Chapter Eight
“Istill don’t understand why he needs to be there.”
Cassie slammed the truck door and joined Margie on the sidewalk.
Yesterday, she’d called the funeral home in Wierswood—the only one for miles—and arranged for them to take Connor.
The director had asked her to come in today to finalize everything, then gently inquired whether she had clothes set aside for him to be buried in.
All she’d had were the clothes he’d died in: jeans stiff with god-only-knew-what and a stained T-shirt. In the end, they’d tossed everything but his cut, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that was going into the ground.
Which was why they stood outside a thrift store now, about to piece together the last outfit her brother would ever wear.
The shop sat at the far edge of Main, a weathered two-story house painted like a patchwork quilt—boards in teal, buttercream, and sky blue, all edged in uneven white. Someone had stenciled vines of wildflowers along the porch posts; a hand-painted sign swung from a white chain: Secondhand Sunshine.
“I done told you why,” Margie said, starting up the walk. “Ridge Hollow’s a historical site now. County done stuck their nose in it—said no more burials. And round here? Nash is the one who can get shit done—if you catch my drift.”
“I can get things done, too,” Cassie muttered. “Legally.”
The screen door groaned as they stepped inside. The air was heavy, thick with detergent, and the cloying scent of cedar. A ceiling fan rattled overhead, blades clicking as they pushed the hot air from corner to corner.
Behind a counter fashioned from a glass display case sat a blonde woman slouched on a stool, a dog-eared paperback in her lap. She looked up, blinked, then grinned wide. In an instant she was on her feet, bounding around the counter to throw her arms around Cassie.
“Cassie-goddamn-Berry—hell, what’s it been…ten years?”
Cassie shook her head as they pulled apart. “Luanne Hayes. Oh my god, look at you. You’re blonde!”
Back in school, Luanne had been somewhat of a wallflower and a brunette—plain clothes, no makeup, always quiet except when she was singing. They’d become friends through music, chorus and orchestra always pulling them into the same spaces.
Now she was anything but plain. Her white-blonde hair was chopped to her shoulders, lightly curled. Dark turquoise shadow brightened her brown eyes; her lips glossed pink. A tank top spattered with paint clung to her sun-tanned skin, while a symphony of multicolored bracelets jangled as she moved.
“So, you’re clearly still painting every surface in sight,” Cassie gestured around the shop. “Still singing too?”
Luanne laughed and shrugged. “You know me—never met a surface that didn’t need sprucin’ up…and only on karaoke night at Shooter’s.”
Margie rapped her knuckles on the counter. “As much as I love hearin’ you girls reconnectin’, me and Cassie got a funeral home waitin’ on us.”
Luanne’s grin slipped. “I heard about Con,” she said somberly. “I’m real sorry, Cas. He was a good one. If there’s anything I can do…”
Cassie’s chest tightened, though not as sharply as before. After days of condolences, they were all starting to blur together. She cleared her throat, forcing a small smile. “Thanks, Lu. I appreciate it.”
“There’ll be a service soon,” Margie added, nudging Cassie down the aisle. “Word’s bound to get around.”
“Of course,” Luanne called after them. “And I’ll be there, Cas—and whatever else you might need…”
Cassie trailed after Margie, voice low and edged. “Seriously, Margie. Why does he have to be there? Can’t he just leave a paper bag of cash under a park bench like every other wannabe mobster?”
Margie snorted, thumbing through shirts. “It ain’t just money that makes those men sing—it’s muscle too. And Nash has both.”
Cassie pressed her lips together, biting back the retort rising hot in her throat. Sure, Nash could get things done—and usually steamrolled everyone while doing it. But she wasn’t about to let him hijack Connor’s funeral. This was the last thing she could do for her brother.
Margie tugged a faded red flannel free and held it up. “This looks like him.”
Cassie brushed her fingers over the fabric. The red-and-black plaid was worn soft, collar frayed and nearly identical to the one Connor had lived in as a teenager. “Yeah,” she said softly, hanging it over her arm.
They drifted deeper into the store, weaving past shelves stacked with mismatched dishes and milk crates overflowing with used books and records. The next rack was crammed with dresses—brightly colored prom gowns crowding one end, varying shades of white wedding dresses packed along the other.
