24. Bindi
TWENTY-FOUR
BINDI
Five hours ago, I watched Cassidy bury a body.
As for the tire, we still don’t know who was behind the slashing. It could have been Henry trying to give us a reason to stay in town. Or it could have been just some asshole—doesn’t really matter.
Now we are miles away from that motel, and my skin is still covered in goosebumps.
Cassidy finds a small gas station and pulls in, then kills the engine.
I grab a few bills from my backpack and place my hand on his forearm.
He’s wound so tight I half expect him to jump, but he just snaps his eyes to me.
“I’m gonna go pay for the gas.”
His brow furrow. He doesn’t like that—doesn’t like me going inside alone, but after a second he gives a curt nod. “Be quick. And stay where I can see you. I’ll be right in.
I slip out of the car. My legs are shaky pins beneath me after sitting in a car for a few hours. I have done enough traveling in the past seventy-two hours to last me a lifetime.
The bell rings above me when I pull the door handle open, and the attendant waves his hand. He looks about sixty, with silver hair under a grease-stained cap and kind, tired eyes.
“Evenin’.”
“Same to you,” I say, forcing a polite smile as I walk down the aisle. I grab some snacks and a couple of drinks and head up to the counter, placing all of my items on the counter. “Can I also get fifty on the pump?”
I look down and find dried blood on my wrist. Quickly, I pull down my hoodie sleeve to cover it. Hoping the old man didn’t see that.
“You two out on a late drive? The highway’s a few miles east if you’re lookin for it. Kinda easy to get lost on these back roads at night.”
Before I can answer, Cassidy comes up behind me, his hand hovering near the small of my back. Not touching, but claiming his own.
“We’re fine. Just getting gas,” Cassidy answers for me.
The attendant hands me the plastic bag, then raises his hands in a small placating gesture. “Sure thing. No offense, just wanted to help out if I could.”
“Why would you even help people like us? Just people passing through.”
“Just makin’ conversation, son. Figured I’d offer a hand if I could. World’s a scary place these days, you know.”
“Scary, yeah,” Cassidy echoes.
I pull the plastic bag closer to me. “Thank you for your concern, but we’re all right. Just a long drive ahead.”
The old man meets my eyes. I see them flicker to a bruise on my collarbone peeking out of Cass’ hoodie. Bruises that Anthony left, not Cassidy. But now this man is about to die because he thinks they are from Cassidy.
Don’t say anythin g
If you know what’s good for your old man, then you won’t fucking say anything.
I step in front of Cassidy slightly and offer the attendant a more reassuring smile as Cassidy grabs my hand, threading his fingers through it.
“Miss . . . are you sure? I can call someone if?—”
Cassidy cuts him off in a snarl. “She said we’re fine, old man.”
I squeeze his hand. “Cass, it’s okay.”
But it’s too late. The attendant’s gaze has gone to my hand on Cassidy’s bloody sleeve. The dark, dried patch of Henry’s blood that neither of us noticed in our rush to escape. The old man’s eyes widen just a fraction.
God, does he know? Does he see the blood? My mind races. We look like hell—of course we do. My hair is a mess, face bruised, while Cassidy has a stained shirt, and wild eyes. We look exactly like what we are: two fugitives running from violence.
The man takes a half step back. “Listen, I-I won’t pry. But if something bad’s happened . . . I could get help—” he says, stammering a bit now.
“Back off.” Cassidy moves so fast, abandoning my hand. He leans over the counter, grabbing the man’s shirt in a balled first and pulls him over the counter. Then I see the glint of his knife in his other hand, pressed against the man’s throat.
My stomach drops. No, No not again.
“Cassidy, no!” I cry, stepping forward.
Cassidy’s face is inches from the attendant’s, his teeth bared in a grimace, but he doesn’t hear me. “What are you trying to pull, huh? You think you can hurt her? You want to call someone on us?”
The old man lifts shaking hands. His voice quivers, high with terror. “Son . . . please . . . I don’t want any trouble?—”
“Too late,” Cassidy hisses. There’s a wild light in his eyes, the same look he had when he went after Henry. A murderous, unhinged light. My heart seizes as the blade in his hand is pressed to the attendant’s throat, just shy of breaking skin. The old man’s eyes fill with tears of panic.
This is spiraling. This is exactly what I was afraid of—chaos, again. Blood ready to spill at Cassidy’s slightest move. My pulse is thundering in my ears. I can’t let this happen. Not to someone completely fucking innocent.
