Page 18 of Wicked Dix

Mary’s comment snaps me from my thoughts and I smile. “It’ll be great.” Grateful for the derailment, I tease, “I can’t wait for you to meet Debbie. I mean Hunter.” I can’t help but smile at his porn inspired nickname.

She rolls her eyes, not at all excited. “With a name like Hunter, he’s bound to be a dumbass.”

I bite my lip to stifle my laugh. “This night needs tequila and tequila.”

She happily shoots up and heads for the kitchen, and for once, I don’t stop her.

I texted Dixon and told him Mary and I would meet him at Cherry Pop as I wanted to have a few cocktails before I met him inthisoutfit.

Regardless of Mary calling me a hooker, I decided to wear my little black dress, which is more little than dress. But I wanted to show Dixon that I too can be a little bad. Not Beth bad, but bad enough to hopefully have him touching me again.

I remember when I saw Dixon here after our three-month separation. His feral look of possession and longing is one I’m hoping to elicit from him tonight.

“Drink!” I shout over Beyoncé, before bringing the shot to my lips and throwing it back before Mary has a chance to tell me to slow down.

I know that I should as I’m way past drunk, but each hit gives me the confidence I so need.

Slamming the shot glass down onto the bar, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, probably smearing my red lipstick in the process.

“Maddy, how about we get you some water?” Mary flags down the bartender.

I have other ideas, however. “How about we get you some water and me another tequila?” I suggest, pointing at the three blurry Marys.

“I’ve forgotten how adorable you arewhen you’re drunk. It’s not a sight I see often.”

“Me either,” I say, hiccupping. I slap my hand over my mouth while Mary giggles.

“Oh my God! It’s my song,” I scream when ‘Telephone’ by Lady Gaga comes blaring over the speakers.

Latching onto Mary’s wrist, I drag her to the dance floor and push aside anyone who stands in our way. When we find our own little dancing oasis, we both let the music take over and begin moving to the upbeat tempo. Closing my eyes, I get lost in the lyrics and feel a sisterhood to the verse of leaving my head and my heart on the dance floor.

I dance like no one is watching but Dixon. Every sashay of the hips, flick of my hair, and wriggle of my butt is for him. Continuing my risky moves, I don’t sense someone brush up near me until I feel foreign fingers wrap around my waist. My eyes snap open and I instantly dance out of his hold because his closeness brings on a bout of panic. Mary is dancing with some Latino Swayze a few feet away, so I can’t flag her down.

I can only handle this type of closeness from Dixon because I know he’ll never hurt me, but the feral look in this stranger’s eyes reveals he’s jacked up on way too much booze and probably party favors to think straight.

When he makes an attempt to grab me once again, my demons, ones I have tried so hard to controlthrough therapy, come roaring to the surface and I feel myself shutting down. I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s my fault. What did I expect from wearing this dress and dancing so suggestively? Mary was right. No wonder my brother did…it’s my fault.

Just as the walls start closing in, my lifeline, my savior comes to the rescue and makes everything all right again.

“Madison!”

Focusing on my light, my eyes pop open, and I run into the safety of Dixon’s arms. “Are you okay?” The fear, anger, and relief are reflected in his deep voice.

Too shaken up to reply, I nod, burying my face in the crook of his neck.

The loud music drowns out most of his exchange with the man I’m presume is my groper, but the words “If you fucking touch her again, I’ll skin you alive and feed you to my dog,” can be clearly heard.

When he begins moving, guiding me off the dance floor, I follow, trusting him completely. His rigidity reveals he’s livid. I know the only thing restraining him from going back out there and beating the guy to a bloody pulp is me. He knows I’ll break without him.

He’s become my world, and that scares the living hell out of me.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dixon asks, stopping abruptly and pulling me away at arm’s length.

Now that I’m not blinded by fear, I appreciate how epic he looks in dark, fitted blue jeans, a chic, high-collared, button-down navy sweater vest, which he’s pulled the sleeves up on, exposing his taut forearms. Underneath, he sports a light gray, soft woven T-shirt with the top button undone, and on his feet are black boots.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I affirm when I can speak without drooling.

He narrows those beautiful blue eyes and runs a hand through his tousled hair.

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