Chapter Five #2
“’Course he did. Boy can’t seem to mind his business.” Margie shook her head. “Well, sheriff’s office was hiring up locals some years back. And you know Ollie—he was always tryin’ to be a part of somethin’.”
“I guess I’d always assumed he’d joined the Kings,” Cassie replied. “Wasn’t he prospecting at one point?”
“Mhm,” Margie murmured, stubbing her cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. “Mav never did take a shine to him. Said he was too soft for the life and always askin’ questions that didn’t need askin’.
“Prospectin’s about keepin’ your head down and provin’ you can follow orders. And here’s Ollie wantin’ reasons.
“Didn’t take long ’fore Mav sent him packin’.
“Boy sulked for a spell; next thing I knew, he’s wearin’ a badge.”
Margie blew out a slow breath, eyes softening toward the window. “They all hated him after that. Even Con wouldn’t give him the time of day. You know how it goes—nothin’ cuts deeper in these hills than turnin’ your back on your own.”
Cassie’s chest pinched a little at that and nearly let herself follow the thought—how easy it was to end up on the wrong side of a King’s loyalty.
“Speaking of Ollie,” she sighed. “I guess I should probably drive to county today…”
“The police have some of Connor’s things,” she added, the words dragging. “I don’t know what all they’ve got, but…I don’t like the thought of them just…sitting there.”
Her throat closed up on her. She fought to finish, fought not to let the dam break wide open.
“You want company?” Margie asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Cassie shook her head. “No. I’ve got it.”
Margie took one last swig of her coffee and dumped the rest into the sink. “All right then. But remember—grief’s heavy, and it’s a goddamn liar. Don’t let it fool you into carryin’ it alone. And eat your goddamn breakfast—I don’t cook for the joy of it.”
Nash rolled up along the strip of dirt edging Margie’s place and killed the engine of his Harley Dyna, the low rumble dying into silence.
He didn’t climb off right away. Just sat there, pulling off his helmet, peeling his gloves slow…
eyes locking on the cracked windshield of Margie’s old pickup parked crooked in the drive.
Fuck—he kept meaning to replace it for her and kept forgetting.
Not like he’d remember today either. He was five beers deep—maybe six.
And the brew hadn’t done much to cool his mood much, just kept the pressure from blowing the lid off.
“You stakin’ my place out, Nathanial?”
Margie’s voice drifted from the porch, where she sat in her rocker—a goddamn relic that often groaned louder than its sitter, one runner shorter than the rest causing it to pitch when she leaned. “Get off the damn bike. I’m too old to be squinting at broodin’ men from this far off.”
Nash swung a leg over, shoved his gloves in his pocket, and headed up what used to be a walk, traversing overgrown flowerbeds gone wild. Tomato cages entangled with roses, and whatever the hell else was pushing through it all, the whole mess spilling out in all directions.
Margie’s eyes—sharp as shit even in her sixties—tracked him through a haze of smoke as he climbed the steps onto the sagging porch, where vines crawled the posts and encircled the railing, thick enough you could hardly tell where her garden ended and the house began.
“You look like the bottom of a boot,” she said plainly, “you been drinkin’?”
“I ain’t been sober yet,” he muttered. And he didn’t plan to be anytime soon. “She here?” His gaze cut to the door.
“Who?”
Nash shot Margie a look—don’t play—and she shook her head, snorting. “Does it look like she’s here?”
“I know she’s stayin’ here.”
“Who told ya?”
“I got my ways.”
“Mhm.” She dragged deep on her cigarette and blew the smoke sideways. “You just missed her—went to County to get Con’s things.”
Heat flashed under his skin. “By herself?”
“By herself,” Margie confirmed.
Even as fucked up as things were between them, the thought of Cassie standing there with that bastard Sheriff made Nash’s fists suddenly ache to slam something.
“Why’d you let her go alone?” he demanded, his tone harsher than he meant.
Margie’s rocker stilled. “We talkin’ about the same Cassie-Goddamn-Berry, ain’t we? The girl’d sooner bite your head off than let you lift her up a step?”
