32. Bindi
THIRTY-TWO
BINDI
We’ve been on the road for hours, and as I shift in my seat, sore, with cum still leaking out of me, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He has one hand on the wheel, the other lazily on my thigh.
My hands curl in my lap, fingernails biting into my palms.
Cassidy glances over. “You okay?”
I straighten up, clearing my throat. “Yeah. I’m great!”
He exhales. “Bindi . . .”
“I said I’m fine.”
We pass a rusted green sign.
WELCOME TO ARKANSAS.
I look at Cassidy’s hands again—big, calloused, bruised from breaking faces open. Those hands have killed for me. And yeah, I love him—obsessively, stupidly—but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s dangerous.
Anthony wants control. Cassidy wants chaos, but only for me. Anthony would bruise me to break me. Cassidy would rip out someone’s throat for looking at me wrong. One, cages, the other burns everything down. I don’t know which is worse.
But at least the fire keeps me warm.
Cassidy’s danger is . . . beautiful. A storm you see coming and step outside to meet anyway.
But I’m not stupid. There’s no version of this story where we both make it out clean.
This will end like it always does for people like us—gasoline and bullets. Headlines and body bags. Good old-fashioned Bonnie and Clyde.
We roll into some Podunk truck-stop town a little past eight. Gas station lights buzz overhead like lazy fireflies, and right across the lot is a glowing Walgreens sign.
I sit forward, pointing at the drugstore. “There. I need to run in.”
Cassidy slows the truck, pulling into the lot. “What for?”
“Just the basics—painkillers, snacks, first aid shit.”
He raises a brow. “You good to go in solo?”
I nod, already reaching for the door. “Yeah. Not planning to seduce and rob anyone this time.”
That earns a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The trucker’s wallet was in the car when we took off—the fucker had a few hundred in his wallet, which will keep us going for another day or two. After that, I think we will probably have to resort to some cheap little robbery.
I don’t say what I’m really after, because as much as Cassidy can think that me being pregnant with his child is a good thing, it would be a nightmare. The truth is, I don’t know if I want to bring anything into this world with him.
I’ve spent the last hour staring out the window, trying to picture a baby with his eyes and my fucked-up smile, nearly vomiting at the thought.
“I’ll be quick.”
I walk toward the Walgreens entrance. The automatic doors swish open, and a cheery bell tattles on me the second I step inside.
The only other shopper I see is a grizzled older man in a cowboy hat flipping through magazines near the register. The clerk, a bored-looking woman, barely glances up as I grab a handbasket.
I make a beeline for the first aid aisle.
Focus. Act normal . In goes a roll of bandages, some antiseptic wipes, and a bottle of ibuprofen.
I’m moving on autopilot, eyes already darting toward the aisle that holds what I really came for.
There—the sign that says Family Planning .
Of course, they put it all the way to the end.
Heart thumping, I head for it, passing shelves of baby diapers and pregnancy tests (the irony is not lost on me) . Finally, I spot the familiar purple-and-white packaging of Plan B behind a locked plexiglass case.
I scan the aisle—no store clerk in sight. A sign on the case cheerfully instructs, “Please ask an associate for assistance.”
Fucking hell.
The last thing I want is to ring a bell and announce to the world that I need the morning-after pill. I chew my lip, considering my options. I could try to find a staff member . . .
Screw it. I rap my knuckles quietly against the glass, testing if it’s flimsy. Of course it’s not. I’ll have to do this the proper way. I grip the handle of the case, leaning in to peer for any latch or?—
A prickle of unease skitters up my spine. Suddenly, I feel exposed—watched. Instinctively, I shrink back from the Plan B case and pretend to browse the shelf of prenatal vitamins next to it. My eyes flick sideways, scanning the reflection in the shiny metal shelving.
The store’s entrance is visible in the convex security mirror at the corner. Through it, I see the glass doors glide open and three men stride in.
Every muscle in my body locks up. Even before my brain consciously registers details, something in their posture sets off alarms. They move, splitting off without a word to cover different aisles .
I risk a direct glance down the center aisle.
One of the men cruises forward slowly, eyes sweeping side to side.
He’s mid-thirties, bulky, with a shaved head and a jacket that can’t quite hide the muscular heft of his shoulders.
The second guy, to my right, is leaner, a snake tattoo curling up the side of his neck. My stomach drops; I know that tattoo.
Goddammit!
