4. Cassian
Cassian
Itighten the bolt on the car’s underside as The Black Keys sing about gold on the ceiling. Someone nudges my leg, and I slide out on the creeper.
Bash is looking down at me, hands on his hips, lips twitching in amusement. He’s dressed in a T-shirt that probably cost five hundred bucks and a pair of black designer jeans. He mimes pulling something from his ears, and I scrunch up my brow in confusion.
After I get him to repeat the motion several times, he finally catches on. “You’re a dick.” He kicks my foot again, harder this time. I sit up and remove my earbuds, ducking my head so he doesn’t see me smiling. The guy is so gullible, I can’t resist.
“I’m heading out,” he says.
I rest my arms on my knees and look up at him. “Big night?”
“A few clubs, a few drinks.” He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eyes. “A few girls.”
I run a hand through my hair. “You’re an idiot.”
A giant grin spreads across his face. “Wanna come?”
I glance at the Audi RS3 behind me. It’s getting a custom tune-up, and I was hoping to have it done this weekend. I’ve been saving up to add a new suspension kit to my bike, and the cash from this job should get me what I need. “I should keep working.”
My job at the Rebel Wrench pays decently, but this ridiculous townhouse sucks up most of my check, and that’s only the small portion Bash pretends is half the rent.
I justify accepting it, because who needs four bedrooms—there are only two of us—and because he’s the one who wanted the house in the first place.
When Bash first brought up living together, I balked, imagining some penthouse on the hundredth floor of a swanky skyscraper.
Instead, he showed me pictures of the three-story he was considering, complete with a basement garage he promised would be all mine, since he keeps his Maserati and sports bike in a high-security facility downtown.
He kicks my foot again. “All work and no play makes Jack a fucked boy.”
I shake my head, unable to suppress a smile this time. “I don’t think that’s how it goes.”
“You’re right. You’d have to actually go out if you wanted to get fucked.”
“Yeah, mate, I know,” I say, lying down and scooting back under the car. “Lucky for you, the competition is staying home tonight.”
His hoot of laughter reverberates through the room. “Competition? The only thing you give a run for its money is a stray dog.”
I aim a wrench at his leg. It clatters onto the concrete as he jumps back with a chuckle. “Oi, mate. These are brand-new sneakers.”
I shake my head as he leaves the garage, relieved to have a night to myself.
With any luck, I’ll be asleep before he brings someone home in the wee hours of the morning.
Fortunately, it doesn’t look like that someone will be Briar Lawson, either.
As much as I like a good fight, I don’t relish seeing my best friend beaten to a pulp, which is exactly what would happen if her big brother found out Bash had his sights set on her.
The front door slams as Bash heads out for the night.
I give the bolt one more tug, making sure it’s as tight as it’ll go, then slide out.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I walk into the kitchen and grab a cold lager from the fridge.
According to my phone, it’s already seven o’clock, and I have a missed call from my dad. I ring him back as I pop off the cap.
He answers almost immediately, his voice tinged with relief. “Cassian.”
Guilt nips at me. I should call him more often, go see him every once in a while. I can’t remember the last time I visited. Three months ago? Four?
“Hey, Dad.”
“You’re not busy? It’s Friday night,” he says. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“Nah. I’m staying home tonight. What’s up?
” As I wait for him to explain why he’s calling—because let’s face it, us Cordero men aren’t big talkers—I flip through the stack of mail Bash tossed onto the kitchen counter before he left.
Most of it’s for him, but there are a few items with my name on them.
“I broke my leg,” my dad says.
I drop the envelope in my hand, and it slides to the floor, dragging most of the stack down with it. “You did what?”
“I was trying to patch a hole in the roof, and I fell off the ladder.” He says it as if he got a paper cut.
“Dad, what the fuck? Are you okay?” I try to remember if I have enough petrol in my tank to drive out there without fueling up.
“Actually, I’m calling from the other side.”
“That’s not funny,” I snap, grabbing my keys. “I’m on my way.”
He chuckles. “Slow down, son. I’m fine. Just stay put.”
I take a measured breath, hoping it will slow my heart rate. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he says, faint traces of laughter still in his voice.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“And here I thought that’s what I was doing,” he says.
I clench my jaw and inhale through my nose. It feels oddly as if we’ve swapped roles and I’m the parent about to beat the shit out of him. “When did it happen?”
“This afternoon.”
“What were you doing up there?” I bend over and start rage-grabbing letters and flyers from the floor. The man acts like he’s still thirty, not pushing fifty-five. He doesn't want to admit it, but his days as an estate manager are numbered.
“I told you. Patching a ho—”
“Yeah, I know. But you’re too old to be on that bloody roof alone. Frankly, I can’t believe you’re still alive.”
My father’s sigh travels through the line. “I don’t have a foot in the grave yet.”
