22. Bindi
TWENTY-TWO
BINDI
I wake slowly, consciousness drifting up like a drunk raccoon crawling out of a trash bin. The first thing I feel is heat radiating against my back. Cassidy’s arm is draped heavy over my waist, and for a second, I let myself sink into the warmth.
My eyes are still closed, but I’m painfully aware of everything—the scratchy motel sheets tangled around my legs, the dull ache in my body from last night’s . . . activities, and the steady rise and fall of Cassidy’s chest against me.
God. What the hell have I done?
In the dim early light bleeding through the curtains, reality clicks into place. I’m lying here, skin to skin, with the man who has turned my life upside down. The man I should probably hate. And yet, here I am, cocooned in his arms, feeling safer than I have any right to.
My heart does a confused little flip as I carefully lift Cassidy’s heavy arm off my waist. The movement exposes a cooler patch of air on my sweat-damp skin, making me shiver. I inch toward the edge of the bed .
I bite back a groan that’s equal parts soreness and something far more embarrassing: pleasure. Because damn it, as furious as I am, as scared and uncertain and totally not okay with everything as I am, a part of me is still humming from last night.
Focus, Bindi. Get it together.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to scrub away the fog of sleep and the persistent flashbacks of Cassidy’s hands on me, his mouth, the low growl of my name in the dark . . .
Great, now my face is burning and I’m wide awake.
Cassidy Reyes, ruiner of plans, destroyer of composure, and now apparently a sex tornado responsible for turning me into a walking bruise with post-orgasmic brain fog.
I glance over my shoulder. Cassidy is still out cold, lying on his back now that I’ve moved, one arm thrown above his head on the pillow.
In the weak morning light, with his features relaxed, he looks younger.
Not exactly innocent—Cassidy could never look truly innocent—but softer, maybe.
The perpetual storm in his expression has quieted in sleep.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw, and I notice a faint bruise on his cheekbone.
He’s just . . . sleeping. Shirtless. Glorious.
I hate him.
Because underneath the murderous tendencies and catastrophic poor decisions, there’s still him—the boy who once held my hand under a highway overpass and promised he’d never leave me.
I sigh, then wince, because apparently, even sighing uses a muscle that now feels thoroughly wrecked.
Perfect.
He shifts beside me, lashes fluttering, brow twitching, until his eyes finally crack open.
“Morning,” I manage to say. My voice comes out scratchy, like I swallowed sandpaper. I clear my throat and try again. “Sleep okay? ”
Cassidy blinks, as if coming back from some distant place. “Yeah. You?”
I stare at him, not sure how to answer that loaded question.
Sure, I slept . . . that blissful kind of unconsciousness that follows total physical exhaustion.
But okay? That’s a different story. I have a feeling he knows that, because his eyes flick away from mine and he shifts, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
The sheet pools at his waist, revealing the broad expanse of his back.
In the gray morning light, I trace the scars that crisscross his tan skin with my eyes—old marks, pale against the newer bruises from recent days.
He has tattoos everywhere—black ink crawling over his spine, across his ribs, and creeping down his arms and shoulders like war paint.
Some are jagged and angry, like they were done in a garage with a dirty needle.
Others are clean. Names in script. A cross.
A wolf baring its teeth over his right shoulder blade.
The words ride or rot are inked low across his ribs, half-hidden by the waistband of his underwear.
Then there are the scars—thin, pale lines that run through the tattoos as well as the mark from a bullet graze on his side. There are ghosts of violence on every inch of him.
He winces as he bends, his hand going instinctively to the spot just above his left hip. I know that wound—I cleaned it. I watched him flinch while pretending not to care.
I should say something, something casual.
Something not loaded with sex or shame or lingering heat from the night before.
But my brain’s still buffering, caught somewhere between Cassidy Reyes ate your cunt like a fucking grapefruit and you might actually let him do it again if he so much as glances in your direction .
Meanwhile, he’s pulling on his jeans as I try not to watch. I really, really do, but that V of his hips is an act of aggression, and I’m not strong enough to walk away from a war crime.
His abs flex as he zips up. They’re still defined, even through the bruising .
I remember how he groaned when I came undone on his tongue. I remember everything.
The way my body— Cut it out, Bindi.
Cassidy glances down at his side. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.” He thinks that’s the reason I’m staring.
Oh, thank god.
I clutch the sheet tighter around myself and stand up, making sure it’s wrapped like a makeshift toga. My legs feel a bit like jelly as I step over to him.
He’s holding my jeans and tank top in his hands. I didn’t think he had any awkward morning-after nervousness in him, but maybe he’s as uncertain as I am about how to act now.
“I figured you’d want these,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
I reach for the clothes, and for a bizarre, suspended second we’re doing this weird juggling thing where I’m trying to take them and he’s trying not to touch my bare skin with the sheet precariously held up . . .
We almost drop the whole pile.
A breathy, nervous laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Cassidy’s lips quirk into the barest hint of a smile.
Our eyes meet, and for once, it’s not so tense.
God, why is this so painfully awkward? He literally saw me naked last night.
More than that, there’s practically no inch of me he hasn’t touched.
Yet here we are, acting like two teenagers who don’t know where to look.
“Thanks,” I mumble, finally taking my clothes from his hands.
Our fingers brush in the exchange, and I feel that little spark, the same one that ignited between us a dozen times last night.
My traitorous pulse quickens so I pull the clothes to my chest and step back.
I need to get dressed, get my head on straight.
Being half-naked around Cassidy is not helping me regain my equilibrium.
