Turncoat by Megan Derr (the false prince series txt) 📕

six pack of something." Dixie darted into the storeroom and picked a few handy little tricks that could easily fit into the leather jacket he shrugged on. Though he preferred his own hat, it would draw too much attention at present. He settled for a dark blue ski-cap, then shoved on thick, black-rimmed glasses that had a few bells and whistles of their own.

Returning to the couch, he laced on sturdy work boots, and last, pulled on dark blue fingerless gloves.

When Greg returned, Dixie had to admit he looked like some ridiculously pretty, dangerously competent Hollywood style cat burglar. He wore dark-washed jeans and a deep green sweater, a peacoat in steel gray, and fine-rimmed glasses that shimmered faintly for a moment.

Dixie grinned. "Looks like we're both trying to look smart."

"One of us is succeeding," Greg retorted with a matching grin. He popped the pills cupped in one hand, swallowing them dry. Next he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out gloves that were about a hundred times finer than the ones Dixie wore. They were the custom-made, butter soft lambskin type that fit like a second skin and had to be peeled off finger by finger.

Thoughts of what it would feel like to have those gloved fingers running over his skin were firmly shunted aside. He'd gotten stupid on the couch earlier, and had Byron to thank for restoring his sanity. He wasn't gonna slip up again. No matter how much he wanted to every time those pale, pretty eyes fell on him.

 "So where we headed, smartass?"

Greg snickered and pulled out his phone, read something, then tucked it away again. "Corner of Belle and Piedmont, know it?"

"Yeah, there's a dive there I've gone to a couple of times to pay for information," Dixie said. "I think Byron goes on a semi-regular basis."

Byron shrugged. "People don't ask questions unless they're paying for the answers. Everyone else makes a point not to see anything. Speaking of information, take this." He thrust a small, thick manila envelope at Greg. "Your new alias. How long should I expect this to take?"

"At least a couple of hours," Greg replied. "Not more than say five, and I'll let you know if that changes. Minder can be difficult to track down even when he wants me to."

Dixie stifled a sigh. "We need to stop for caffeine if this is going to be a game of hide and seek." He lifted a hand in farewell to Byron, paused in the kitchen to nab the keys for the Camaro, and led the way down to the parking garage.

The Camaro was one of his favorites, only three years old and still as pretty as the day Byron had obtained it, dark, dark red and gleaming. He settled behind the wheel, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Traffic and law enforcement surveillance, city limits. Register car to Alias – Chris VanDyke."

"Let's see what my new alias is," Greg said as they pulled out of the garage and into traffic. "Marco Hannigan. Byron sucks at coming up with names."

"Now that's not nice," Dixie said, shooting him a quick grin before putting his attention right back on traffic. "Somewhere in the world is a very nice person named Marco Hannigan and you just hurt their feelings."

Greg rolled his eyes. "At least the ID has glasses, so that won't look weird. Marco, Marco, Marco. I don't think I look like a Marco."

"I'm sure it could be worse."

"True. It could be John Smith, which I definitely don't fit." Greg smiled crookedly, then sorted through the papers, stuffing a few things in his wallet and stowing the rest in the glove compartment. "We won't be in the bar more than a few minutes. You can wait for me on—"

"Not a chance," Dixie said. "The minute I let you out of my sight, you're gonna get in trouble."

Greg slumped in his seat, wincing slightly, so he must still be in pain despite the meds he'd taken. "I'm not the hopelessly incompetent idiot you all take me for, you know. I've managed quite well by myself for years and years. I didn't start getting my ass kicked on a regular basis until I fell in with Byron. Even Minder doesn't get me in a tenth of the trouble Byron brings down on my head."

"Fair enough, but I still ain't letting you out of my sight," Dixie replied.

When they reached the bar, he circled around the block until he found an empty space to park in that left plenty of room for getting out quick. "Lead the way."

In the end, the whole thing went so quickly that Dixie barely had a chance to scope the place. Walking slowly and stiffly up to the bar, Greg spoke in low tones to a bartender with a shaved head, one eye, and three fingers on his left hand missing. The man laughed at whatever Greg said, then slapped a slip of paper into his hand. Greg handed over a fold of cash and slipped away back toward Dixie. "Let's go."

"Yes, boss," Dixie replied as he followed Greg back to the car. "So what's that?"

"Minder never stays long in the same place, and he's never direct about where to find him. Prefers to have me bounce around a few times. Anyone else trying to do it might be able to puzzle out one or two clues, but they'd never get all three."

"We gotta do this two more times?" Dixie thumped his head against the headrest, then jabbed the key into the ignition. "This boy better be the bag of tricks everyone says, all I got to say."

"He's… Minder is special, and I don't mean that in some snide, condescending way. You've no idea what he can really do—no one knows, because if they did, he'd probably have a serial number like you."

Dixie made a face. "Then we'll be damned certain that dealing with us never comes back to haunt him. I wouldn't wish my fate on anyone." He