17. Cassidy #2
We’re the storm that crashes into places like this. We don’t get vanilla air freshener and picture frames. We get eviction notices and blood in the bathtub. We get fire and fallout.
And still, I feel it—something sharp in my ribs when I look at that photo. Not jealousy, exactly. More like . . . grief for a life we never had a shot at. Bindi deserves that, not this mess I dragged her back into.
Bindi’s fingers brush my arm, pulling me back to the present, and I tear my eyes from the photo, forcing the ghosts to recede.
“Focus, asshole. We need to go!”
I know she doesn’t mean it, but she’s right, we need to get a move on.
We pass a dining table adorned with a vase of wilting lilies, a toy fire truck abandoned near the hallway entrance.
At the door, I carefully undo the chain and deadbolt. The soft snick of metal seems thunderous in the silence. I hold my breath, but no alarm comes from within the apartment—whoever lives here remains blissfully asleep, or is already at work. Thank God.
I ease the door open, and we slip out into the corridor, silently closing it behind us.
The hallway is empty and dim, illuminated by tasteful sconces casting a golden light on expensive wallpaper.
The thick carpet beneath our feet swallows the sound of our footsteps.
We put a few yards between us and the apartment we invaded, then pause.
Bindi’s eyes meet mine, both of us listening. Faintly, from the hallway around the corner, comes the echo of pounding footsteps. “Clear on nineteen!” Fuck, they’re already searching the floors below Jordyn’s apartment.
Bindi grips my arm, her voice barely a whisper. “Stairs or elevator?”
My pulse thuds. The elevator bank is just ahead—gleaming chrome doors that could whoosh us to the lobby in seconds. But if they’ve alerted someone in the lobby or locked it down, we’d be trapped. The stairwell is a sure escape route, if we can stay ahead of them.
“Stairs,” I whisper. She nods—no argument. She trusts my gut.
Good girl.
We dart to the heavy door marked Exit and push through into the stairwell. Bright fluorescent lights flicker over concrete walls and metal railings. We hesitate for half a heartbeat, peering upward, then downward.
The stairwell amplifies every sound. Even with our best efforts, our footfalls drum on the metal steps. Down and down we go—a dizzying spiral. Floors blur past us. We just have to make it to the ground before they catch us.
Two flights below, Bindi nearly slips on a turn. I grab her waist to steady her.
“You good?”
She nods once, fierce and focused. God, she’s stunning when she’s flushed. I file that away for later.
Suddenly, the door above us—maybe one floor up—slams open. “Suspects spotted—stairwell!” a cop barks, the words ricocheting off the cinder block walls.
“Go!” I hiss, and we launch ourselves down faster. All pretense of stealth is gone. Our steps clatter and echo; we’re leaping down half a flight at a time.
A gunshot cracks behind us, the blast magnified tenfold in the stairwell’s acoustics.
Another shot.
Chips of concrete rain down from the wall just behind us. I flinch, throwing an arm around Bindi as if I could shield her with my body.
Don’t die now, Firefly.
She yelps, more in anger than fear, and we both increase our pace. My lungs burn, my injured shoulder screams, but I don’t dare slow.
Down. Down. Down.
We tear down flight after flight; I lose count in the panic. The shouts above grow louder—our pursuers are closing in despite our head start.
There. I catch a glimpse of a heavy metal door below with a glowing Exit sign—the ground level. We barrel toward it.
I ram the door with my shoulder, it bursts open, and we spill out into a narrow back alley. The heavy door swings shut behind us with a clang, cutting off the echo of footsteps and shouts.
The alley is dim, lit only by a single flickering street lamp at the far end. The air is thick and hot out here, heavy with the smells of garbage and distant ocean brine. For a second we just breathe, chests heaving.
Bindi grabs my arm, pulling me deeper into the shadows beside a hulking dumpster.
We press our backs against the brick wall, out of the line of sight from the door.
A second later, the door thunders open again and two dark figures spill out, guns drawn.
I tense, but they sprint the other way down the alley, toward the brighter street, not seeing us concealed in the gloom.
They think we kept running.
I risk a peek around the dumpster. The cops barrel toward the street, radios blaring, calling for backup. They don’t even glance our way. For now, we’re alone. A surge of relief so intense I could cry wells up inside me.