“If you’re not careful, I’ll put you there myself,” I mutter, slapping the mail back onto the counter. “Promise me you’ll hire contractors to work on the manor. It’s way too—”
His laughter interrupts me. “You thought I was on the manor roof?”
I can feel the scowl on my face deepening. “Yeah, obviously. That is where you work.”
“If I’d fallen from there, I’d probably be dead. I was on the cottage roof. Our cottage.” He still calls it “our” home even though I moved out five years ago when I left for university.
Despite my frustration with having a dad who’s probably going to get himself killed sooner rather than later, relief floods my system.
The cottage is only one story, and if he fell from the ladder, he couldn’t have been more than eight or ten feet in the air.
Still enough to do some serious damage, but nothing like what I first imagined.
“Are you still at the hospital? Do you need me to come get you?”
There’s a grunt on the other end, and I picture him readjusting himself in his chair. “No, Sarah Louise brought me home and got me settled in. Even picked up tamales for dinner.”
“Who the hell is Sarah Louise?” If my dad is playing nice with a lady from the village, this is the first I’m hearing of it.
He scoffs, and I picture him waving his hand as if he’s shooing a fly. “Just a neighbor.”
“Bollocks,” I say. There are no neighbors, not really.
Not the kind who would associate with my father, and certainly not the kind to bring him Mexican street food.
“You have a girlfriend, Dad?” My chest feels tight, and it takes me a second to recognize the protectiveness I feel toward him.
He hasn’t shown interest in a woman since my mum tore his heart to shreds.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Cassian?”
I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose. He somehow always manages to turn questions around on me. “Nope. No girlfriend.” Maybe in a few years, his hope of seeing me happy with someone will fade away.
My hand freezes on a thick ivory-colored envelope.
Cassian Cordero is written on the front in black ink.
Even if I didn’t recognize the looping, elegant scrawl, I’d know exactly what this is.
The taste of blood hits my tongue, metallic and strong.
My grip tightens, bending the corner of the heavy cardstock and smudging it with grease still on my fingers.
“—for six weeks.” My dad is still speaking, but I missed what he said.
“Sorry, Dad. What was that?” I toss the envelope down and rub a hand over my face.
“The doc said I have to be off work for at least six weeks. They’ll have to get someone else down here to manage things.”
Shit. That means he’ll be without pay for nearly two months, and since he was making a repair to his own house when he fell, it’s not like he’ll get reimbursement from the estate.
Even though he’ll never admit it out loud, it doesn’t take a genius to see that my dad isn’t swimming in wealth.
My guess is his savings will get him to the end of the month at best. I try to help out, but his pride keeps him from taking any of my money.
Besides, it’s not like I’m exactly raking it in.
I reach for the invitation again and do my best to straighten the bent corner, but there’s a crease in it now that’ll never come out. “I’ll do it,” I say before I can stop myself.
“You’ll do what?”
“I’ll come manage the estate for you.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Cassian, I can’t let you do that.”
“I want to.” I realize it’s true. I need to get out of here, away from the city, away from the noise, away from the pain digging its nails into my heart and refusing to let go.
“What about your job? You can’t just quit,” he says, but my mind’s made up. He should know better than to try to change it. I get my stubbornness from him, after all.
“I’m sure they’ll hold it for me.” Slate is always looking for skilled mechanics for the shop. He won’t be happy that I’m leaving, but he won’t let it keep him from hiring me back.
“You have a life in the city. Friends,” my dad says.
“I need a change of scenery.” Besides, after October, I’m not sure how much of a life will be left for me here. I tear the envelope open the way you rip off a bandage—quickly, in the hopes it will hurt less. “And I can come back to the city on the weekends.”
His sigh is heavy, but I know I’ve won, even though that was never in question. If I decide I’m coming, there’s nothing he can do to stop me, especially now that he’s going to be hobbling around on crutches.
“I just don’t want you to get bored here,” he says.
“You still have a checkerboard?” Pinching the phone between my ear and shoulder, I wash up at the sink so I don’t leave grease stains on the invitation.
Dad snorts. “Do I still have a checkerboard,” he mutters, as if I asked if he still puts hot sauce on everything.
I laugh and make sure my hands are fully dry before slipping the thick cardstock out. “Great. Then we’ll play checkers, and you can tell me more about Sarah Louise.”
He says something else under his breath, but I’m no longer listening.
It’s taking every brain cell I have to focus on what I’m seeing.
Because even though I knew what this was—could have read it to you without ever laying eyes on it—looking at it now is the same as getting run over by freight train.
Vivienne Elise Wilson and Landon Allen Davenport request the honor of your presence . . .
I toss the invitation down and turn my back on the whole thing, leaning against the counter as if that will somehow make the bloody thing disappear. “Let me talk to my boss and pack a few things, then I’ll be down.”
The sooner I can get away, the better.