You're Not Safe (Texas Rangers 3)

“It doesn’t matter.”

They’d been careful, never to be seen in public, opting for hotels on the outskirts of town. She recalled there had been a hotel clerk who had eyed her as if he were trying to read her thoughts. Did he put the pieces together? “It does to me.”

“Let it go, Dixie.”

Let it go.

What an ass. He’d promised her the moon and now he was kicking her to the curb.

Dixie peeked back toward the group of boys, now half tempted to double back. A party with them would teach him a lesson. “You’ll be sorry.”

“I’m not now but I could be real sorry. I’ve a lot riding on the next thirty days. I don’t want trouble.”

He’d given her the boot and still she clung. “Are you going to call me soon?”

“Sure. Sure.” He hung up.

Dixie stood for a moment, the phone still pressed to her ear, not really believing he’d ended the call. When the dial tone buzzed in her ear, she pocketed her phone.

As much as she wanted to imagine his begging for forgiveness, she’d traveled this road enough times with other men to know the score. When men like him lost interest, it was over. And if any lessons had stuck in her twenty years on this earth, it was to cut her losses and move on to the next opportunity.

After a successful gig, she was juiced and full of energy and the idea of going home and staring at her four walls didn’t top the option list. She wanted a man. Her skin tingled and she conjured up the man at the bar who’d glared at her hours ago with burning desire as he’d pressed the napkin with his phone number into her hand. He’d not say no to her.

At her car, a twelve-year-old black Buick with silver chrome wheels, she unlocked the front door and tossed her purse inside. Those boys were almost out of sight but she figured if she drove she could catch up to them. If they went to Vanderbilt, they might have a bit of money. And money always made the time pass faster. Thunder rumbled, promising rain.

Moistening her lips, she smiled at the sound of footsteps behind her. The boys had returned. Running her tongue over her lips so they glistened, she drew in a breath and turned. “Hey.”

For an instant, she registered a dark hoodie and a face hidden behind a hockey mask, but before she could scream a metal rod whooshed through the air and struck her on the side of her head.

Intense pain stole her breath. She staggered and fell to cold concrete, which tore the naked flesh of her palms and knees. Her cell jostled out of her pocket and hit the ground hard enough to pop off the back.

She blinked once and then twice, trying to regain focus. She’d been hit before, but never like this. She raised a trembling hand to her cheek, now slick and swelling with blood. Oh, God. Not her face.

A cold metal rod pressed against her shoulder and she collapsed against the ground. “Scream and I’ll cave in your skull.”

Jesus, was she being mugged? She’d been mugged before. It sucked to hand over hard-earned tip money, but sixty bucks seemed a fair trade for her life. “My pocket. I’ve money. Take whatever you want.”

Black-booted feet moved within inches of her face. “I don’t want your money.”

Dixie groaned. Not a mugging? Then it was rape. Another indignity she’d survived. Her shattered cheek throbbed, reverberating lightning bolts of pain through her entire body.

She moistened her lips, bracing. She’d not beg or plead. She was tough. She would survive.

But the attacker stood there, staring, watching, gloating.

Dixie drew in a deep breath, curling the fingers of her hands. Tears pooled in her eyes as she waited to be flipped on her back and have her skirt tossed up. She grit her teeth. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. You’re a whore and a harlot.”

“I don’t want to die.”

In answer, the attacker quickly raised the rod and brought it down hard and direct against her shoulder. She gasped in a breath, the pain so blinding she couldn’t make a sound as she rolled on her back. Her vision blurred into black splotches. She wanted to fight, but couldn’t string two thoughts together. Whatever was gonna happen, it wasn’t going to be good.

“Why?” she gasped.

“Whore. Harlot. I’ve had it with watching you parade your pert little ass around. I’ve had it. You’ve hurt too many people.”

Dixie blinked her vision into focus and glimpsed dark eyes staring at her through the mask. The tire iron rose. She braced, hoping against hope she could mitigate the blow’s damage by tensing.

“No mercy,” the stranger said.

The next blow struck her temple and in a flash her vision went dark.

Baby exhaled, breathless and excited.

An hour ago Dixie had flickered bright on the stage, swishing her skirt and flirting with the crowd. Now Dixie’s crumpled body lay on the cold, damp ground in a pool of blood.

Four well-placed blows had obliterated the sweet, seductive siren’s high swipe of cheekbones, full red lips, creamy skin, and thick eyelashes into a pulp. No whore deserved to go into the next world with her looks. That smacked of injustice in Baby’s book. A beautiful whore could well strike a deal with the Devil and then return to the earth to haunt.

The idea of Dixie’s returning had Baby gripping the cold iron, clammy with sweat, high and slamming it on Dixie’s face in another crushing blow. Blood splattered. Bone crushed. Again and again the tire iron struck until finally, Baby, breathless and blood-soaked, stopped.

Stepping back, a satisfied smile curled at the utter ruin and destruction of one once beautiful.

Dixie Simmons wouldn’t be parading her tart ass around town anymore or singing those songs designed to ruin men’s lives.

Dead and gone.