“Hell, if you and Nash can keep your tongues in check for five dang minutes, we can get this done without anyone throwin’ hands, or bats—” Margie paused, peering at her over a rack of jackets. “…or scaldin’ each other with coffee.”
Again, Cassie swallowed her reply. After the way she’d stormed into the clubhouse, she didn’t have much ground to stand on—even if Nash absolutely deserved a fist to the face for the coffee incident. And arguing with Margie was about as useful as yelling at a brick wall.
“I’m thinkin’ jeans,” Margie said, crouching by a bin of denim. “All that boy ever wore was jeans or coveralls.” She pulled out a pair—knees pale, a few stitches at the pocket where they’d once torn. They weren’t Connor’s, but they could have been.
“Need somethin’ for his feet.” Margie moved toward shelves lined with scuffed-up boots. “You want black or brown?”
Cassie’s eyes scanned the rows until they landed on a pair of black leather boots, creased at the ankles, soles still intact.
She could see her brother sitting on the front stoop polishing his riding boots until they gleamed.
His work boots he’d beat to hell without a second thought—but his riding boots?
He’d treated them like crown jewels, like they were part of the bike itself.
“Those,” she said quietly, pointing. “He’d want black.”
Margie pulled the pair from the shelf, brushing a bit of dust off with her hand. “Well, that’s everything, ain’t it? We need to get movin’ if we’re gonna make that appointment.”
Cassie tailed her to the register, where Margie dropped the boots on the counter with a thump. “Now where’d that girl run off to—Luey?”
Luanne popped out from between a rack, balancing an armful of linens. Dumping them on the floor, she hurried over, sliding behind the counter to ring everything up.
“Did Margie tell you this is my shop?” she said with a proud smile. “Bought and paid for and then some.”
“She did not,” Cassie replied, shooting Margie a glance. “She was too busy tellin’ me what to do.”
“Well, now, somebody’s gotta keep things movin’,” Margie muttered.
“Older she gets, the bossier,” Luanne teased, folding the clothes neatly and stacking them inside a plastic bag.
“Bossier beats sittin’ around waitin’ on somebody else to do it.”
Cassie watched them banter, feeling for the first time in days something close to gladness—happy to have run into Luanne, happier still to see her thriving. It brought back a lot of good memories, and with them, another face rose to the front of her mind.
“Is Becca still around?” she asked. “Do you guys still talk?”
Luanne lit up instantly. “Oh, hell yes. Becca and me hang out all the time. Hey—you wanna get together? I can set it up!”
Cassie found herself smiling. “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I’d like that.”
Margie, groaning, plucked the bag from Luanne’s hands, and started steering Cassie toward the door. “We’re gonna be late.”
Cassie swatted at her, twisting back toward Luanne. “Do you have a day in mind?”
Margie kept herding her. “If we don’t leave now, we ain’t gonna make it.”
“Would you stop shoving me? I’m not a goddamn goat.”
“I’ll text you,” Luanne called after them. “Wait—I need your number, Cas!”
“Lord above—you can call the house, Luey!” Margie hollered, the screen door slamming behind them. “She’s stayin’ with me.”
Cassie stumbled onto the porch, squinting against the sun’s glare. “Margie—we still have twenty goddamn minutes.”
“And it’s gonna take twenty-one to get there. Last time I was late to an appointment, Doc Willis gave my spot to some fella with a sick duck. I sat two hours waitin’ behind a duck named Myrtle. I don’t do late no more.”
“Doc Willis…” Cassie murmured as they climbed into the truck. “Margie, Doc Willis is a vet!”
“I know,” Margie snapped, tossing the bag at Cassie. “But you know how it goes ’round here. ’Sides, he don’t charge me for checkups, and I figure what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“Literally,” Cassie said—and a laugh broke free.
Margie glanced at her, and snorted, and just like that, they were both laughing.
Back at the clubhouse, Nash brought the hammer down, trying to drown out Cassie’s scream—the guttural, ragged sound she’d torn loose in Margie’s kitchen. Not a cry, not even a wail. Just raw pain, ripping through the air between them.
And the look on her face—Christ. Like the whole world had beat her bloody, and he’d been the one to finish the job.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
His head throbbed with every blow of the hammer—whiskey pounding behind his eyes, no sleep to clear it. He forced himself to focus on repairing the bar. It was easier than thinking about Cassie—who he was supposed to be meeting. He glanced down at his watch. Soon.