“Hell,” he muttered, dropping into the chair beside her, the boards creaking where the wood gave, soft from too many wet seasons. Pulling his flask from his cut, he tipped it back, the whiskey burning a path straight to his gut.
“Hell is right. And don’t be surprised when I snatch them keys and make ya walk home.”
Nash almost smiled, but it snagged in his chest. Margie always had a way of cutting through the bullshit much like a mother would. Truth was, he’d always taken to her more than his own mama, who’d been sour his whole life. The day she picked up and moved downstate had been a great goddamn day.
“You talk to her?” Nash eventually asked.
“’Course I talked to her—she’s stayin’ at my dang house, ain’t she.”
“’Bout Con,” he amended, with an eye roll. “’Bout doin’ somethin’ for him.”
Margie’s look was sharp. “Boy, she only just crawled outta bed. Can’t even hear his name without flinchin’. And you of all people should remember what she’s like when she’s cornered.”
Yeah, yeah, he knew. She’d stand as stubborn as a mountain, waiting for the rock to crack first. Once, though, he’d known how to cut past all that armor—peel her right down to skin…
and then some. He knew the feel of her smooth flesh under his hands, the way she’d squirm when his tongue traced her freckles, the sound of her giggles spilling out, unguarded.
One look, and she’d drop every wall she had—just for him.
Nash scrubbed a hand down his face, shoving the thought away.
“Lord, help me,” Margie said, sighing, “you remember that time she run off? You and Mav found her down by the ol’ bridge. How long’d it take to get her out?”
“Long time,” he said, taking a swallow from his flask. That night hadn’t gone anywhere. It came back every time he thought of her.
Connor had come to Margie half out of his mind with worry, and within an hour the Kings were scattered across every creek bed and fence line. It was Maverick—with thirteen-year-old Nash in tow—who finally found her wedged under the trestle, barely a mile out of town.
Maverick crouched low in the dirt, his words coming warm and easy—that special kind of soothing calm only he could pull off: “Ain’t no shame in bein’ tired, baby girl. World gets heavy for us all. But you don’t carry it alone—not in my town.”
She hadn’t even looked their way until he promised to help Connor. Only after swearing on his mama did she crawl out—eyes rimmed red, teeth clenched and chattering, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.
Later, Maverick would tell Nash the whole story: the Berry kids were hanging on by threads. Connor working whatever odd job he could find, bills stacking high. And Cassie, with that twisted kid logic, thought disappearing would help. One less mouth to feed.
Margie flicked ash into a can. “She really thought runnin’ off was helpin’. That’s the part that always breaks my damn heart.”
Nash let out a dry sound, more breath than laugh. “Yeah? And who was she helpin’ last time she run off?”
Margie eyed him sideways. “Boy, do you really wanna open that door? Because I will remind you that you—
“All right—all right. Never mind.” Nash cut her off and turned his attention to the ridge. The porch settled into creaks and the low drone of cicadas, his mind sliding right back to that night…
Maverick puffing on a cigarette, Willie Nelson playing on the tape deck. Nash was wedged uncomfortably on the hump seat between his old man and Cassie, who sat stone-faced, shivering in her thin denim jacket.
Maverick caught his eye and jerked his chin toward Cassie. Give her your coat, he mouthed.
What? Nash mouthed back. Hell no, it’s cold.
Give her your goddamn coat, boy.
Nash grudgingly shrugged off his heavy canvas and offered it to her. Without even glancing his way, she just shoved closer to the window. Eyes wide, he pointedly glared at Maverick, who merely lifted his chin in answer—do it again.
Teeth gritted, Nash tossed it over her shoulders and slumped down in his seat, arms folded tight.
She didn’t thank him or even look his way, but she didn’t shove the coat off either. Nash sat there cold and pissed off, though his old man’s nod of approval took some of the edge off.
Tipping his flask back, Nash drained it dry.
One fucking night, and everything shifted.
Connor was pulled into the Kings’ orbit.
Cassie too. Into his orbit.
And the goddamn weight of that never did seem to let up.