Chapter 15 Cade
CADE
After driving for almost fourteen hours, the road ahead has started to blur. I check my phone one last time to verify the last ping from Allen White: a shitty motel outside Goodsprings, Nevada. Knowing I won’t be relying on Jack this time is almost exhilarating.
This is gonna be fun.
I should get there just in time to check in for the night. If he’s smart, he’s long gone, but I’ve learned not to put anything past desperate men.
The gravel lot of the run-down motel somehow looks even worse than the pictures online. Peeling paint, a busted neon Motel sign blinking against the dark sky.
The place looks abandoned despite the lot being full and folks lounging outside in fold-up chairs, smoking shit that’s definitely not legal.
Inside, the front office smells like week-old sweat. The clerk is a balding, greasy little man glued to a soccer game on a box TV. He barely glances at me.
“Excuse me,” I say, rapping my knuckles on the counter to get his attention. “Can I get a room, please?”
“Yep,” he grunts, eyes never leaving the screen. He tosses the keys to room 13 onto the counter. “Fifty bucks a night.”
I set the cash down and swiftly make my exit. I head down the sidewalk, passing cracked doors, when two women catch my eye—both looking disheveled, wearing too-tight clothing, makeup smudged from long hours of wear and their heels kicked off beside them.
“Evenin’, sugar,” the redhead says, her voice husky with cigarette smoke. “You look like a man who’s had a long day.”
The brunette eyes me, lips curling into something lazy and sharp.
“Damn,” she murmurs, looking me over. “You’re tall as hell.
Love the ink. I would love to see where all those lines go.
” If I had a dime for every time a girl hit on me for my tattoos, I’d be an even richer man.
Too bad I have enough money to last me a lifetime, and no need for it.
The lines reach across my chest, up to my neck, and down my arms. I’ve always been fascinated with smoke—being an assassin, you learn to be one with the shadows; it comes with the territory. So, yeah, tattoos.
I pull out my phone and hold up the screen, showing them a picture of Allen. “Have you seen this guy?”
They share a look.
“Maybe. Depends on who’s askin’… and what he’s offerin’,” the brunette says, tilting her head.
“I’m not here to waste your time,” I say, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill and passing it to the redhead. “I just need a direction.”
They exchange another glance, brief and silent. An unspoken language.
“Yeah, we seen him,” the redhead says finally, sliding the bill into her bra. “Little weasel left earlier. Kept his head down. Real twitchy-like.”
“Which way?”
“South. Toward Primm.”
“Appreciate it.” The brunette steps closer, fingers brushing my forearm. “You sure that’s all you want, gorgeous?”
I swat her hand away without flinching, keeping my face uninterested. “What was he driving?”
The redhead speaks up again, voice a little tighter now. “Old red Chevy. Rusted to shit.”
I walk away while they disappear into their room, door slamming behind them. I pull out my phone.
Room 13 reeks of mildew and regret but my body begs for sleep, so I give in and sink into the bed.
I drift off… You’re here again, I think. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this isn’t breaking me. I don’t even know what to call you. You don’t speak. You just appear. And when you do, it consumes me.
All I see is smoke curling around me until you’re all I see. A beautiful shadow hovering over me. Dancing over my skin—so gentle it drives me insane. I feel a mouth wrap around me. Slow and deliberate. My abs tighten instantly, muscles flexing hard as I grip the sheets.
I feel you sink lower onto me. Swallowing me whole as my hips jerk into the feeling. A sharp breath tears from my throat. The way you move—fuck.
I twist the sheets until my knuckles ache, fighting the urge to take control, knowing I have none here.
Your mouth is a prayer and I’m your altar.
I want to hold you here, I want to own this. I want to keep you forever, right here.
“Don’t fucking stop,” I growl.
I lose myself in the feeling right as it disappears. Cold air rushes toward me and my eyes snap open.
I look over to see 3:33 a.m. glowing red on the cracked digital clock.
I sigh.
But I can still feel you.
You might just be in my head. But I want to stop the world and stay with you. Crazy or not. You shouldn’t feel this real. You shouldn’t feel like mine. But you do.
I hate it. I hate how badly my body wants you—how I react on instinct. I hate that I want to fall back asleep. But these moments… They are the only thing that feels good anymore.
I roll out of bed and sluggishly tug on my jeans. My eyes are heavy, my arms not wanting to cooperate as I drag a shirt over my head.
I’ve got to make up ground if I’m going to catch him, so I head out, ignoring the glare I receive from an old man with his gut out, beer in hand.