Bindi slumps against the wall, sliding down to a crouch. I drop beside her. In the faint light, her face is damp with sweat and smeared with grime, hair stuck to her cheeks.
She’s never looked more beautiful to me.
My heart is thundering, and not just from exertion.
Invincible—we’re invincible. That’s what we used to tell ourselves when we were kids outrunning the law and anyone who tried to hurt us.
In this moment, feeling the adrenaline coursing hot and electric through my veins, I almost believe it. I’m invincible. We are . . . together .
“Come on,” I say softly. “We’re not done yet.”
We move, slipping down the alley, past busted crates and broken light poles, until we stumble out onto an empty side street.
I stumble upon an old Camry—windows cracked and sun-faded red paint, dull as dried blood.
Like it’s been forgotten. And inside—bless the stupid bastard—the keys dangle from the ignition like a gift from God.
In reality, he’s probably just a sorry bastard who forgot something and went to grab it real quick.
“I’ll drive.”
Bindi doesn’t argue.
I yank open the door and we pile in. The interior reeks of old smoke and mildew, like the car’s been baking in its own filth for years. I toss the bag in the back and drop into the driver’s seat, fingers trembling as I grip the wheel before twisting the key.
The engine roars to life.
I peel out, tires screaming, fishtailing off the curb and into the street. The back end jerks, catches, and then we’re flying, cutting through the city like a bat out of hell.
Next to me, Bindi’s curled up tight, arms hugging her knees, pressed against the door like she wants to melt into it.
Jordyn’s oversized T-shirt hit at just the right length and it’s hard for me not to stare at her creamy thighs.
She has a tattoo on her left thigh—snakes and flowers curled in each other. I wonder if she has any other tattoos.
Guess I’ll find out soon.
Her eyes are locked on the side mirror like she expects red-and-blue lights to crawl up behind us any second.
And my dick is hard. What the fuck?
I shouldn’t be this turned on. Not now. Not after that. Not after almost dying.
Maybe I should see a fucking shrink, if that’s what gets it up.
I’ve never fucked anyone.
Not once.
Not because I couldn’t—God knows I had chances. Girls who liked the look in my eye or the way I didn’t talk. Girls who wanted the violence and the “bad boy” persona. Who wanted to feel owned for a night.
But none of them were her.
And I wasn’t gonna waste it.
Stupid, right? A guy like me, saving something.
Saving this.
For her.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel—white-knuckled, jaw locked. The car’s flying down backstreets, tires screeching at every turn and she’s still pressed against the door like she wants to throw herself out. Still shaking.
Then she snaps.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she explodes. “You are such a fucking idiot, Cassidy!”
“You’re welcome,” I say, voice low, teeth clenched.
“Welcome?! You almost got both of us fucking killed!”
“I wasn’t gonna let them cuff me in front of you like some fucking animal. Wasn’t gonna let them take me.”
“I could’ve talked us out of it! They’re cops, Cassidy, not hit men!”
I laugh. “You think a badge makes them safe? They weren’t here to read me my rights, Bindi. They were here to make sure I didn’t leave breathing. They’re dirty fucking cops.”
Her hand cracks across my face.
My cheek stings. My cock twitches.
I don’t flinch, don’t slow down. I love this side of her—fire and venom and fury. I want to bottle it. I want to bite it.
Her jaw tightens and her chest rises and falls too fast. Her thighs are still clenched. Is she as turned on as I am ?
“You think you saved me? You think that makes you the hero?”
“No. I think it makes me yours.”
That shuts her up and I feel it—the shift.
Because she hates me.
And she wants me.
“You with me, Firefly?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.
She doesn’t answer.
The wind howls through the cracked window. Her hair whips wildly across her face, catching on her lip. She blinks hard, her jaw clenched like she’s trying not to scream.
Then finally— finally —her voice slips through the static, quiet and cracked like a snapped string. “You’re insane.”
“I don’t need to be sane. I just need to be with you.” I reach across the console and take her hand. She doesn’t move at first. Just stares at it—at me. Like she’s waiting for it to hurt.
“You and me.”
Her lips barely move. “Me and you.”
I squeeze her hand.
She hesitates, then her fingers curl around mine.