19. Bindi
NINETEEN
BINDI
We’ve been driving for hours, Cassidy’s arm slung over the top of the wheel, so casually.
He taps the steering wheel in rhythm with some beat in his head, humming under his breath, with his window cracked, the wind blowing through just enough to ruffle his shaggy black hair.
He’s . . . buzzing with energy that I wish I could say I was also feeling.
But instead, I’m curled in the passenger seat with my legs pulled under me, thighs sticking to the cloth seats because the air conditioner is that shitty in this beat-up sedan.
Jordyn’s shirt drapes past my hips, still damp from sweat and dirt from scaling a high-rise building.
I’ve got my boots on, though, that counts for something.
I might be half feral, half naked, and entirely out of my depth, but at least I have shoes.
Neither of us has said much since we left Miami. He drove while I stared out the window.
I thought about running, thought about throwing myself into oncoming traffic. Thought about kissing him.
All equally terrible ideas .
“We should stop. Hit Walmart or something,” he says, and after a few more miles, he pulls off the highway, somewhere near Macclenny, Florida, the large blue and yellow sign guiding us.
“We don’t have any money.”
He jerks his chin toward the backseat. “Grab the bag.”
I twist around and drag the duffel into my lap.
I unzip it and start digging. The contents are exactly what you’d expect from a man like Cassidy—a pistol in a cracked, leather holster, a hunting knife wrapped in a T-shirt, an old motel key card, some protein bars, two rumpled shirts, and . . . an envelope.
I pull it out, swiping my thumb beneath the flap. It’s not full, but there’s enough twenties and tens and a few fives rubber-banded together. Probably totalling a few hundred.
I hold it up. “Where the hell did this come from?”
He shrugs, eyes on the road as he pulls into the parking lot. “Miami didn’t send us off empty-handed.”
My eyebrows lift. “You robbed someone back there?”
“Technically, I liberated it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And I can’t believe you didn’t notice anything missing.”
My eyes narrow. “You son of a?—”
“What? I needed your passport and saw a couple hundred lying there so I took that too.”
I roll my eyes but shove the envelope into my boot because practicality trumps morality. We need clothes—to not look like we crawled out of a grave.
Cassidy leans over the console and starts to dig in the duffel back in my lap.
“Hey! Personal space!” I grumble, jerking the bag away from my body so he can get a better look at the contents inside.
“That’s cute.” He smirks, grabbing a T-shirt from the bag before pulling the shirt he has on over his head, revealing bruises, smears of blood, and way too much skin.
I look away immediately, but it’s too late.
I already saw the V-line, the abs, the delicious dark ink covering his chest and moving down his ribs.
“Do you like what you see?”
“You’re disgusting.” I shove the duffel into the back seat.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m sweaty,” I snap, facing the window. “Big difference.”
He chuckles as he pulls the new shirt over his head, dragging it down as slowly as possible. Asshole.
Then he twists in his seat and grabs a battered denim jacket from the back. With a grunt, he shrugs into it.
“It’s July. Do you really think you’re less suspicious in a denim jacket?” I ask, watching him from the corner of my eye.
“Better than being covered in blood and people growing suspicious of that.”
I snort and push open the car door.
The parking lot asphalt radiates heat in wavy lines.
I slam the car door and start toward the store and Cassidy falls in step a half-pace behind me.
I can feel him there, a big dark presence at my back, eyes sweeping over the lot.
His gaze jumps from the idling pickup by the entrance to a couple arguing near their trunk. Always scanning for threats.
After last night, I can’t even call it paranoia.
He reaches out like he’s about to place a hand on my lower back to guide me or steady me—I don’t know which. I speed up a step, and his hand falls away. I’m not some lost little lamb he needs to herd.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I mutter over my shoulder.
“Not babysitting. Just making sure you don’t bolt and leave me in aisle five next to the discount tuna.”
“Tempting,” I say, pushing through the automatic doors. “But I hate canned fish. ”
The sliding doors whoosh open and a blast of over-conditioned air smacks into me. I suppress a shiver as goosebumps rise on my sweaty arms.
A tired-looking woman in a blue vest by the carts gives us the once-over. “Welcome to Walmart,” she says, though it sounds more like a question. I nod vaguely and steer toward the clothing section, hoping to make this trip as quick and painless as possible.
