25. Cassidy
TWENTY-FIVE
CASSIDY
We drive for another hour, maybe more. The road stretches endlessly in the dark, and my brain’s been half-fried ever since she kissed me.
Like she sucked out every rational thought with that mouth of hers and left me running on instinct alone.
The taste of her is still on my lips; I keep licking them like I’ll get another hit.
But now the gas light’s been glowing like a damn warning siren for the last fifteen miles, and I realize I never actually filled the tank.
Because I was too busy losing my shit over the gas station clerk talking to Bindi.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tapping the gauge like that’s gonna change a damn thing.
“Are we out of gas?” she asks, voice groggy, barely awake.
I grunt. “Yeah. I may’ve . . . forgotten to pump.”
“You what? How the fuck do you forget something like that?”
I look over, my lip curling. “I see some piece of shit ogling my girl? Kind of hard to focus on anything else, Binx. ”
Her mouth parts. She wants to argue. But decides not to. Because we both wanted to fuck each other mad after I became so possessive so her arguing that she didn’t enjoy it would be a goddamn lie.
We sit in silence for a beat, engine ticking as it cools. The woods press in around us, thick with the sound of cicadas and night creatures.
Bindi shifts, peering out the window. “There’s a light over there,” she says, pointing through the trees.
I squint. Through the brush, something faint glows off to the right. Not electric—moonlight maybe, bouncing off something metal.
I fire the engine back up long enough to steer the car off the road, easing it behind a thick clump of trees. If someone drives past, they won’t see a damn thing.
“Stay here. If I give the signal, grab the bags. If not, you get the fuck out, got it?”
I grab the flashlight and slip through the brush, creeping toward the source of the glow. It’s a barn—old as hell. The wood’s warped, weather-beaten, and the door hangs just enough ajar for moonlight to slip through and glint off what I realize is an old truck.
“Anyone here?” I call out, voice low, sweeping the flashlight through the interior to find just shadows, dust motes, and silence.
No answer.
The place smells like mildew and old hay, but there’s no animals—no people.
I pop the hood and check it over. Looks like it just needs a new battery—ours is still good. We’ll swap it in the morning. Easy.
I step back, exhaling, and wave Bindi over. She’s already moving, carrying the backpack and the duffel. She doesn’t ask questions, just follows. God, I fucking love that about her.
We keep exploring until we find a side door that’s cracked open, leading to a little add-on space tucked behind the barn proper.
A ranch hand’s quarters. One room with a double mattress that’s half-sunken in the middle, a rickety kitchen with a stove, and a tiny bathroom with a cracked mirror.
I flip the switch and a yellow bulb buzzes to life. Power’s still on somehow.
It’s shitty, but it’s ours for tonight.
Bindi brushes past me, her shoulder grazing my chest like she doesn’t even feel it, like it doesn’t split me wide open. She dumps the bags on the mattress, already peeling off her jacket. Then comes the shirt—tugging it over her head in one swift motion, tossing to the floor.
I stop breathing.
She stands there in a black sports bra, arms up for a second, hair spilling wildly over one shoulder as she shakes it free.
There’s a bruise on her side, faint, but blooming, and a cut on her shoulder from God knows what.
Her ribs shift as she moves, showing off taut muscle and pale skin and the low stretch of ink that trails from her back down toward her hip.
She bends at the waist to dig in the duffel bag, and the way her spine curves, how her back flexes, how the muscles in her arms ripple . . . it’s like watching someone unfurl a weapon.
She’s not soft. She’s not innocent.
She’s lethal in a way that makes my fucking knees weak.
And this is the part that destroys me: she doesn’t even realize it.
To her, she’s just changing clothes. Getting ready to sleep. But to me? To me, she’s peeling off all the shit the world tried to bury her under. She’s shedding the masks and armor and lies, and what’s underneath is the woman I love.
She grabs a tank top and steps into a pair of loose shorts. Her hips shift when she pulls them up, and I want to sink to my knees and wrap my arms around her thighs and beg for forgiveness. For another kiss. For the right to stay in this shitty little room just so I can keep watching her breathe.
I brace myself in the doorway, one hand pressed to the frame so I don’t do something like go to her. Like drop to my knees and lay my head in her lap and ask her to put me out of my misery.
Because I kissed her and she kissed me back and now I’m ruined.
She turns around slowly, her eyes catching mine. Her tank clings to her ribs. Her skin glows under the yellow light.
“You good?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
Because no, I’m not.
I’m a fucking hurricane stuffed into a hoodie and jeans, staring at the only person I’ve ever wanted to die for. And she’s standing ten feet away like she hasn’t haunted every second of my goddamn life.
She’s everything. She’s the beginning, the middle, and the inevitable fucking end of me.
And I’m just standing here.
About to beg her to kiss me again.
My mouth’s dry, my blood’s loud in my ears, and all I want . . . all I fucking want . . . is her. The kiss we shared earlier is still burned into my skin. It’s been haunting me ever since.
I push off the doorframe and step toward her.
One step.
Two.
She doesn’t move.
I stop just close enough to feel her breath. Just close enough that if I reached out, I could touch the hem of her shirt. Her tank top clings to her chest, and there’s this tiny little patch of exposed skin just beneath it that makes my head spin.
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Cass . . .”
“I’ve been dreaming about you for five fucking years . . .”
She swallows. “Cass . . . ”
“Say no and I’ll back off,” I rasp. “But if you want this—if you want me—then tell me now. Or I swear to God, I’m going to lose whatever’s left of my fucking mind.”
She doesn’t speak. She steps into me instead, grabs the front of my shirt with both hands, and pulls.
That’s all it takes.
I’m gone.