10. Dallas

CHAPTER 10

DALLAS

A handful of days have slipped away since the warehouse incident when I kept Flynn alive. My mind has become a skipping record, always jumping back to Isaac as if stuck on the same track.

We haven’t spoken but I was trapped in the trajectory of his stare several times during my shifts at Purgatory. His gaze—unyielding and consuming—is one hard thing for me to shake off. Like an electrifying current zapping across the haze-filled club, locking onto me as its target. Each stolen look resembles a silent lightning strike, pushing my heart into a wild rampage of terrifying exhilaration.

The defender of justice in me knows he’s about to get what he wants—to become a part of Isaac Thoreau’s inner circle. But the man in me—without the badge or the mission hanging over his head—is somewhat terrified, scared of what’s simmering right under the surface.

In the warehouse bathroom, Cody "Hawk" Smith felt it with every fiber of his body. Smelled the lingering cologne and the aftershave.

Jeremy's eyes were no less piercing, serving their own brand of intimidation that felt a lot like hate and distrust.

"Hey, Hawk," Ricky calls out to me during another fun night at Purgatory. "Isaac wants to see you in his office."

I nod, trying not to show my eagerness too much. "Did he say what it’s about?"

"No clue." Ricky claps my back and lowkey yanks me over to me. "If I were to guess, he’ll probably give you a bonus for saving Flynn’s life."

It’s happening, Dallas. It’s all finally happening. After weeks of getting nowhere, you’re getting your chance.

My chest tightens a little as I make my way through the pulsating crowd and into the rear of the club. While I walk, I mentally remind myself why I'm here: to uncover information about the Hellhounds and Yuri Solovey's connection.

I pause in front of the door and take a deep breath before knocking.

I hear a muffled "come in" and I step inside.

On the outside, I’m composed but my stomach is churning. Immediately, I want to inspect everything in this office, every shelf, every document, every hidden crevice. Sadly, I can’t afford to look suspicious when I’m so close to getting to my target.

Instead, I keep my gaze on Isaac.

He sits casually behind his desk in a high-backed chair, studying me with those smoldering eyes that seem to know many things not a lot of people his age do. People his age are still figuring out their career paths or dating. He's running an empire.

Wordlessly, Isaac gestures to a chair opposite him.

"I'm good," I reply, unwilling to relinquish the slight advantage of power balance my height gives me in this moment.

"Suit yourself." He leans back, his palms still resting on the wooden surface of the table. "I think we should clear some things up."

There's obvious tension between us, palpable, wires pulled taut. And I can almost physically feel the space separating Thoreau and me heating up.

My skin prickles as if trying instinctively to wick away this uncomfortable sensory reminder of what we really are at its core—enemies.

I tip my chin in agreement to his earlier comment as my eyes roam over Isaac, taking in his outfit; a black shirt with the top three buttons open, revealing a hint of his toned chest. I can’t see his dress slacks but I imagine they fit him perfectly like they always do. Rolex around his wrist glints in the muted light. A silver chain for some reason draws my attention to his defined collarbones peeking from under the soft fabric of the shirt. The black leather jacket is a nice touch. For someone who prefers to stay in the shadows most of the time, the man can dress.

As my gaze ghosts over his face, I find myself studying his lips. They're not full and not thin, just the right size, pursed into a tight curved line.

I realize it’s not the first time I’m staring at him—well, parts of him—longer than acceptable. Like what the fuck, Dallas?

"Flynn’s recovering," Isaac speaks, breaking the loaded silence.

"Yes, Ricky told me he's on the mend," I respond. "I'm glad I could help."

"Good thing you were there."

He keeps on looking at me as if he wants me to read his lips, to actually guess what he means and it’s not what just came out from his mouth. He keeps on looking at me as if this is a game and it’s my turn. My turn to tell him what he wants to hear.

A heavy, stifling sort of quiet descends upon us once more—it's like we're trapped in the thick smoke that follows a roaring fire, choking on words unsaid and stares gone unmet. Every ticking second unwinds the coil of uncertainty within me, spreading silent echoes that bounce off the bare walls and taunt my eardrum.

"I don’t want to see any more men die," I finally supply after my mind has gone to hell and back trying to understand what would make Isaac want to keep this going.