Anthony and his men found us. Already. How? How the hell . . . It doesn’t matter.
My heart thunders against my ribcage. Keeping my head down, I slide away from the Family Planning section, abandoning my basket on the floor.
I duck into the next aisle over. Crouching slightly, I peek through a gap in the pads and tampons on the shelf.
Tattoo-Neck is prowling slowly past the painkillers, a few yards from where I just was.
His head swivels side to side, methodically checking each row.
Shaved Head is further down the aisle, near the back.
Move, Bindi. Move.
I swallow, mouth gone dry, and begin creeping toward the front of the store, staying low. If I can skirt around to the entrance while they’re combing the aisles, I might be able to slip out behind them.
My mind is racing.
Cassidy’s right outside. If I can get to him, we have a shot. If not . . .
I pause at the head of the cosmetics aisle. The exit is maybe fifty feet to my left now, past a couple more displays. In the mirror above, the third man is hovering near the front end, by the cold drink coolers. He’s positioned himself by the door, blocking a straight path out. Fuck .
The cashier is still oblivious, now bobbing her head to the tinny music, nose buried in her magazine. I grit my teeth . I’ll have to create my own opening.
Slowly, I reach into my pocket and slip open the little pocket knife Cassidy gave me. It’s tiny, barely the length of my palm, but the blade has a sharp point. Not much against three brutes, but better than nothing.
From two aisles over, Tattoo-Neck’s voice suddenly breaks the silence. “I saw her skank ass waltz in here. She’s here somewhere.”
My blood runs cold.
There’s a faint clatter—Shaved Head knocking something over in the back aisle, cursing under his breath. They haven’t pinpointed me yet, though. Maybe I still have a few seconds. I take a steadying breath.
In one motion, I rise from my crouch and slip around the end of the aisle, darting into the main aisle that leads straight to the door. Baseball Cap is at the far end of it, near the exit, maybe thirty feet from me. His head snaps up at the movement and our eyes lock.
“Hey!” he barks, reaching into his jacket. I don’t wait to see what he’s grabbing, I launch myself forward, sprinting.
Behind me, I hear the other two react. Shouts of “There!” and pounding footsteps echo behind me. Boxes of cereal and candy blur in my peripherals as I race for the door. The cashier yelps in surprise and ducks behind the counter as I fly past.
Baseball Cap lunges to intercept me at the exit, but I’m smaller and fueled by raw panic. I juke to the side, slamming my shoulder into the half-open automatic door before it has time to react. It hurts like hell, but I force it wide enough to squeeze through.
Cold night air engulfs me as I stumble out into the parking lot and across the way to the gas station. “Cassidy! Go! We gotta go! ” I scream.
I spot him by the truck. The driver’s door is flung open, and Cassidy stands half in, half out, gun drawn and eyes blazing as he searches for whatever I’ve running from.
“Get in!” he roars .
I don’t even waste time opening the door properly; I scramble onto the seat, one leg still hanging out when Cassidy floors it. The truck bolts forward, nearly throwing me backwards, out of the open door. I yelp and claw for the handle, dragging my leg in and slamming the door shut.
“It’s Anthony . . . he knows where we are.”
Headlights flare behind us.
“Seatbelt,” Cassidy barks. One hand is on the wheel, the other already reaching across me to yank the belt, our hands fighting to get the seatbelt on me second before?—
CRACK! A gunshot rings out. Sparks and metal dance off the truck’s tailgate. They’re shooting at us.
“Jesus fuck!” I gasp, ducking instinctively. “They’re firing in a damn parking lot, are they insane?”
Cassidy swerves the truck onto the main road, tires screaming. “You said they were part of the fucking cartel, Binx,” he growls.
Another shot pops off, and I hear the ping of a bullet striking pavement not far behind us. They’re slightly behind now, maybe lining up a better shot. I twist in my seat to look out the back window.
Cassidy grips the wheel tight, eyes flicking between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. “How many?” he snaps.
“Three. At least three.”
“Hang on.”
He guns the engine. The truck’s V8 engine roars as we gain speed down the empty highway leading out of town. The speedometer needle jumps—fifty, sixty, seventy.
Suddenly, the side mirror on my door explodes with a burst of glass. I yelp and shield my face as shards scatter.
Cassidy lets out a snarled curse, turning the truck in a sharp zigzag, making it harder for them to get a clean shot. Streetlights streak overhead as we fly through the outskirts of town. Up ahead, I see the dark stretch of open road.
