20. Cassidy
TWENTY
CASSIDY
The vacancy sign sputters in the muggy Louisiana night as I pull into the motel parking lot. The neon is missing a few letters, so “Paradise Inn” glows as “Para is Inn.”
Bindi is slumped beside me in the passenger seat, fast asleep.
But the moment I cut the engine she’s awake and alert, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
We’ve been driving half the night to shake any tail.
Now the only other car in the lot is a rusted pickup that might be older than me, and a motorcycle under a torn tarp.
No sign of anyone who’d mean us trouble.
Still, I keep my hand near my Glock as we climb out of the car.
A mosquito whines past my ear. I wave it off and nod for Bindi to follow me toward the motel office. She immediately notices the bulge in the back of my jeans.
“Tell me you’re not planning to kill the clerk unless he actually pulls a weapon.”
I shoot her a sideways glance. “If he pulls a weapon, I’ll compliment his professionalism. ”
She scoffs. “You’re exhausting.”
“You keep getting in the car.”
“I’m in the car because I’d be dead otherwise.”
“Exactly. You’re welcome.”
Her glare hits my back like heat off the pavement, but she still follows. Like a good fucking girl.
The motel office neon lights buzz behind a smudged window. Inside the front office, a lone desk clerk sits behind a tall desk, his face lit by the blue glow of a tiny TV. He barely glances up as we enter.
I clear my throat and slide a few bills under the window. “Room for two. One night.”
The clerk, mid-fifties with yellowed nicotine-stained fingers, takes the cash and pushes a ledger toward me without a word.
I scribble “John Miner”—not my worst alias—and don’t provide a credit card.
He doesn’t ask. The less interaction, the better.
He slides back a key attached to a plastic fob with a faded number seven on it.
One key, one room. His bloodshot eyes flick past me to Bindi for a second, then back to his TV.
I guess two haggard-looking nobodies at midnight don’t warrant any curiosity.
“Room’s around back. Park in front of it,” he mumbles. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “No amenities. Ice machine’s broke. Enjoy your stay.”
We exit the office and I roll the car around the side of the building like the guy said. The faded number on our key matches the dented door at the far end of the back wing.
Room 7. Lucky us.
I park right in front and kill the engine.
We grab what little we have—my duffel, her backpack.
“I can take the duffel,” Bindi says, reaching past me as I start to haul it from the backseat.
“Nah, I got it, Binx.” I wince mid-pull, my ribs barking in protest. Fuck. One of Anthony’s men shot at me, the bullet grazing me. I thought I was good until it ripped open while running from the cops. That and driving for ten hours really didn’t do good for the healing. Shit fucking hurts.
She catches the wince but doesn’t push it, just slings her own bag over her shoulder and follows me toward the room.
The metal key grinds in the lock before it turns. I push the door open with my foot, wary. Instinctively, I reach back to keep Bindi behind me as I step in first, hand hovering over my gun. The room’s dark until I flick the switch and a single dim lamp on the nightstand flickers to life.
I sweep my gaze across every corner. No obvious bedbugs and, more importantly, no uninvited guests lurking behind the curtains or in the bathroom.
I even nudge the bathroom door open with the muzzle of my Glock, just to be sure.
Nothing. Just a mildewed tile shower and a dripping faucet. We’re alone.
“It’s clear,” I say over my shoulder, and Bindi steps in, locking the door firmly behind us. The old door has a chain lock, and she slides it in place. Safe as it gets, I suppose.
The mattress sags in the middle and is covered with a faded floral bedspread. Bindi and I lock eyes, but her expression gives me nothing. She’s either uneasy or too fucking tired to care. There’s just one bed, no couch, not even a crusty cuck chair. Just one lopsided wooden chair by a small table.
Bindi’s gaze flicks from the one bed to me and back to the bed. “We’ll deal with that later.”
There’s no way she’s letting me sleep on the floor. She doesn’t get to shun me to the motel carpet like I’m a goddamn dog. Even if I would bark for her. I drop my duffel bag gently onto the chair, shrugging it off with care so as to not aggravate my side.
“You hungry?”
“Starving,” she admits. We haven’t eaten anything real since this morning, unless you count gas station coffee and the few protein bars we picked up at Walmart .
“Let’s see what our options are.” Rummaging past a box of ammo and a roll of cash, I pull out two Styrofoam ramen cups we’d grabbed back at Walmart—already looking half-crushed from the ride.
Beef flavor.
Bon appétit.