And this is an absolute truth that comes from Dallas, not Hawk.

"Why did you come to Vegas?" he asks after yet another pause. His voice is steady and measured with a hint of threat.

"I thought I made myself clear." I add in a shrug. "Looking for more opportunities."

His wings up his eyebrow. "Are there no opportunities back in Arizona?"

"Not much left for a guy like me."

Isaac releases a soft chuckle, rippling through the otherwise somber room. "What kind of experience do you bring to the table?"

"Well, after two tours in Afghanistan…" The words tumble out, hanging heavy in the air like lead, threatening to detonate any remaining sense of comfort. As I find myself grappling with my past jumbled in today’s reality, I sense Isaac's eyes boring into me, sick anticipation electrifying every corner of the office. "Close-quarters combat, reconnaissance, sniping... I know my way around firearms—M16A4, M240, M203 grenade launcher... But I can handle my way around a pistol too. Glock, Beretta, even your classy SIG Sauer…Let’s just say I’m overqualified for most job vets without a college education can get there."

"Sounds like you've seen your fair share of action," Isaac comments nonchalantly. There's an indecipherable shift in his tone—a subtle blend of curiosity mingled with skepticism that triggers a bulletproof defense system inside me. "So why flirt so willingly with danger over here when you’ve been through hell back there?"

I chuckle darkly. "You're never really out of the war zone. They don’t come with exit signs, you know. If you've been to the places I've been sent to, you would understand." The latter leaves my mouth, and again, I'm not sure if it comes from Dallas or Hawk. The line between us seems to blur from time to time. I blame my superiors for giving Hawk the same experience Dallas had. "Once you’ve been to that hell, you’re stuck in it. Might as well do what you’re good at."

"Fair enough," Isaac concedes, his eyes never leaving mine. "We might have some extra opportunities around here."

"I appreciate that."

"Alright then," Isaac concludes, standing up from his desk, and immediately the power balance between us shifts. "I'll let you know if I need you." He studies me for a moment, his brown eyes dark and unreadable.

I know he’s going to test me, test my loyalty. He’s going to figure out a creative way to see if I'm truly someone he can trust. And as the silence inside the office stretches on, I find myself fighting the urge to fill it, to prove myself to this man. But I can’t rush it. Can’t seem too eager. It will raise the suspicion.

"Understood." I nod, turning to leave the office.

Isaac says nothing. He just watches me and I can feel his eyes burning a hole in my back as I step through the door to return to work.

"Ugh, I can't believe they're coming back tonight," Jessica groans, leaning against the bar. The dull red—signature Purgatory—lights from above flirt with her fiery hair that's piled high in charming disarray. She looks like that one night of a school bonfire that etches itself into the recesses of your mind, refusing to fade away.

It has a flavor all its own; gritty yet affectionate memories birthed from questionable food, watered-down drinks tinted with youthful naivety, and sloppy sex on some secluded spot on the beach.

And the reason you remember it all is because it happened before life really struck, before it draped its clammy hands around your neck, before you realized how fucked up the world is.

Getting sand out of your crack the next morning after that bonfire was the epitome of your problem.

And then six months later you watch people die, ripped apart limb by limb by a suicide bomb—images that burn themselves onto your eyelids each time you blink.

This kind of shit sticks to you. Like fucking gum to the bottom of a shoe and you can’t get rid of it. No matter how hard you scrub, the leftovers are there. The shoe is messed up for good. Damaged goods.

And perhaps, Isaac Thoreau just reminded me that I’m that fucking shoe. Those damaged goods. Because my memories suddenly start to come back to me, memories of my time in the Corpse I desperately try to forget, to erase, to wipe out of my brain. Because I questioned the things I did. I thought I was saving people. But I caused deaths too.

Doesn’t matter which side. Human lives are human lives.

Joining the Bureau, fighting the good fight, felt like an opportunity to wash the blood off my hands that I spilled during my time overseas.

But life has a funny way of showing you who you really are, what your true nature is.

I’m back where I started—in the underbelly of Vegas, in the darkness, surrounded by people above the law.

"Can’t stand those douchebags," Jessica’s voice punches through the haze in my head and I’m transported to Purgatory. The club is still closed with the staff making final preparations for the opening. My shift is about to start too and I’m using the five minutes of spare time I have on a task that most likely won’t give me any leads.