My mind is racing as fast as the truck. We need a plan. Outrunning them in a straight line might not happen in this lumbering beast, and we can’t exactly accurately shoot back while driving like this.
There’s a narrow side road coming up on the right, marked by an old reflector post. It looks like a farm-access road or something, cutting into a swath of scrubland. We’re about to blow past it at eighty miles per hour.
“Up ahead, on the right!” I shout, pointing frantically. “Turn, turn, turn!”
Cassidy doesn’t hesitate. He cranks the wheel and yanks the emergency brake in one fluid move.
The truck veers to the right, fishtailing onto the dirt path.
I’m thrown against the door as the truck bounces over a rut and skids onto the rough track.
A cloud of dust and gravel kicks up behind us, obscuring the sedan’s line of sight.
“Shit!” Cassidy spits, wrestling the wheel to keep control. The narrow dirt road cuts through a field, barely two lanes wide. In the mirror, I see the sedan overshoot the turn, then abruptly jerk to follow us, nearly spinning out. They’re still on our tail, but our dust is slowing them down.
Turning our headlights off might help hide us . . .
I lean forward and slap the light switch. Cassidy shoots me a startled look but then nods. The moonlight is faint but strong enough to outline the road ahead.
Out to the left, a hulking shadow of a structure looms—maybe a barn or silo. The dirt track bends around it up ahead.
Behind us, the men haven’t killed their lights. Their high beams bore through the dust cloud.
“Idea: we slip off the road by that barn. With any luck, they’ll shoot right past us.”
I realize I’m gripping the “oh-shit” handle above the window so hard my knuckles ache.
“Do it.”
Our truck barrels around the bend, the barn now directly to our left. Cassidy yanks the wheel and we jolt off the dirt path, plowing through brittle scrub grass.
For a split second, relief surges through me. We might have lost them. But in the same instant, the headlights catch a glint of something directly ahead: the thin, barbed strands of a wire fence strung waist-high across the field.
“Fuck! Hang on!” Cassidy shouts as he tries to swerve, but it’s too late.
We smash straight through the fence and the wooden fence posts splinter—a tangle of wire lashes across the hood.
I’m flung forward, my seat belt digging into my shoulder as the truck lurches violently.
The windshield explodes with a spiderweb of cracks and the right headlight pops in a burst of glass.
Steam billows from under the crumpled hood, glowing white in the moonlight. I blink, stunned, and taste copper in my mouth where I’ve bitten my tongue.
Cassidy groans, shaking his head to clear it before he jams the truck into reverse, trying to wrench us free of the broken fence, but the rear wheels spin uselessly in the mud. He swears under his breath.
I force down the bubble of hysterical laughter rising in my chest. Of course. Of course , this would happen.
“You okay?” Cassidy rasps, already unbuckling his seatbelt. In the dim light, I see a thin stream of blood trickling from a cut on his forehead.
I nod shakily. “Just fucking peachy.”
He huffs and reaches over me to the glove box, popping it open. “Plan C. We run.”
For a split second, I think he means the pill I abandoned—my brain truly is scrambled—but then I see him grab the handgun instead and shove it into my hands. “Just in case.”
“For the record, this is Plan E at this fucking point.”
Through the shattered windshield, I spot movement—twin beams of light swinging back toward the barn on the dirt road. The sedan. They’ve realized their mistake and doubled back. Any second now, they’ll spot the wrecked fence or the glint of our busted truck.
Cassidy throws open his door with a grunt, and I do the same.
My legs are shaky as I spill out onto the dry grass.
The night air is biting, or maybe I’m just in shock, and around us stretches an open field, dotted with scrub brush and the hulking silhouette of farming equipment nearby.
No houses, no cover except the darkness.
Cassidy rounds the front of the truck and is at my side in two strides. He steadies me with a firm hand under my arm—I didn’t even realize I was swaying on my feet until he caught me.
In the distance, I hear shouts.
They’ve found the truck.
Cassidy’s hand slides down my arm to entwine with mine for the briefest moment, giving it a squeeze. “Stay with me.”
“I really don’t have much of a choice; I’m not dying alone. If they catch me they’re catching your ass too.”
The approaching beam of a flashlight and the rev of the sedan’s engine galvanize us into motion. Together, we turn and sprint into the field, melting into the shadows, away from the barn.