23. Bindi
TWENTY-THREE
BINDI
A lone waitress in her fifties and tired eyes gives us a once-over as we slide into a booth at the far end of the diner. Cassidy made a beeline here, probably because it’s got a view of both the front door and the emergency exit in the back.
It’s exactly what you expect: faded red vinyl booths, a long counter with swivel stools that don’t move, and checkered linoleum floor that looks like it could use a fresh coat of wax.
A couple of older gentlemen in trucker caps occupy one booth and a few more patrons are up at the bar sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.
I pick up a laminated menu as the waitress brings us two mugs and a carafe of coffee.
When I look up from the menu I see Cass is doing that weird thing again where he stares through things.
He used to do it a lot as kids. Most of the time he was processing something in his own head and if I interrupted him, he would usually shove me off.
His hand rests around the mug I just filled and put two sugar packets in for him.
If he bitches about the way I made his coffee then he should have fucking said something instead of being a goddamn statue.
I blow on my own coffee and take a careful sip. It’s hot enough to sear my tongue and bitter enough to strip paint off a wall. Just how I like it.
Now that we’re sitting, not immediately running or fighting or .
. . tangled up in each other’s arms, all the emotions I’ve been holding at bay threaten to spill over.
The silence between us is awkward and I want to fill it, to drown out my own thoughts by any means necessary.
And since the diner’s old jukebox in the corner isn’t doing the job, I resort to chatter.
“Well. I’d give last night a solid five stars. Accommodations were a little drab, service was . . . enthusiastic, but the company was decent . . . surprisingly.”
Cassidy’s head lifts and I raise my eyebrows over my mug. It’s a joke. Maybe. Probably. He looks like he’s not sure whether to kiss me or slam me into the booth and fuck the sarcasm out of me.
He can do both and I’d probably let him to be honest.
“Decent, huh?”
“Maybe even pretty decent. Moments of excellence. Would recommend it. Might leave a Yelp review if we survive the week,” I say with a sly smile.
His dark eyes flicker with heat as he realizes I’m referring to the orgasm that left me boneless and soaked and stupid for him. How his tongue was on me like he was starving. The way he made me feel something other than fear for the first time in days.
He coughs lightly, looking away for a second.
Cassidy never blushes, but something about me bringing it up in public knocks him off balance just enough.
“Let’s get something straight. I will never put my mouth on another woman. I could have a hundred chances—I wouldn’t take one. I know exactly how you taste now, and I want to die with it still on my tongue,” he rasps, eyes locked on mine.
My stomach twists, and my thighs clench under the table.
“And if you keep reviewing my performance in this goddamn diner, Firefly, I’ll remind you what those moans sound like. You’ll be loud enough that the fucker in the kitchen will need a damn cigarette after.”
My pulse spikes and I nearly choke on my coffee. My brain short circuits somewhere between that’s unhinged and why is that hot.
His hand flexes around the coffee mug, finally lifting it to take a sip. I watch him over the rim of my own cup as I try to process the threat . . . or promise . . .
His gaze drifts down to the dark liquid in front of him.
Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on the table and tilt my head, attempting to meet his eyes. “Earth to Cassidy. You can’t just say something like that, then zone out. It’s fucking weird.”
He blinks and looks up. “I don’t like when you call me Cassidy.”
“I don’t like when you ignore me.” I attempt a smile, but it fades quickly when he doesn’t respond. Whatever’s going on in his head, he slams the vault door shut before I can peek through the cracks. I attempt a smile anyway, but it doesn’t stick. It fades quickly, like the rest of my patience.
The waitress slides by and drops two identical plates on the table—eggs, bacon, and some sad toast. Guess she doesn’t take orders. Or maybe she just looked at us and decided for us. Fine, I’m not picky. Cassidy doesn’t even blink. He just picks up his fork and begins to eat his breakfast.
“I’m here. Just thinking about our next steps.”
I pick up a piece of toast and tear off the corner with my teeth. “We have a plan: fix the tire and get the hell out. Simple.”
He huffs. A sound that’s almost a laugh and almost a scoff but not quite either. Then he drowns his eggs in ketchup like a fucking menace. The red pools across his plate like blood, and I make a face.
