Page 73 of Long Way Down

One could argue that Dixie proved a relapse in poor judgement.

But he – perhaps stubbornly – refused to believe that. Tamara Mosby had set her sights on the class valedictorian, and told him he’d never amount to anything; that she wanted aqualityman.

But no matter how many faces Dixie made, nor how often she snubbed him or told him to fuck off, he didn’t think her aversion to him was about snobby taste. Beneath her burred and prickly exterior lay something extremely tender and fragile, he could sense; some old wound that pained her still, as if fresh, save for those moments when he managed to tease a smile, or a laugh, or a pleasured sigh from her. In the throes, she was absolutely shameless, giving as good as she got. It was after that she rolled away and withdrew into herself, gaze distant and glazed-over, her skin shivering like a spooked horse’s beneath his touch.

He’d seen that same look on her face tonight, that reflective, haunted look like she had left her body and journeyed somewhere dark in her memories. Closeness, intimacy, the heady, sexualized environs of the seedy club tonight, affected her. Left her drifting. He’d pushed her, tonight, hand under her shirt and warm breath in her ear, trying to get a rise out of her. He'd had the satisfaction of watching her pupils dilate; she would have kissed him, if he hadn’t halted her, and that had been an ego boost. Provocative dancing had gotten her hot, and then she’d turned tohim, wantedhim…he’d never claimed to be a good person.

But by the time they left the VIP room, she’d become withdrawn again. Theorizing, yes, in detective mode…but troubled once again in that way he’d never been able to pierce.

He was torn, now, on the ride to her place. It had been a long time since he’d had anyone on the back of his bike, and had never before had someone back there that he really, truly liked more than was perhaps wise. He liked the heat of her, keeping the chill off his back, her slight weight and the tightness of her arms around his middle; the sharp point of her chin digging into his shoulder through his hoodie.

But she was unsettled, and he’d found that he didn’t like it when she was; would go to extravagant conversational lengths, not to mention perform vigorously in the bedroom, to lift her spirits.

The version of Tamara Mosby that still occasionally sneered at him in the back of his mind was smirking like crazy right now.

There was a spot just big enough for his bike in front of her building. He parked, and once they’d dismounted, and he turned to her, he found that she was worse off than he’d expected. Pixie features marked by stress, she stood with brows drawn together, hands frozen on the clasp of the helmet, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

Pongo gave her a minute.

A car went past, and her pupils shrank to pinpricks in the glare of the headlights, but she didn’t react otherwise.

Slowly, Pongo reached up and urged her hands away to undo the clasp himself. She made a sound, a little gasp, and her gaze snapped up to his face, startled.

“Easy,” he said, and drew the helmet off. Her hair was mussed and flattened beneath it, but he didn’t dare reach to tidy it.

He hung the helmet off the handlebars. “Gettin’ cold out. Wanna head up?”

She ducked her face and raked her hair back with fingers that trembled, faintly, from nerves rather than the air temperature, he thought. “Yeah.” She lead the way up the building’s front walk and steps, keys jangling as she fished them out.

Contrary to what his club brothers said, Pongodidhave a little bit of tact. Ordinarily, he would have hassled her all the way across the lobby and during the elevator ride, needling her until she finally cracked a grin and the ever-present tension bled out of her shoulders. But he sensed that wasn’t the right course of action at the moment.

They went up to her floor in silence, and he followed her off the car and down the hallway. When she opened the apartment door, he followed her in. She set her keys on the table in the hall, turned to him, and her trancelike state finally gave way to a frown.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and his concern ratcheted up a notch.

Did she not remember how they got here? Was she…shit, was she having some kind of episode? A trauma response or whatever they were called? He wasn’t equipped for that.

He shrugged. “Following you in. Got any beer?”

She gave him a look – one of her usual looks, hallelujah – then sighed and headed deeper in, leaving him to shut the door. “I’m gonna start charging you for them,” she vowed.

He thumbed the lock and breathed an internal sigh of relief.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, once he was perched on a kitchen stool, socked feet hooked on the rungs, watching her twist the tops off two Heinekens on the other side of the counter.

“Yes. And you just did, so that’s that,” she said, and slid his beer over.

“Ha. You’re a riot. Does anyone ever tell you that?”

Her arched brows saidwhat do you think?as she took her first sip.

He grinned, but then let his face grow serious, nails tapping at the side of his bottle. “Really, though. A real question. Or an observation, I guess.”

She paused with her bottle halfway down, then set it on the counter with a thump. “Observations aren’t usually positive.”

“This one isn’tnegative.”

Her gaze narrowed.

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