I grab Cassidy’s knife arm with both of my hands, trying to tug it back.
“Cassidy, stop! He’s not a threat. Please, baby, put it down.
” The pet name slips out, a desperate bid to reach the Cassidy I know beneath this frenzy.
My fingers dig into his jacket sleeve, feeling the corded tension of his muscles.
It’s like trying to hold back a drawn bow.
For a second, nothing changes. Cassidy’s as rigid as a statue, eyes boring into the attendant’s. The man is whimpering softly, chest heaving.
“Cass,” I whisper, softer now, though my heart is about to explode. I move one hand from his arm and gently touch his face, turning his cheek toward me. “Look at me. I’m okay. I’m right here.”
His eyes flicker, the storm of them catching the garish neon light, then they snap to mine. But at least he sees me now . . . really sees me. I pray he finds something in my face that reaches him.
“This man isn’t going to hurt me,” I say slowly, enunciating every word like I’m soothing a wild animal. “He was just being kind. It’s okay.” I keep my tone calm, but tears are burning in my eyes. I can feel Cassidy’s arm shaking under my grip. Please , I think, please come back to me .
Cassidy blinks, confusion crossing his features as if waking from a dream. His gaze darts to the old man pinned by his arm, then to the knife at the man’s throat, as if only just realizing how far this has gone.
The attendant seizes the moment of hesitation. “I won’t do nothin’, I swear it, kid. J-just take the money from the register if you want, just don’t . . .” His wrinkled throat bobs against the blade in a hard swallow.
“I don’t want your money! I just want you to—” His voice catches, and his eyes slip back to me with uncertainty. I see them soften just a hair, the way a storm cloud might thin to let a little moonlight through.
My thumb strokes his cheek without me even thinking. The gesture is intimate, but right now, I don’t care—anything to keep him grounded. I can feel the heat of him, the sweat on his skin.
A beat passes. Then another. At last, I feel the resistance in his body give.
Cassidy exhales a shuddering breath as if releasing all the pent-up fear inside.
He steps back, letting the attendant free.
The knife lowers, though he doesn’t put it away.
My hands stay on him, one on his arm, one on his chest now, feeling the hammering of his heart beneath. It’s as fast as mine.
The old man stumbles away, gasping, one hand flying to his neck where a thin red line now beads with blood.
Just a shallow nick. Thank God it’s nothing more.
He presses his back against the store’s wall, eyes huge and terrified.
I can see his chest heaving. I want to apologize, to scream how sorry I am, but my voice is gone.
“We’re leaving,” Cassidy growls at the man, who gives a jerky nod. Then he grabs my hand roughly and pulls me toward the truck. I’m shaking so badly I nearly trip.
Cassidy yanks the door open and practically pushes me into the passenger-side seat. “Stay,” he commands tersely. His eyes flash to the attendant one more time, ensuring the man isn’t reaching for a phone or something, but the poor guy just stands there, frozen in fear.
In a spray of gravel, we tear out of the station and back onto the dark road.
Cassidy’s driving like a madman, eyes flicking between the rearview mirror and the road, half-expecting sirens that don’t come. His jaw is set—hard. In the sickly green glow of the dash, he almost looks as frightened as I feel, though I know he’d never admit it.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
He doesn’t answer. Maybe he doesn’t hear me over the blood rushing in our ears.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “He wasn’t going to do anything, Cass. He was just a harmless old man. You nearly—” I can’t finish. You nearly killed him.
Cassidy’s fingers flex on the wheel. I see the muscle in his jaw tick, a telltale sign he’s holding back words. I didn’t spend years of him being my brother to not realize when he’s holding back. I know him. “He was going to call someone. He thought I hurt you.”
“So, what, you were just gonna slit his throat and be done with it?”
“He could have been a threat. I-I can’t take chances. Not with you.”
Always this, always his justification.
Everything Cassidy does, he frames as protecting me—shielding me from the world. Like I’m glass and he’s the only thing keeping the cracks from splintering out. My anger deflates a little, because I’m fucking tired. Not because I forgive him.
I know he believes that I need guarding, that I wouldn’t last a minute out here without him.
But I did.
Five years. That’s how long I went without him.
Without his voice in my ear, his hand wrapped around mine, his twisted little rules of survival.
Five fucking years. And I survived. I made it out of the system, out of the trauma, out of the mess he left behind when he disappeared into whatever hell he crawled through.
And yeah, it was hard, but I made it.