40. Bindi
FORTY
BINDI
Cassidy’s Mongoose bike rattles down the uneven asphalt, chain skipping every few pedals, handlebars wrapped in tape that’s half peeled off. I’m standing on the back pegs, arms looped around his shoulders, trying not to scream every time he swerves on purpose.
He laughs when I do. “Don’t bite your tongue back there, Binx. You’ll choke.”
“Asshole,” I mutter, but I don’t let go.
The Tennessee sun is brutal, turning the back of my neck into leather. My tank top sticks to me, sweat pooling between my shoulder blades. I’m already sunburnt from another long summer spent outside the group home.
The bell above the gas station door makes the saddest little ding I’ve ever heard. Cassidy shoulders it open like he owns the place, and I follow him in, already making a beeline for the freezer.
The air conditioning hits me hard, prickling my arms with goosebumps as I press my hands to the glass. “I want the strawberry crunch bar.”
Cassidy comes up beside me, patting down his pockets. All he finds is thirty-seven cents, and a chipped skull button. He holds them out in his palm, deadpan.
“We’re broke.”
I scowl. “Then why’d we even come here?”
He grins. That grin. “Didn’t say we couldn’t leave with something.”
Before I can ask what the hell that means, he turns away from the freezer and saunters toward the keychain rack by the register.
It’s full of the usual crap; plastic gators, seashells with googly eyes, tiny cowboy boots on chains.
He spins the display lazily, fingers trailing like he’s got all the time in the world.
He picks one—a glittery alligator wearing sunglasses—bright blue, ugly.He turns it over in his fingers like it matters. Like it’s a diamond instead of a two dollar hunk of plastic.
“You like this one?” he asks, twirling it around his finger.
I scoff. “It’s dumb.”
“Exactly, which is why it reminds me of you.”
That stops me. My cheeks go hot and I cross my arms tighter, trying to hide it in a shrug. “No, it doesn’t.”
He raises a brow, holding up the keychain to my head, and tilts his head. I smack his hand away and roll my eyes. He laughs.
“Watch the mirrors. Don’t look suspicious.”
I glance toward the counter. The clerk’s behind a plastic shield, flipping through a hunting catalog, not even looking at us.
“I don’t want to get caught,” I whisper.
“You won’t,” he says. “You’ve got me.”
He steps closer, his breath hot on my cheek, sliding the keychain into my shorts pockets.
His fingers brush my hip, lingering for half a second too long.
My body goes stiff—every nerve lights up. I pretend not to notice, but I do. I feel it all the way down.
Then he leans in. “Now, walk out.”
My heart slams into my ribs. This is stupid. So stupid.
I keep my eyes forward, steps even, arms loose. I push open the door with a breath I don’t realize I’m holding, and just like that, we’re outside.
No one yells. No alarms go off.
Cassidy follows a beat later, hands in his pockets.
We look at each other for a second. Then we bolt toward the Mongoose. Cassidy snatches it from where it’s leaning against the ice machine, throws one leg over the seat. “C’mon, Binx!” he shouts, already rolling.
I jump onto the pegs without thinking, heart still hammering, breath caught between laughter and disbelief.
We take off down the side street full-speed, gravel crunching under the tires, wind whipping my hair into my face.
I clutch his shoulders and scream when he cuts a sharp turn, nearly tipping us over.
He lets out this wild, feral whoop that makes my stomach flip.
We collapse in an overgrown lot two blocks down, behind an old metal sign that used to say something, but the letters are long rusted off.
I land on my back in the grass, lungs burning, face flushed. Cassidy flops down beside me, laughing so hard he has to clutch his stomach.
Adrenaline buzzes under my skin like static.
He props himself on one elbow, reaches into my pocket, and pulls out the stolen keychain with a flourish. He dangles it over my face.
“Told you it was yours.”
I snort and roll my eyes. “You’re such a jerk. It does not look like me!”
He clips it to the zipper on my backpack and presses my hand over it like I need to feel it there—proof we did it.
Cassidy lies back again, arms behind his head, legs kicked out in the dirt. His shirt’s riding up, showing a flash of sharp hip bone and the waistband of his boxers. He looks older than he is.
I study the slope of his nose, the way his chest rises and falls. My hand still tingles from where he touched me earlier. I tell myself it’s just nerves—just the rush.
Cass cracks one eye open and catches me looking.
I shouldn’t be staring, shouldn’t be cataloging every inch of him like I’m afraid to forget. His lashes are thick, lips chapped, and he’s got a scratch along his jaw that’s healing ugly. I want to ask where he got it, but I don’t.
I just . . . memorize him.
“What?” He smirks. “Staring again?”
My face goes red and I punch him in the arm—not hard. “Shut up, asshole.”