I have no idea where we’re going, and part of me doesn’t think Cassidy knows either.
If we were heading toward Canada we would have stayed on I-95 and rode it up the entire way.
But he took back roads instead and I don’t think he realizes that we are now headed west. Should I correct him?
I mean, what does it matter where we’re going?
It’s only a matter of time before Anthony, or the FBI, find us, right?
So, I should just make the most out of this trip while it lasts.
The store is mercifully half-empty at this hour—just a few moms with screaming toddlers and an old guy perusing fishing lures in sporting goods. Everything is jarringly normal.
For a second, I just stand there at the clothing rack, fingers hovering over the different sizes, because my brain can’t compute what I’m doing. Less than twelve hours ago, I was sprinting for my life. A hysterical little laugh tries to bubble up in my throat, but I choke it down. Focus.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cassidy loitering near a display of bargain sundresses, arms folded, trying to look inconspicuous and failing.
An exhausted mother flipping through clearance tank tops notices him and promptly steers her toddler the other way.
Can’t blame her—he looks like a fucking creep.
Don’t worry, lady, he’s only a creep for me . I grit my teeth and yank a pair of jeans off the rack at random.
Without a word, Cassidy tilts his head toward the men’s section. I trail after him a few paces, not wanting to be far apart. He zeroes in on a rack of men’s T-shirts and grabs one in his size. Then grabs a pair of dark jeans from a shelf.
As he reaches for the jeans, the denim jacket pulls tight across his shoulder and I spot a blotch of red seeping through his shirt on his left side.
So he didn’t get out of Miami completely unscathed after all.
Part of me feels a sharp pinch of worry. He could be seriously hurt and I wouldn’t even know, because he sure as hell wouldn’t tell me. Another part of me whispers: serves him right .
“You’re bleeding,” I say flatly.
“It’s nothing.”
“Yeah, because that’s a healthy color to be oozing. Actually, I don’t think anything oozing out of your body is . . . normal.”
He snorts. “I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”
Cassidy rolls his eyes, adds a box of bandages and a small bottle of painkillers to our cart, and continues to push forward.
Every so often his hand drifts toward that injured side, though he refuses to acknowledge the pain.
Typical man. They can have a hole in their side and be perfectly fine .
. . but when they have a sore throat you’re rubbing their head and feeding them chicken noodle soup.
“Let me look at it when we get back to the car.”
“You offering to play nurse?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get excited. I just don’t want you bleeding out all over the car.”
“You’d miss me.”
“I’d miss the car.”
I clutch my new clothes and veer toward the bathrooms at the front of the store. My skin is crawling with dried sweat and I know I can’t shower until we get to the hotel. “I’m going to clean up,” I say, not really caring if Cassidy agrees. He just grunts and trails behind me to the restroom area.
I turn the faucet on and splash water on my face, scrubbing at the dried blood.
The water runs pink into the basin. I furiously pump the soap dispenser until I get a puddle of thin pink liquid in my palm and scrub harder.
The soap smells like artificial cherry blossoms, and I scrub until my skin is raw and the only stains left are faint, scattered freckles of trauma I can’t scrub away.
There’s a fresh purple bruise on my shoulder and a small cut on my elbow that I didn’t even realize I had. I rinse it gingerly, sucking a breath through my teeth as the water stings. It’s shallow—nothing requiring more than a Band-Aid.
I grip the sides of the sink until my knuckles go white. Then my eyes drift to the bathroom door, as if I can see through it to where he’s waiting. I imagine him pacing, refusing to leave his post.
A hollow laugh escapes me before I clamp it down.
What a mess. I’m standing here, half-filthy, in a Walmart bathroom in Nowheresville, Florida, having a damn existential crisis because my would-be knight is more dragon than knight.
And the worst part is, I’m still drawn to him.
I’m furious and frightened and completely drawn to him.
Maybe I really did lose my mind back in Miami.
I need to get a grip. I have to keep going, at least until I’m safe. Whatever safe even means now.
Step one: stop looking like a horror show extra.
With a deep breath, I step into one of the stalls to change.
After dressing in the new clothes, I almost feel human again.
The jeans are a little loose at the waist, but they’ll do, and the black T-shirt is blessedly clean and soft against my skin.
I lace up my boots again and run wet fingers through my hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it.