I retreat a few steps, turning my back to him for some semblance of privacy, and drop the sheet. My skin prickles, aware that his eyes might be on my bare back. Maybe they’re not; maybe he’s politely looking away. I kind of hope he isn’t.
God, I’m a mess.
I run a hand through my hair, not that it helps. I probably look like a raccoon who just barely survived a fucking tornado. Great. I throw it up in a bun and pull some strands down.
Messy is cute, right?
“How’s the side?” I nod toward him, pulling on my second boot.
Cassidy lifts the cloth to inspect the wound. “I’ll live,” he says. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Thanks.”
I don’t know what he’s thanking me for . . . the amateur first aid or . . . more. Maybe just for not freaking out on him this morning. “Sure,” I reply softly.
“We should probably get going.”
Cassidy nods, running a hand through his unruly dark hair. It’s gotten a bit longer than what I remember him liking his length to be as teenagers. I shove aside the thought that it looks good like that. Not the time, Bindi.
“We’ll head out in five. Grab anything that’s yours.”
Cassidy has finished lacing up his boots and is shrugging on his jacket as he catches my eye and jerks his chin toward the door. “Ready?”
I swallow the sudden lump of anxiety in my throat and nod. “Ready.”
Cassidy steps out first, and I follow, squinting at the blast of morning sun. I catch up to him as he reaches the passenger side of the car. His body suddenly goes tense beside me. I follow his gaze to the ground and see it immediately—a dark, greasy puddle at the front tire.
The rubber’s shredded. Flattened.
Slashed.
We both stare for a second and my brain does the thing where it reboots mid-panic.
When the fuck ?
How the fuck?
Who the actual fuck?
The car tilts slightly where the tire’s gone flat.
Cassidy kneels down, examining the ruined tire with a frown. I stand guard, or maybe just stand there uselessly, eyes scanning the parking lot and motel for any movement. Someone definitely wants to keep us here.
“Yeah. She’s done for,” he says.
I groan. “Can’t we just steal another car?”
“We could. But I kind of liked this shitty Toyota. Plus, if another gets reported stolen . . . it’s just a trail, Binx.”
A flicker of motion draws my eye. The office door opens, and a guy around our age pops outside, looking like the clerk from last night. His greasy brown hair is slicked back, wearing a sweat-stained motel polo.
“Trouble with your car?” the stranger calls out.
“Looks like a flat. We must have run over something on the road last night.”
“That so? Shame. Roads around here can be nasty—full of sharp things that can just . . . cut right through rubber.” He makes a little slicing gesture with his hand, eyes pinned on Cassidy now.
Okay . . . so this guy is fucking weird .
My forced smile is turning into a grimace as I shoot a quick glance at Cassidy. His head is still bent toward the tire, but I can see the muscle feathering in his jaw, the way his shoulders rise and fall with measured breaths. He’s keeping a lid on it. For now.
I turn back to the clerk, channeling every ounce of my inner sass. “Well, thanks for the heads-up. We’ll be sure to be more careful.” I step sideways a bit, subtly blocking his line of sight to Cassidy, who stands up slowly behind me.
His gaze travels up and down my body in a way that makes me want to either punch him or crawl out of my skin. “ You folks planning to stick around a bit, then? Not going anywhere soon, I take it.”
Before I can answer, Cassidy’s hand comes to rest at the small of my back.
The touch is light, but it startles me. He moves me gently aside, stepping forward to confront Henry—according to his name badge.
I can almost physically feel the waves of anger rolling off Cassidy now, though he’s eerily calm on the surface.
“We’ll be out of here as soon as I change the tire,” Cassidy says.
“Sure, sure. I’d be happy to lend a hand.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back slightly.
“Look, we appreciate the offer, but we’ll be fine. We were actually just going to head to the diner down the road then the hardware store to grab some stuff to fix it.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. For a slimy guy, he’s not entirely stupid. But he plasters on that look of fake hospitality again. “Sure thing. Diner’s just a minute’s walk that way.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “You two enjoy a nice breakfast.”
Cass grabs my hand, threading his fingers in mine, and possessively pulls me toward the road. I’m more than happy to follow.
I feel his eyes on us until we round the corner of the motel. Only then do I let out a shaky breath. My hand is still on Cassidy’s arm from when I tried to hold him back. I realize I’m gripping him pretty hard—my nails are digging into his jacket sleeve—so I force my fingers to unclench.
Cassidy is simmering, his fists flexing at his sides, but he says nothing.
For a few minutes, neither do I. My mind races with what-ifs and what’s-next. We need to get the hell out of here, obviously. Replace the tire and go.
The diner comes into view—an old-fashioned looking place with a big neon sign that simply says “DINER” and a few pickup trucks parked out front. It’s the kind of joint that probably serves strong coffee and greasy bacon. Under other circumstances, I might find it charming.
Cassidy breaks the silence as we hit the curb. “I should’ve gutted him.”
“Jesus, Cass?—”
“Back there. That little freak—the way he looked at you. I should’ve put a fucking bullet in his mouth for it.”
“Fucking hell . . .” I shake my head, trying to tamp down the way my heart stutters at that. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed. This is me relaxed. You wanna see the other version?” He steps into me, his chest rising and falling, anger rolling off of him in waves.
“I’m not saying he wasn’t a creep, but you’ve got enough corpses to worry about. And something tells me adding to the body count isn’t exactly a smart strategy right now.”
Cass doesn’t respond, just opens the door to the diner with a little too much force, the bell above it clanging instead of chiming.
“We’ll eat quickly, then I’ll handle the tire. We’ll be out of town within the hour.”