“You’re an animal.”
He shrugs. “To each their own.” He reaches over, grabbing the hot sauce and slapping some of that for good measure.
I grumble, “God, watching you eat is a hate crime.”
“You didn’t seem to hate the way I ate your cunt last night,” he says without looking up.
My stomach flips. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, his breath in my ear, the way he murmured my name like a curse. And now he’s talking about it between mouthfuls of eggs.
“I’m not going to talk about last night over a plate of bacon,” I say flatly.
“Fine, but you were the one who started reviewing me first . . . We’ll talk about it after,” he says, swallowing.
“After what?”
He finally looks at me again. Hungry. Angry. Possessive. “After I fix the tire. After we leave this place. After I make sure that little shit in the lobby never looks at you again.”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth.
“You’re still thinking about that guy?”
“I never stopped. I haven’t stopped thinking about him since he opened his mouth.”
I drop my fork, appetite gone. “Cass . . .”
“He looked at you like you were up for sale. Like he could just wait until I was out of the picture.”
My skin crawls. “That’s a leap?—”
“No, that’s a guarantee. I know that look—I used to have that look. And I know exactly what kind of man he is.”
There’s a long, terrible silence between us. His breathing is steady, but I can tell he’s barely holding it together. Whatever restraint he had is hanging by a thread, and I don’t know if I want to cut it or protect it.
“I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not ever again.”
Something inside me cracks at the honesty in his voice, at the desperation he’s trying to bury.
“You’re not going to lose me. But you can’t go nuclear every time someone looks at me wrong.”
His eyes narrow. “Watch me.”
After breakfast, and a painfully possessive trip to the auto shop for a new tire, we’re back at the motel. I say possessive, because Cassidy refused to let go of my hand the entire time.
And when the cashier gave him a weird look for asking me to grab his wallet from his back pocket—because he “couldn’t reach” with his hand glued to mine, I swear I heard him growl. An actual, low-throated, caveman-style growl.
It would’ve been hot if it wasn’t so mortifying. Okay. It was still hot. But don’t tell him that.
Now, we’re back at the motel, and Cassidy’s crouched beside the Toyota with his sleeves shoved up and sweat soaking through the back of his shirt.
One hand braces the jack while the other yanks at a rusted lug nut like he’s trying to rip its soul out.
His tattoos ripple with each movement, all black lines and messy, violent ink work.
He curses under his breath, “Fucking bullshit . . .”
I’m supervising. Obviously.
Which is to say, I’m sitting on the trunk, sipping lukewarm soda, doing my best not to stare at the way his muscles flex every time he moves.
But I fail. Hard. Cassidy Reyes, once the lanky, reckless boy who stole my heart in silence, has somehow become this—scarred, built, and so fucking dangerous.
God help me, I want to sink my teeth into him.
I always thought he was cute, even back then. Puppy love, sure. First crush stuff, absolutely. But this? This is a whole different beast. I didn’t know he’d grow up into someone that looked like this.
And he catches me looking, because of course he does.
“You gonna just sit there and look pretty, or you planning on being useful?” he asks, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Pretty’s exhausting enough.”
He grins, barely—just a flash of teeth—then goes back to work, muttering something under his breath.
I sip my soda. “So, a motorcycle club? Sounds like a great crowd.”
“You’d honestly probably love Deadman’s. Your bitey little attitude would win you some atta boys. The whole crew is a whole lotta parolees with zero impulse control.”
“So . . . How long were you actually with them?”
Cass doesn’t answer right away, just keeps working. His forearms flex as he tightens something under the hood.
“Six years, off and on, running their shit.”
“Shit being?”
He shrugs. “Whatever they needed. Guns. Drops. Money runs. Muscle. Sometimes just watching doors. I was good at going unnoticed.”
That tracks. Cassidy’s the kind of guy who can melt into shadows when he wants to. Until he doesn’t.
“Did you . . . like it?”
“Parts of it.” He straightens and stretches his back with a wince. “They fed me. Paid me. Taught me things. Half of them were pieces of shit, yeah, but some of them . . . they looked out for me.”
Another beat. Then, softer, he says, “There was this one guy. Jimmy.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah?”