She takes the cups from me and checks the room. “There.” She nods toward a small microwave perched atop a mini-fridge in the corner. She peels off the plastic lids, adds water from the bathroom sink, and pops the first cup into the microwave. It whirrs to life with a strained hum.
While she’s busy with that, I sit down on the edge of the bed and toe my boots off, flexing my aching feet. They’ve been trapped in those fuckers for damn near thirty hours. Fuck, I think I could sleep for a week.
Bindi brings the first steaming cup over and hands it to me, then returns to heat the second for herself. The smell of cheap, salty broth actually makes my stomach growl, and I realize I’m hungrier than I thought.
“Thanks,” I say as I accept the ramen.
Bindi leans against the table while she waits for hers.
Arms crossed, hip cocked, backlit by flickering fluorescent motel hell-light like some kind of apocalyptic pin-up.
Her shirt clings in all the right places and rides high enough to show a sliver of bare stomach where the waistband of her jeans dips.
I shouldn’t be looking. I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this—not now, when we’re less than twenty-four hours out of total fucking chaos.
But my body doesn’t care about timing.
My body sees her and wants.
Wants her sweat, her spit, her teeth. Wants to leave marks. Wants to worship her like she’s my fucking religion.
The air between us feels heavy. I hate it—hate how she’s pretending not to see me watching her. Hate how close we are and how far apart she feels .
The microwave dings, and she moves to grab her cup. I track her every step like a dog. Every sway of her hips, every twitch of her fingers. I don’t even want the ramen anymore.
She comes back without a word and drops cross-legged onto the bed in front of me. The mattress dips beneath her weight, the sag pulling us closer together. Her knee bumps against mine, and that little contact sends a pulse straight through to my cock, where I’m already hard beneath my jeans.
I stir my noodles. Try to act normal . Though I am anything but normal.
She slurps a bite. I watch her lips part around the fork and immediately want to die. I want those lips around my aching cock while my hands fist in her red curls until she sputters and slurps every bit of spit she spills.
We eat in silence. It’s not comfortable, it’s not exactly tense either.
It’s something in between . . . something domestic and unstable.
Like we’ve done this before, a thousand lives ago, when we weren’t running.
When I could sit this close to her and not wonder if she’d ever let me touch her again.
After a few bites, she glances up and her eyes flick to my side. I shed off my jacket and you can now see the stained shirt. The look in her eyes . . . it’s one I know all too well. She’s waiting for me to admit I’m hurt.
Waiting for me to give her permission to care for me.
God, she’s so beautiful it’s offensive. All scraped-up fire and sharp edges, sitting there barefoot and tired with her thighs pressed tight and her eyes still sparking like she might slap me or kiss me.
Maybe both.
Fuck, please make it both.
I take another slurp of noodles just to buy time. Just to keep from saying something that’ll get me stabbed or kissed.
Finally, I break the silence. “We’ll rest here for a few hours, then head out first thing.
” I keep my voice neutral, businesslike.
Cold, even. If I pretend this is a mission and not a war between the part of me that wants to fuck her and the part that wants to worship her, maybe I’ll survive the night.
“Cass . . .” Her tone cuts like it always does—half warning, half plea.
Don’t be reckless. Don’t be you.
I beat her to it. “I’ve got a plan.”
She doesn’t speak, just watches me with that unreadable stare, the one that feels like she’s already caught me lying, even when I haven’t said shit yet.
Bindi lowers her cup, slow and surgical. “Are you going to share your plan with me?”
“Just trust me. I got this.” I totally don’t got this . . . but that’s another problem for a later time.
Her shoulders sink. “Okay . . .”
She’s barely eaten, just twirling her fork like the noodles offended her.
We’re both fried—running on blood and spite.
The adrenaline’s wearing off, and all the damage is setting in.
My rib’s a goddamn landmine. Every time I breathe too deep, it pulses like a warning flare. I roll it, hissing through my teeth.
Her head snaps up.
Like I told her I’m dying.
Which . . . maybe I am. A little.
“All right, that’s enough,” she says, setting her cup on the floor, and moving toward me. “Let me see.”
I wave her off with a limp flick of the wrist. “I’m fine.” I’m not fine. I’m dizzy, sweating through my shirt, and the wound in my side feels like it’s pulsing with its own heartbeat.
Bindi doesn’t dignify my bullshit with a response. She just gives me the look. Eyebrows up, lips tight, that tilt of her head like I’m a toddler about to do something monumentally stupid.