Sadly, Jessica hasn't proven to be a valuable asset. Her knowledge of the inner workings of Hellhounds’ operations seems as foggy as an overcast morning.

"Some bigwigs with oversized egos?" I supply casually, aiming to keep a polite veneer over our conversation.

"I wish some of these people Isaac lets party here found another club." She flashes me a frustrated smile from behind the bar counter as she polishes a glass. "I’m sure you can tell the crowd in the VIP has questionable manners."

"I don’t work VIP often but I’ve heard horror stories from Seven."

We share a laugh, then I add, "Given you're not working the VIP section, why does it matter? Who are these people anyway?"

She responds with an eyeroll that speaks volumes. "Just some people Isaac does business with. Last time they were here, they were so dumb, they couldn't even remember what drinks they'd ordered. I had to mix everything twice. There was one particularly handsy asshole too who came downstairs to yell at me." She scrunches her face into a disgusted grimace. "If it wasn't for Isaac, I swear I'd put laxatives in their cocktails."

I chuckle, but my thoughts race faster. An image of Solovey materializes in my mind and I remind myself what my task is. "I’m sorry they’re getting on your nerves. Anything I can do to help?"

Jessica’s reply is immediate and silky-coated like dark chocolate laced with caramel; her voice near enough to breathe warmth onto my neck when she leans over the counter to bring her face closer to mine. There’s something flirtatiously dangerous about this proximity as if walking along a precipice without protection against gravity.

"Ah, Hawk, you’re a sweetheart." She looks me right in the eyes. Her breasts are pretty much falling out of her tank top and I’m wondering if she is trying to openly seduce me. I’m sensing that her interest in me isn’t purely friendship. She’s been giving all sorts of signals ever since I started at the club. The only difference between her and Janine is that she's not as handsy.

"My suggestion is to just watch out," she purrs with a smile, biting into her lower lip.

"Thanks for the tip," I reply.

The call for Caleb from the other side of the bar interrupts our banter and I’m frankly glad for it. I don’t want anyone to report to Jessica’s older brother that I’m hitting on her. Ever since the incident with Flynn he's been on my ass.

"Gotta run, Hawk. Duty calls," she rattles off, pushing away from the counter with a smile still intact.

"Alright, catch you later."

I’m headed to the back room and my thoughts are a jumbled mess of tasks. Be careful with Jessica. Persuade Isaac to bring me into his inner circle. Keep an eye out for Solovey.

As I enter the corridor, I’m immediately shoved into the wall.

Before I even react, Jeremy’s angry face invades my line of vision. He grabs me by the collar, pulling me close so that our faces are inches apart.

The man has some killer reflexes. He somehow managed to sneak up on me without me noticing it.

"Stay away from my sister," he snarls, his breath hot against my cheek.

I force myself to keep calm, feeling the sharp edge of panic creeping into my chest. I need to defuse this situation before it spirals out of control. "Look, man," I say, attempting to sound as casual as possible. "I’m not trying anything. We just chat sometimes."

His grip on my collar tightens, but I can tell he's listening. "But let me make it very clear," I add, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Jessica and I are co-workers. Nothing's going on between us. You don’t think I’m that dumb, do you?"

For a tense moment, we lock eyes, each trying to read the other. Then Jeremy releases me, stepping back and scoffing. "You better keep your dick in your pants, asshole," he warns, stabbing a finger at my chest. "Because if I find out you touch her, I’ll cut it off myself."

"Understood." But on the inside, I'm cursing myself for letting Jessica become a potential weakness. It's just one more thing to worry about, one more crack in my already fragile facade. With Jeremy not on my side and whispering shit into Isaac’s ear, getting where I need to get could be harder.

As Jeremy stalks away, I take a deep breath, trying to regain my composure.

But as the night wears on, I find myself constantly on edge, hyper-aware of Jeremy's presence and the weight of his scrutiny. Every interaction, every decision, feels like a test, and I can't shake the feeling that one misstep could be my undoing.

But I have no choice but to press on, to keep up the facade of Cody "Hawk" Smith and play this dangerous game to the bitter end. Because if I don't, it won't just be my life at risk, but the lives of countless others caught in the crossfire of a brutal criminal empire.