The front office reeks of stale air and burnt coffee, though it looks like someone just made a fresh pot. Thank fuck.
I drop my keys at the front desk and make a beeline for where a dusty coffee maker hums next to a sad selection of cereal and granola bars. I pour myself a to-go cup, scalding and bitter, then head out to the truck.
Hours later, Primm greets me like a forgotten dream. Dusty casinos slump on the horizon, their neon signs flickering like they’re too tired to lie anymore.
If I were a desperate man, running from someone like me… where would I hide?
I notice a small bar and grill still open with a sign reading The Tavern. Perfect. I quickly pull in. The place is pretty packed, but I could go for a drink.
I park and grab my leather jacket from the back seat, pulling it on. The building is small and run-down. An outdoor patio hosts a group of women loudly cheering on a young woman with a little twenty-one sash over her chest.
Inside it is.
Loud hip-hop music blares through the speakers and people on the dance floor grind up against each other.
Music-themed decor is scattered over wooden, cabin-like walls. On my right, people fill pool tables and play darts. The roar of chatter almost overwhelms my senses.
I avoid eye contact as I look for an empty seat. The bar wraps around in a massive U-shape, and people group together, chatting with one another while they wait for their drinks.
My eyes drift to the side in annoyance as I approach a seat. My luck improves when three douchey-looking guys get their drinks and toast then walk away together, heading up the stairs. I quickly take the seat one of them was occupying.
The bartender stands in front of me in a low-cut black tank top. She appears to be chewing gum when she speaks.
“I’ll be with you in one sec, hun,” she says without looking at me.
An old man with a half-empty pitcher of beer sits to my right and an awkward-looking man with a water sits to my left.
The woman standing next to him—clearly his girlfriend or wife—is flirting with a small group of women.
This guy obviously doesn’t want to be here—hell, I’m second-guessing the decision myself.
“What are ya drinkin’?” the bartender asks as she leans over.
“Double shot of whiskey,” I yell over the music.
She nods and quickly pours my drink, and I toss a ten-dollar bill on the counter.
I don’t even get a sip in before a girl comes over, grabbing my arm. I immediately jerk away, looking her over. Her long brown hair is messy and she looks up at me with large blue eyes.
“Can I sit here?” she pleads with something almost like fear in her eyes. “Please.”
“Fine,” I respond flatly.
She sits close to me as she orders herself a whiskey and Coke. She leans in closer.
“Can I help you?”
My question is quickly answered when a tall, husky-looking guy with a cheap leather vest and a buzzcut approaches us.
“Hey! We’re leaving. Now!” the man says, clearly shit-faced.
I stand, pushing into his shoulder with enough force to keep him from getting closer.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, but it’s pretty clear she doesn’t want to leave with you.”
The guy spits a cackling laugh. “How about you mind your fucking business? She’s leaving with me.” He puffs out his chest and flashes the handgun in his waistband. “Let’s go, Andrea.”
“You’re going to back the fuck off, or I’ll happily cut off your trigger-happy dick and shove it down your throat.”
The guy doesn’t hesitate before swinging at me. I catch his fist almost too easily as he throws another punch.
One of the bouncers quickly comes to investigate and the small girl—still clinging to my shirt—explains the situation. The man is pulled away, despite his protests, and I finally get to take a sip of my drink.
After a few minutes the confusion dies down and the girl speaks up.
“Thank you. My name is Andrea. What’s yours?” she asks shyly.
“Jack. Nice to meet you.” Sorry, Jack, I’m not giving her my real name.
“Would you like me to—”
“No,” I say coldly. My tone says everything she needs to know.
She shrinks into herself. “I was just going to offer to buy you a drink.” She turns her head and gestures to the bartender, requesting another round. “Relax, you’re not my type.”
Two drinks later, I’m feeling much better. Andrea’s been nursing the same drink the entire time, looking straight ahead and not making conversation. She’s nice enough company, quiet.
“You look like you might know the area,” I begin.
“You’d be right. You look like you don’t belong here.”
“I’m in town looking for someone.” I search for an excuse. “My uncle Allen. Short, balding gray hair, always in a pressed suit.”
“Oh yeah, drives a red truck. Saw him about forty-five minutes ago when the bouncers threw him out,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “The guy was wasted. Kept hitting on the bartender, screaming about taking his business elsewhere.”
Perfect. He’s still in town.
Drunk and vulnerable.
A smile plays on my lips, and I feel like I’ve won. I look over at Andrea.