Regret hit first, anger right behind it, white-hot. He swung hard; the bracket bent flat beneath the blow, screws biting deeper into the wall. Growling, Nash swung again, the hammer crashing through the shelf into the counter below. Splinters shot across the bar, jagged pieces raining to the floor.
Shouting curses, he spun away from the shelves and hurled the hammer across the room. It clipped a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey off the edge of a nearby table, glass exploding as whiskey sprayed across the table, floor, and the man seated beside it.
Glass glittering all around him, whiskey dripping down his sleeve, Elias “Rook” Weaver didn’t even flinch. He just kept dragging steel over stone in slow, even strokes. Late twenties, lean as he was mean, dark hair skimming his jaw—Rook was a man damn near impossible to rattle.
Crusher glanced up from the jukebox, one arm hooked around a blonde, the other draped over a redhead. “Jesus, Nash. You fixin’ the bar or fixin’ to tear down the whole damn club?” The girls giggled, leaning into him.
Nash’s chest heaved, Cassie’s scream ricocheting in his skull, the look on her face like shrapnel under his skin. He glanced at his watch again. Christ. He couldn’t show up like this. Couldn’t sit across from her with his hands full of violence and his brain tearing itself in two.
He jabbed a finger toward the blonde beneath Crusher’s arm. “You—with me.” Already turning, already stalking for the hall.
Her eyes went wide before she scrambled loose, nearly tripping on her heels in her hurry to catch him.
Nash, shoving through the office door, kicked it shut as she darted in behind him.
She couldn’t have been more than mid-twenties—smooth skin, long legs poured into a too-short denim skirt, a halter top hugging generous breasts.
Club bunnies were one of the perks of the patch—the women hailing from nowhere towns and broken families who hung around hoping for a property patch, some piece of permanence. What they usually got was passed around and left with nothing but a shitty story to tell.
“C’mere,” he said, dropping onto the couch, already working open his belt buckle.
She dropped to her knees, eager fingers tugging at his zipper. Her mouth closed around him—sucking, licking—
He still wasn’t fully hard.
“Faster,” he growled.
The bunny obeyed. His breath shuddered out, hips jerking despite himself. For a moment, it worked.
Then—Cassie’s goddamn face flashed again. Her scream echoed. Those green eyes lit from the inside, glaring at him like he was the devil himself.
His fists clenched; blood roared in his ears. His body wanted one thing; his head refused to let it happen.
He glanced at his wrist—he should have left five minutes ago. At the rate his dick was going, it might as well have been five years.
The bunny’s hair brushed his thigh as she shifted—flat, brittle blonde. Not the kind a man could grab and really hold onto. Not like—
—dark, heavy curls, damp with sweat, smelling of creek water and blackberries, spilling across his thighs as her tongue dragged clumsily, teeth grazing before she pulled back laughing.
He was hard now—painfully so. The chair squeaked as his hips punched up—
—springs groaning under rusted steel, the whole pickup shuddering as his boots scraped for purchase. Her legs wrapped around his hips, arms hooked tight around his neck.
“You sure you’re ready, Cas?”
“Nash Walker, if you don’t fuck me right this minute, I’m gonna—”
The blonde’s nails dug into his thighs—
—dragging down his back, her breath breaking against his jaw with every thrust, every desperate pull closer.
The pressure coiled, merciless. Present and past colliding, memory drowning out flesh until—
—moonlight caught her eyes, glossy and wild, locked on him like he was her whole goddamn world and—
His release tore through him, fast and brutal, body straining tight, before the guttural sound ripped loose.
And then Nash was up and moving, yanking his zipper closed, grabbing his keys off the desk.
“I could stop by tomorrow if you want?” the blonde called after him.
He didn’t answer. The blow job meant to drain the fury had only wound it tighter, tearing open memories he hadn’t let himself touch in years. His head still ached, his hands still itching for a fight, his pulse hammering from far more than release.
“Fuck,” he muttered, slamming his palm against the truck hood before climbing in. He scrubbed a hand down his face, as if he could scrape her straight out of his head.
But it was no use.
She was back.
Back in town. Back in his head. And back under his skin.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, tearing out of the lot—Cassie riding shotgun all the way to the funeral home.