31. Bindi
THIRTY-ONE
BINDI
We’ve been walking for the better part of the day. Cassidy’s six-foot-something ass stomping ahead of me through the backwoods of Texas as he spits out curses left and right.
Wait . . . where are we going?
I went through this whole fucking escapade to not even know where the man is taking me?
I freeze in the middle of the woods.
Cassidy notices and stops. “Do you need another break?” he asks, exasperated with me.
I huff. “First off . . . fuck you. And second . . . no.”
“Then what is it?”
“You said you took my passport. Where the fuck did you think we were going to go?”
Cassidy shrugs. “I thought of Mexico at first—maybe south, hit the border. But . . . Now I’m thinking Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“You’ll see.”
I bark a laugh. “You’ll see? Really? That’s what we’re going with now? The ‘I’ll know it when I see it’ strategy? That’s your fucking plan?”
His eyes narrow.
“Cass, we are broke, bleeding, and currently being hunted on both fronts. So maybe, just maybe, I deserve a little transparency?”
The silence stretches, broken only by the whisper of the wind and a squirrel that scurries across a fallen branch.
Cassidy exhales slowly, stepping closer, raking a hand through his hair.
“I had a contact—a guy I used to run guns with. He had a cabin up north, near Missouri. Off-grid. Used to brag that it had solar power, stockpiled supplies, and enough gas to cross the whole damn country. I figured we’d lie low there. Regroup.”
“Cass . . .”
“Before you say it—no, it’s not a perfect plan. But it’s a place to hide. And, right now, that’s more than we’ve got.”
I want to argue, I do, but I’m too fucking tired. The soles of my feet feel like hamburger meat, and my carved thigh is throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
“So, what, we hitchhike there?” I mutter.
“Or we steal something with wheels.”
I groan. “Of course we do.”
“We’ve got guns, attitude, and a working knowledge of hot-wiring. What else do you need?”
“A goddamn shower and a therapist?”
“Too late for both.”
I hate him. I love him. He’s a walking trauma wound with great abs and too many knives, and he’s mine.
And fuck it, we’re already in hell. Might as well keep dancing in the flames.
“All right, Cassidy fucking Reyes. Let’s go find something to steal.”
His grin widens .
“Atta girl.”
We spot at a rest stop at the bottom of the next dip in the highway. It’s just a shitty gravel lot with a few rigs parked as well as other trucks and vehicles in the main lot.
A silver Ford F-150 is idling at the far end of the lot. Windows down. And the driver? Mid-forties, gut stretching a faded Harley tee. One of those beer-bloated country boys who smells like Axe and sweat. He’s on the phone, pacing beside the truck.
Jackpot.
Cass sees me slow down. “Don’t . . .”
I smile. Too late.
“Bindi, don’t even fucking think about it.”
“I’m not thinking, I’m doing,” I say, already walking over to the man.
He mutters something under his breath, but he follows as I head toward the vending machine. The guy glances up—checking me out before I even speak. I’m in cutoff denim shorts that are basically underwear, and a tank top damp from sweat, but my bra makes my tits basically fall right out.
“Hey, you got a cigarette?” I call out, cocking a hip.
The man lowers his phone just enough to rake his eyes down my body. He’s older, with leathery, tanned skin, wearing a ball cap with some oil-stained logo. His smile’s slow and sleazy. “Depends. What’s it worth?”
I lean closer, letting the strap of my tank top slide down just a bit. “You offering a trade, cowboy?”
“Shit, I might be. That your man over there?”
I glance back at Cassidy, who’s leaning against the far wall, shadowed, hands in his hoodie pocket like he’s bored out of his mind. But I know underneath he’s anything but.
“My brother. He’s harmless.”
The man raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t look harmless when he eyeballed me.”
“He’s just protective,” I say, stepping a little closer, brushing my fingers along the truck’s door handle. “Been a long trip; he’s tired. We’ve both been sleeping in shit motels.”
“Where you headed?”
“West Texas. Maybe further. I’m . . . flexible.”
“Well, lucky you,” he says, hitching a thumb at his truck. “I’m heading west. Got plenty of room for a pretty hitchhiker.”
I tilt my head. “Tempting, but I don’t ride without him. Family loyalty and all that.”
His phone buzzes and he glances down.
That’s my window.
I take one slow step toward the truck, then glance over my shoulder and give Cass a tiny nod.
Go time.
By the time I open the driver door and slide in, Cassidy’s already at the passenger side. The moment the man turns back to me, Cass swings into the cab and slams the door, while I throw it into drive.
“HEY—HEY! THAT’S MY TRUCK?—”
The tires scream as we tear out of the lot, gravel spraying behind us. I glance in the mirror and watch him shrinking in the distance, red-faced and raging, phone still clutched in his hand.
