Turncoat Megan Derr (great novels to read txt) 📖

"Leland is distracting him." The familiar grin Dixie liked too much appeared. "He's actually pretty good at that."

"Everybody's got a weakness," Dixie replied and finally rolled up and out of his seat, half-stumbling out of the chopper. When he'd gotten his legs under him properly, he headed for the cabin Byron had bought three months ago and outfitted with enough bells and whistles to put Dixie's old digs back at G.O.D. headquarters to shame.

The centerpiece was the fancy chair and support systems that would keep him comfortable and healthy (ish) while he lost himself in the Mason System and went head-to-head with one of the nastiest pieces of the G.O.D.

The remaining space on the first floor was given over to a couple of foldout sofas and a small kitchen. Up a ladder to the loft was another pair of beds. The whole place smelled like dusty furniture and the evergreen trees outside.

Grabbing up his duffle that someone had dropped by the door, he hauled up to the loft where he already had a bag filled with clothes and other miscellany waiting for him. He'd just stripped down and pulled on a pair of soft fleece pajama pants when Greg appeared, throwing a bag on the floor before hauling himself up and over the edge. He looked at Dixie, then looked away and walked slowly over to the other bed.

Dixie pulled on a t-shirt, then a lightweight hoodie. The systems and equipment would worry about his body temp, so he didn't want to wear too much and risk overheating. But he didn't much want to come out of the system and start freezing his balls off either. Stuffing his clothes into the duffle, he pulled out the small, dark-stained jewelry case he'd put at the bottom of the bag, carefully wrapped in his mama's favorite scarf to keep the box from getting dinged and scratched.

Wasn't much in it. His folks had never had money or inclination for jewelry, but what was there was precious.

He ran his hands over the dark green cashmere scarf. It was worn from years of use, but still soft and vibrant. Mama had worn it on all special occasions, along with the broach Daddy had bought her back when they first started dating.

Opening the jewelry case, he pulled out the broach: a little enamel piece of a bright blue butterfly perched on the paw of a brown and gold cat.

"What's that?" Greg asked.

Dixie smiled, chuckled softly. "Daddy always said the butterfly must be drunk or crazy to mess with a cat this way. Said it was something that needed to belong to Mama. She kept it through three years of dating and fifteen years of marriage."

"Oh," Greg said, voice barely audible but the sadness in it loud and clear. "I don't—" He broke off, turned away.

"Don't what?" Dixie pressed, though he could guess.

Greg sighed, then his shoulders squared and he turned around. "I don't understand you. I was sure we… we could have had something. I'm not crazy, right? So why do you always pull away? You're best friends with Byron, you two are thick as thieves, but every time I try to be more than a joke or a good lay—" He broke off, glared down at the t-shirt tightly clenched in his hands. "Am I not good enough?"

"Ah, hell, I never meant for you to think such a damned fool thing." Closing the space between them, Dixie tugged the t-shirt loose and got Greg into it, smoothing the fabric down over that lithe little chest. "You're good enough for a prince and definitely too good for me. Don't you ever think otherwise, understand me?" He tweaked Greg's nose, smile briefly at the nose-wrinkling scowl that got him. "Mama always said I had the sense of a drunk butterfly, and I've yet to be able to prove her wrong."

"Butterflies can't get drunk," Greg replied, looking about ready to throw his hands up. "So if it's not that you don't think I'm worthwhile, what the hell is it? I thought—" He bit his lip, looked down. "It was a shitty fucking thing to do and I know it, but I was kind of hoping when I told you to back off that you wouldn't, that you'd say something, do something, to change my mind. But you didn't, and then I didn't know how to take it back."

Dixie laughed, and laughed harder when Greg glared at him. "How like a kitten to pounce when you want cuddles." Greg's glare darkened, but Dixie cut off the pending death threats by bending to kiss him, fingers sliding along Greg's right cheek to cradle it gently.

Drawing back after a couple of minutes, he pressed the scarf and broach into Greg's hands. "These are for you. I kept pulling away 'cause I didn't want to leave folk hurting the way the G.O.D. left me and Mama hurting after they killed Daddy. But I'm already attached—to Matt, Byron, and especially you. I shoulda come right out and admitted it a long time ago. I'm sorry."

Greg stared at him, a frown cutting deep lines into his face, eyes pinched with confusion and worry. "Why do you keep talking like you're dying?"

"Dying? Naw, I'm alive and kicking."

"Stop being a smartass!" Greg snarled, thumping Dixie's chest, a surprising amount of strength behind his bony little fist. "What aren't you telling—?" He broke off, tears slipping down his cheeks as realization filled his face. "You son of a bitch! I did not do all of this so you could get yourself killed! Fuck you!" He dropped the scarf and broach and threw every stone of his bodyweight behind the fist that connected with Dixie's jaw.

It was enough to send Dixie stumbling back a couple of steps, and damned if it wouldn't leave a good bruise. "You hit good, kitten."

"Don't call me that, you motherfucking son of a goddamn fucking bitch!" Greg snarled and punched him again, driving Dixie back until he collided with the railing and damn