” Dixie says evenly. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Text and let me know you get home safe, please.”

“Good night, you two,” Dallas answers reluctantly. “Try not to kill each other.”

Dixie rolls her eyes and slams his truck door. Hard.

This is the second time in a matter of minutes that I’ve seen Dixie let Dallas know how it’s going to be. I don’t think I’ve seen that happen ever in my eleven, almost twelve years of knowing them.

I’m still in shock as we head into the house.

Dixie switches the lights on and I stand in the entryway still holding my bag of food and unsure of what to do with myself.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she says, adding “sit” and nodding toward the couch before she disappears into the kitchen.

I follow her orders like a zombie on autopilot.

Sitting down, I open my sandwich, unsurprised when I realize that she did, in fact, order it exactly as I do.

“Tea or Coke or water?” she calls from the other room.

“Coke is fine,” I answer, knowing I need the caffeine, as this is probably going to end up being a longer night than either of us is prepared for.

Dallas is right. It’s time to tell her the truth.

I just wish it didn’t have to come on the heels of my beating a man in front of her and her picking me up at jail. So much for being the kind of man she deserves.

When she returns with a can of soda, I offer her half my sandwich. Or the whole thing. Or my heart and soul and whatever else she wants.

“You sure you’re not hungry?”

She nods. “I ate earlier.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods again. “Positive. Promise.”

It only takes a few bites until I’ve pretty much demolished the sandwich and another bag of chips. I drain the can of Coke while Dixie sips the one she carried in for herself.

“I left a message for Sheila Montgomery,” she informs me. “But she hasn’t called me back yet.”

“Good. She will. When she does, give her Carl’s name and address and any information you have on Liam.”

Dixie watches me closely. “Okay. I will. And I called the hospital and Carl was moved out of intensive care into a regular room. He’ll be out this time tomorrow or the next day.”

“Where’s the kid?”

Dixie blanches like I’ve hurt her somehow. “Liam. His name is Liam. He’s staying right next door actually, with my neighbor, Mrs. Lawson. She’s nice. A little eccentric and maybe kind of crazy about her cats, but she’s a sweet lady. He’s safe there. And her cookies are probably better than mine.”

She smiles and the tension weighing on my chest lightens somewhat.

“Good. That’s good.”

“So . . . how long do you think Carl has been abusing him?”

I chew my food slowly in an attempt to put off answering.

Right here is the crux of everything that separates my world from hers. She looks at everyone and sees the light in them, the good, the potential. Whereas I see only darkness. The bad. The danger.

“Probably since he was born, Dix. Carl Andrews basically runs the local crack house.”

Dixie pales. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Yeah, babe. Seriously. And by runs, I mean he lives there. It actually is his house.”

Her brow wrinkles as I continue, explaining as gently as I know how to.

“Crack den is a more appropriate term because it isn’t much like a house or a home at all. On the outside maybe. On the inside, these places are gutted. Sparse furniture, usually filthy, and crack pipes and strung-out junkies typically litter the floors and fill the corners.” I stare at my hands while I finish because I can’t bear to see how much pain this is causing her to hear. I’m tainting her worldview, casting my dark shadows on her light. “People come and go. Some looking for a fix, some looking for revenge if they feel they got sold something less than acceptable quality, some so high they don’t even know what they’re doing there, it’s just become a beacon they end up at because they’ve been so many times.”