Cass leans against the front of the car, wiping his hands off on a rag.
“He ran a bar about three hours east of the main clubhouse—Arkansas back road kinda place. Big guy. Sounded like he swallowed gravel and tobacco. He didn’t talk down to me like I was some stray.
Used to say I had ‘killer eyes.’ Said that made me useful. ”
There’s a flicker of something warm in his expression. Not quite a smile, a ghost of it.
“Let me crash in his office when I had been working for twenty hours straight and still needed to drive another five back to the club.”
“He sounds charming.”
“He was. In a mean, almost-got-shot-twice-a-week kind of way. But he treated me better than most of my foster dads ever did.” He exhales, shaking his head.
“Do you want to go back to them? Instead of us running to wherever the hell we’re going.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because everything I did back then was about getting the money to run. To get us out. That crew? That life? It wasn’t for me. It was just a means to an end.”
There’s a long pause, my chest tight, pulse thudding in my ears. Because he was working for a gang to pay off a debt that only existed because of me.
Because my foster father tried to rape me, and Cassidy did what no one else ever would . . . he stepped in. He fought. He killed . He told me to run, and he stayed behind to face the fallout.
He stands between my knees, hands braced on either side of my hips against the car. His head’s tilted down, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded with that wild, unblinking look he gets when he’s completely locked in on me.
I shouldn’t let this happen. I should say something, push him back. Breathe, Bindi.
But my heart’s slamming against my ribs, and my thighs are tightening around his hips like they’ve got a mind of their own. I don’t remember how to stop wanting him.
His calloused fingers skim the side of my thigh, and he leans in, his lips parting.
“Well, now . . . Ain’t that domestic,” a greasy drawl cuts through the air.
My whole body goes rigid.
Cassidy steps back instantly, positioning himself between me and the voice.
“My daddy was right about you. Said you were some hot tail. He liked redheads—always wanted to keep one for himself,” the hotel clerk says.
My stomach lurches. Cassidy’s entire body stiffens.
“What did you just say?”
“Just sayin’ . . . If Daddy were still here, he’d’ve brought you home to meet me and my brother. We could’ve all shared”
“Cass . . . What the hell is he talking about?”
But Cassidy doesn’t answer.
“Yeah, pretty boy. I think your girl here needs a real man . . .”
Cassidy isn’t in front of me anymore.
He’s already moving, sprinting, across the gravel, tire iron in hand.
“Cass—” I choke, but it’s already too late.
He’s already across the gravel before the clerk finishes his sentence.
CRACK
The sound of metal on bone is wet and ugly.
The clerk’s face goes slack as his body drops like a bag of meat to the gravel. Blood has sprayed across his jeans, the tire, the side of the car. Splatter stains his face, a red mist over the bridge of his nose and his jaw.
The tire iron slips from his hand and clatters to the pavement.
Silence.
Cassidy’s chest heaves. His hands are fists. His eyes are . . . unrecognizable.
“He knew. He was gonna hurt you, too. Why, Bindi? Why do these sick fucks always want to hurt you?”
I don’t know if I want to scream or sob or throw up. My legs won’t move. My brain’s static, just white noise and blood.
Cassidy stares down at the body, then spits. “He deserved worse.”
“You killed him.” I say it like a fact, because it is. The blood is still dripping from his fucking hairline.
“I had to.”
“He hadn’t done anything yet, Cass?—”
“And? You think I was gonna let him talk about you like that? Like you were some neighborhood fucktoy passed down through his inbred family tree?”
I swallow back bile. My hands are shaking and I don’t know if I’m afraid for him or of him.
“We need to call the police?—”
Cassidy spins on me. “Are you outta your fucking mind? No cops.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do then, Cassidy?!”
“We have thirty minutes. I’m gonna drag his body into the trees and bury him. You,” he says, grabbing a pair of black gloves from the car and tossing them at me, “are going to go inside, raid the cash box, and steal anything worth fencing. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“You said thirty?—”
“Fifteen,” he growls. “We’re done waiting. I’m not giving this place another goddamn second. ”
I stare at the gloves in my lap, then at the blood pooling under Henry’s slack jaw.
And I nod.
Because what the hell else can I do?