35. Cassidy #2
A lump builds in my throat before I can stop it. I barely liked the guy—never trusted him—but he was a constant. A crooked post in a crooked fence. In Deadman’s, I used to look forward to running out here. Jimmy let me drink beer underage and didn’t talk much. That counted for something.
I turn back around slowly. “You Mattson?”
He snorts. “Matt.” Then jerks his chin. “Come. Sit.”
I glance at Bindi. She nods, eyes cautious, and we both slide onto barstools. Matt cracks open two beers and sets them down like he’s doing us a favor he’ll regret.
“Hope you’re fucking legal,” he mutters.
I take a long sip.
He eyes me. “Jesus Christ. You must’ve been a kid when you ran with my dad.”
“I didn’t run with him. He ran for my club.”
Matt whistles low. “Even worse. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to cash in on a favor.”
A voice cuts in before he can respond. “No fucking way.”
A woman steps out from the back, hips swaying. She’s in a black crop top that rides high and oil-slick jeans . . . with a fucking switchblade in her hand. God fucking dammit. I had really hoped she wouldn’t work here anymore.
Bindi stiffens beside me. I stand, placing a hand over her stomach like I’m ready to shield her.
“Aria . . .” Matt warns.
She ignores him, stalking around the bar. “What the fuck are you doing here ? ”
“You know him?” Matt asks.
“Oh yeah,” Aria says. “I had to clean up after him when Jimmy died. Ran his little gang off before they could piss on the floor.”
Her eyes rake over me. “I’ll ask again. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Coincidence. Totaled our car. Been hitchhiking since yesterday.”
Recognition flickers. “You stay with the Thornwoods?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Tee told me they took in a couple strays. Explains why the both of you look like shit.”
Bindi gives her a dry smile. “Appreciate that.”
Aria tosses her blade into the bar and leans forward. “So, what do you need to get the fuck away from my bar?”
“Wheels. Money. Anything that gets us gone.”
Matt scoffs. “We don’t have anything.”
Aria ignores him. “I got a bike out back. You want it?”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Fuck yeah.”
Matt snaps, “That’s not your bike to sell?—”
“And when Ethan comes back, he can buy a new one,” Aria fires back. “I don’t give a fuck. Whatever gets these two out of my sight.”
She turns back to me. “You take it—one-time deal. But you don’t come back here. Ever. I see your face again, I shoot you in the gut before you say a word. Got it?”
I nod. “I get it.”
“Keys are on the hook by the back door. Tank’s half full. Don’t fucking die, Cassidy. I don’t want the guilt.”
She walks off without saying another word to me.
I glance at Bindi. She raises a brow, barely. The kind of look that says: Well . . . that worked.
We move out of the back without another word.
A matte black Yamaha R7 leans against the cinderblock wall. I had one once, back when I ran with Deadman’s, but it didn’t mean shit without her on the back. Without her hands on me.
She steps up beside me, trailing her fingers across the tank.
“You sure it’s a good idea? Taking this thing?”
“Little more exposed,” I say, eyes locked on the bike. “But we’re only a few hours out from the safe house.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at our reflection in the paint like she’s watching herself disappear in real time. Her eyes are vacant, hollow. She’s here, but I can feel it. She’s pulling away.
I should let it go.
But I don’t know how to watch her leave me like this.
“I know something’s wrong. So just say it, Binx.”
Nothing.
“You gonna tell me what it is?”
She finally looks at me, green eyes glassy and exhausted. She doesn’t even bother to fake it.
“You don’t have to know everything that goes on in my head. Not all the time.”
“Don’t freeze me out,” I snap.
“Drop it.”
No.
Fuck no.
I close the space between us and slam her against the brick. My hand wraps around her throat, not squeezing, just holding.
She glares, jaw clenched. “Cass, back the fuck off?—”
But she doesn’t push me hard enough to make me move.
I hook her thigh up around my hip, my cock grinding into her as my other hand finds the skin beneath her shirt. My fingers trail lower, tracing the curve of her hip, down to the waistband of her shorts. She hisses between her teeth, fingers curling in my shirt.
Still with me .
Still fucking mine.
I slip two fingers beneath the waistband and find her heat—wet, pulsing, and needy.
I dip my head to her neck, dragging my mouth along the skin that’s already flushed. “You’re gonna talk to me, or I’ll find a better way to make you scream.”
Her breath catches when my teeth scrape her pulse point.
Good.
She gasps when I suck down, hard, right below her jaw.
“I’m fine. I promise. Just in my head is all.”
I press down on her clit with a slow, firm grind.
Her hips jolt, her eyes flutter, and she makes a broken sound in her throat—a whimper, a curse.
I keep working with her, giving her just enough pressure, just enough rhythm to get her right to the edge.
Until her breath turns ragged and her thighs start to tremble.
Then I stop.
I drag my fingers out and hold them up between us—slick, shining, strings of her arousal connecting my knuckles.
Her mouth parts on instinct.
I fist her hair with my clean hand, forcing her to meet my eyes. I press my hips into her, my cock rock-hard against her stomach.
“Open wider.”
She doesn’t.
Not fast enough.
So I yank her hair tighter and she gasps.
“I said . . . open your fucking mouth.”
She obeys.
I slide my fingers past her lips, pressing them to her tongue, and watch her wrap her lips around me.
“Suck, like a pretty fucking girl.”
She does.
Eyes wide, cheeks hollow, every inch of her mouth wrapped around my claim .
“That’s the taste of what’s mine . Better get used to the flavor, Firefly.”
She pulls back slowly, lips dragging over my fingers, our eyes locked on each other.
“That gives you something better to think about. Get on the bike, before I fuck you against this wall.”