Dixon (Dark Falcons #1) - Em Petrova
Chapter One
Mersey, Tennessee—home sweet fucking home.
He parked his old Chevy on the corner in the only available parking spot between two SUVs sporting mountain bike racks—damn, the tourists really were out in full force today, weren’t they? He cut the engine, but the old V-6 took a while to stop chugging. As soon as he got a break from the family mechanic business, he’d tune up his own ride.
Dixon’s old stomping ground sure as hell didn’t look the same. Before he left for the military and served three tours in Afghanistan, the streets were dirty, the buildings requiring a coat of paint and the street lamps rusty.
Sometime during Dixon’s absence, the new town officials not only cleaned up the streets by laying new sidewalks and planting trees, but they installed Mersey’s very first traffic light. It dangled against a backdrop of the Smoky Mountains and a summery blue sky.
He climbed out and slammed the door. Before he crossed the street to the auto parts store, he took a long look up the street. About thirty motorcycles lined the side. Another new addition to Mersey, but the steel and leather looked out of place in contrast to the colorful storefronts, signs and pots of flowers.
With a grunt, he slicked his too-long hair off his face and crossed the street to the auto parts store. As soon as he entered, he cast a glance at two men clad in leather cuts bearing the name of their motorcycle gang. A guy stood at the checkout hassling old Mr. Hall about a price.
Dixon didn’t consciously go into full alert mode—it just happened. After fighting for freedom, he prepared for a fight everywhere he went.
Feeling the tension rippling along his shoulders, he headed through the store to the oil filters aisle. He crouched in front of the rack and selected several common sizes he saw on a weekly basis in the shop.
“What the fuck. Rothchild?”
He tossed a look over his shoulder to see his buddy from the days of sneaking a pretty girl wearing Daisy Dukes into the back seat of his parents’ car. A grin broke over his face as he straightened from his crouch.
Thrusting out a hand, he looked up another two inches to meet his friend’s eyes. “Tank. Man, it’s been a long time. How the hell ya been?”
Tank clasped his hand, jerking him in for a hard thump on the spine. When Dixon pounded Tank’s shoulder, he felt the same hard granite that blocked so many quarterbacks in the good ole days of Mersey Falcons football. Undefeated three years running.
They drew from the bro-hug. Tank grinned down at him. “Fuck, man, you filled out. You’re about as broad as me.”
Dixon sized him up. “I’m still bigger where it counts.” He nodded downward to his crotch.
Tank busted up laughing. “Still a mouthy motherfucker. You in town for good?”
He rubbed at his jaw with his fingers that never were clean of oil and grease no matter how much he scrubbed. “I’m back for now,” was all he’d commit to.
Shifting his weight from huge steel-toed boot to boot, Tank folded his arms, which was Tank’s way of settling in for a long talk. “Where ya working?”
“My dad’s shop.”
“I shoulda guessed by your hands. You always were the best with cars. Where ya livin’?”
“Above the shop.” He didn’t like admitting the step backward he’d taken. After being out on his own for so many years, it burned his ass to essentially live with his parents again. Even if he didn’t share the same roof with them, his momma still babied him by baking his favorite oatmeal butterscotch cookies and bringing them up the side stairs of the shop to him.
Tank chuckled. “Dude, I bet your momma loves that.”
He thought on those gooey cookies. “Yeah, but it’s not all so bad. Enough about me. Where have you been? You ever get out of Mersey?”
“For a while, yeah. Lived in Gatlinburg about a year. Till my wife ran off with a truck driver from Myrtle Beach.”
He huffed out a breath. “Damn, that’s rough.”
“Best day of my life. Sex was fantastic, but we fought like hell. Anyway, I’ve been here for about eighteen months. Been working at the mill. Heftin’ logs all day wears me out, but I’ve been known to hold down a bar stool at the Painted Pig.”
He chuckled at the name of the bar they were forever trying to sneak into as kids and pass themselves off as drinking age. “I can’t believe that old place