Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Dawson laughed. “Sorry, I’m pleading the fifth.”

Andrew’s attention zoomed to me. “Mercy? How about you?”

“I’ll follow the sheriff’s lead and stay pigheaded.”

Laughter.

“How many of you would like to see a show of goodwill between these two fine candidates as they lead us in the first dance?”

Oh, hell no. I glared at that rat bastard Andrew, but the crowd didn’t notice. They were on board with the idea. They clapped, whistled, stomped their feet.

Geneva snapped, “For Christsake, what is wrong with these people?”

“No booze. If they were getting loaded right now, they wouldn’t care.”

“You have to refuse to dance with him, Mercy.”

“Now how petty would that make me look?”

“Think of how it’ll look if you and Dawson start grinding on each other,” Geneva hissed.

“Puh-lease. We are adults. We’ll behave accordingly.”

I met Dawson halfway and took his outstretched hand. He bowed and kissed my knuckles.

I pretended to punch him in the stomach.

It played well with the crowd.

The band started a cover of George Strait’s “Check Yes or No,” a tune not too fast, nor too slow. Dawson clasped my left hand in his right. He placed his palm in the middle of my back and brought me in close to his body.

I set my hand on his shoulder in proper two-step position. No harm, no foul, no sweat. I could do this. Then I looked up to see his annoying Cheshire cat-like grin. “What?”

“I’ve wanted to dance with you for months.”

“Too bad my dancing skills will probably disappoint you.”

“The only disappointment is acting as if dancing with you is a chore for me, Mercy.”

Shoot. That was really sweet. “Dawson-”

“Just keep smiling. And let me lead, will ya?”

Let him lead? Damn man always took the lead.

Wrong. You always take point and expect him to follow.

So yeah, I let him lead… but just this one time.

Dawson knew his way around the dance floor. Every muscle in my body was rigid as curious couples joined us. His nearness caused a disjointed sensation inside me. I felt like one of those magnets-both repelled and attracted.

“Relax,” he muttered.

“I am relaxed.”

“Right. You’re strung tight as a new barbed-wire fence.” He pulled me closer. “You look great tonight.”

“Hey. You’re not supposed to say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this Fred-and-Ginger routine is all for show.”

“Not for me it isn’t.”

My face heated. “Dammit, Dawson, knock it off. This is not the time or the place-”

“Tough shit. I’ll say whatever the hell I want, and you’ll suck it up and smile.”

“Channeling your inner caveman?”

“You bring out the best in me, Sergeant Major.”

“I think you mean beast. ”

Dawson chuckled. “That, too. So you’ll damn well listen to what I have to say while I have your undivided attention.”

“Or what?”

“Don’t push me, darlin’. If you’ll recall, I push back. In fact, I almost said screw it and snuck back to your cabin last night. Hell, I’m such a masochist, I looked forward to you pulling a gun on me as foreplay.”

That comment shouldn’t have made me smile, but it did.

Encouraged, he traced the ball of my thumb joint up from the inside of my wrist. The move was lazy, teasing, and seductive as hell. My heart and my feet stumbled simultaneously. I caught myself and hissed, “Stop it.”

“Not a chance.”

When he switched directions on the dance floor, his mouth grazed my ear, and he murmured, “I miss you.”

I stumbled again. My cheek brushed the smoothly shaven section of his throat between his jawline and his collar. I fought the temptation to lean into him and bury my lips in that vulnerable fragment of skin just to see him shiver.

“I’m winning you over with my caveman tactics.”

A statement. Cocky man. I laughed softly.

“I miss hearing you laugh as much as I miss touching you.”

About two seconds before my hormones took control, I snapped back to reality. Tactics. This was all a stupid political ploy, and I was falling for it. “If you’re spewing this lovey-dovey crap because you think it’ll show the voters your softer side with the competition-”

Dawson stopped in the center of the dance floor.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What I said to you doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with the election, and you goddamn well know it.”

Geneva had been right; this’d been a bad idea. “Will you please stop screwing around? People are staring.”

“Let ’em stare. I don’t care.”

I did. “What do you want?”

“For you to admit that you’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”

“Fine. You’re right, I have no freakin’ clue how to handle this, okay?”

“This… meaning… what?”

“You know. This.” I gestured at the scant space separating us. “Personal stuff.”

“At least you’re acknowledging there is personal stuff between us.”

“You know there is, dumbass.” I tugged on him until he started to move again. “But the only reason we’re here, dancing cheek to cheek, is because of the damn election. So can we please keep focused on that?”

“For now.”

I broke eye contact with him. “I hate that people are gawking at us like we’re a circus act, dissecting our every move.”

“Get used to life in the public eye.”

Great.

As we spun and glided, I swore they’d chosen the longest song in the history of the world. Maybe if I stumbled, I could fake an injury and escape.

Dawson would just pick you up and cart you off like the last time he found you lying in the middle of the road with a twisted ankle.

Like I needed that reminder of another instance of his caveman tactics.

“How long is your buddy Anna staying?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know. As long as she wants. Why?”

He shrugged.

I recognized the evasion. “Why do you care?”

“Because she’s bad news.”

That got my back up. “You don’t know fuck all about Anna.”

“Wrong. I know she’s dangerous.”

“Hazard of our training, Dawson. We’re all like that.”

“Wrong again. She’s nothing like you.” Dawson locked his gaze to mine. “Nothing. Maybe once you two were alike, but not anymore. She’ll drag you down to her level rather than you bringing her up to yours.”

“Why don’t you come right out and say what you mean?”

His teeth flashed. “I tried to when we first started dancing, but you didn’t want to hear it.”

Dammit, he was twisting my words. “You drive me crazy.”

He whispered, “It’s part of my charm.”

The song ended, and I attempted to leap back, but Dawson wouldn’t release my hand until Andrew acknowledged us.

“How about another round of applause for our candidates?”

The clapping had waned. People were as raring to dance as I was to put distance between Dawson and me.

Dawson’s campaign manager herded him away. I turned and smacked into Shay Turnbull.

He grasped my upper arms. “Whoa there, candidate Gunderson. What’s the rush?”

“Sorry. Just trying to escape the dance floor.”

“And here I fought the crowd so I could claim your next dance.”

A drop-dead gorgeous man like him wouldn’t be short dance partners. “Why in the hell would you want to dance with me anyway? I suck.”

He smiled. “It’s refreshing that you are as unaware of your own allure as you are brutally honest. Come on. One dance.”

“They’re your broken toes,” I mumbled.

Shay held me more formally than Dawson had. “Thousand Miles from Nowhere” by Dwight Yoakam began. I’d hoped for a fast one like Alan Jackson’s “Chattahoochee,” but this medium-slow tune would allow for conversation.