Cassidy’s got a hand clenched around the doorframe and a murderous expression carved into his face.
“You told that asshole I was your brother ?”
I stretch my legs, pop my gum, and smile. “Did you want me to get the keys or not?”
“You let him look at you.”
“You told me to get the keys,” I say sweetly. “You didn’t say how.”
“Pull over,” he mutters under his breath.
“No. Fuck you, Cassidy. What else were we supposed to do? Hike across the goddamn country and pray someone handed us a miracle? You didn’t have a plan. ”
“That was really fucking dumb, Binx.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Don’t tell me what the fuck I am. I’m not fucking jealous of that asshole.”
“Bullshit. You were pacing like a caged animal.”
“You let him look. You wanted it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You liked it,” he snaps. “You fucking smiled when he called you sweet—lit up like a fucking christmas tree.”
“It’s called acting, Cass. You ever heard of it?”
“Nah,” he mutters darkly. “You smiled like you wanted him to beg. ”
“You’re out of your fucking mind.”
He reaches across the cab, his hand snapping down on my thigh enough to make my whole body jolt. His fingers squeeze, grounding me, caging me. Branding me again.
“You belong to me. No one else.”
“I know,” I whisper.
His thumb starts tracing slow, measured circles right on the edge of my shorts. And just like that, every nerve in my body lights up like it’s begging to burn.
We ride like that for miles—the truck humming, trees blurring past, the tension between us coiled so tight I swear it has weight.
“You wanted to kill him.”
“I was two seconds away . . .”
I smirk. “Is that why your dick got hard the second you hopped into the cab?”
His knuckles flex. “It’s you. You don’t even fucking try, and I unravel.”
I lean back against the seat and spread my knees just a little, just enough. His hand tightens instinctively, like it knows where I want him and doesn’t give a shit about consequences.
His gaze drops to my mouth, his pupils blow wide. Hunger—pure and feral—flickers through his expression.
“You’re a menace,” he breathes. “Fucking poisonous. But I can’t— fuck —I can’t stop.” He pulls back just enough to rasp, “You like me watching you throw yourself at other men, don’t you?”
“Maybe I just like being wanted.”
He snarls, “Then let me fucking show you how wanted you are.”
One hand dips beneath the waistband of my shorts, knuckles grazing the curve of my hip bone before he finds my slick, aching heat.
I bite my lip. “Cass . . . I’m driving.”
“You can multitask.”
He slides two fingers through the mess he’s already made of me, and I suck in a breath, head lolling back against the window. His thumb finds my clit and draws those same maddening circles that I crave.
“Cass,” I gasp. “Seriously?—”
But his mouth is already on my neck. “Keep your eyes on the road, Firefly,” he growls, teeth scraping that tender spot just below my ear. “Wouldn’t want you to crash while I’m knuckles-deep in your cunt.”
My thighs tremble around his hand, the wheel jerking slightly as the truck veers left.
“You like poking the fucking wolf, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I manage. “I fucking do.”
He growls again, “Well, congrats, Firefly, you’ve succeeded. I’m completely fucking ruined.” His fingers push deeper and I moan, squirming, grinding down on his hand because I need more—more of him, more of the filth in his voice, more of the fever behind his touch.
“I could kill a man with these fingers. But look at me . . . using ‘em to make you beg.”
My thighs twitch. My spine arches into the seat. I can’t fucking breathe. His knuckles press against the soaked cotton of my panties as he drives deeper.
“Cass—” I gasp.
“Yeah, Firefly?” He turns to glance at me, totally calm, totally in control. “Still thinking about that fucker?”
“Fuck you.”
He curls his fingers inside me.
I choke on a moan.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, focusing back on the road while his hand works between my thighs like he owns me. Like he’s proving something. Marking territory.
Maybe he is.
I grip the seat, nails digging into cracked leather and his fingers move faster. My legs tremble.
And fuck me, I’m begging. “Cass—please?—”
He pulls his fingers free. My body seizes in protest.
“Not yet. You wanna come? You do it on my lap. Like a good fucking girl. Get off on the next exit, Bindi.”
I follow his command, pulling the truck off the exit and into an abandoned parking lot of an old gas station. My thighs are sticky, my panties soaked, my clit throbbing from the teasing mess he left me in. He turns toward me and those dark eyes find mine, then he crooks a finger.
“Come here. Get on my fucking lap, Firefly.”
I unbuckle slowly, breath catching as I swing my leg over and straddle him. The cramped cab makes it hard to move, but I manage. He spreads his legs wider beneath me, and my knees sink into the seat on either side of his thighs.