Chapter Eleven
Nash rolled off the throttle, flexing his bleeding hand on the grip as he and Snake pulled up to Shooter’s, where music thumped through the thin walls. Two locals leaned against the railing, smoking.
Killing the engine, he swung a leg off and fished a rag from one of the saddlebags, wiping blood from his knuckles. Snake stayed astride his bike, tying a bandana around the bloody gash on his forehead.
“Burns like a goddamn son of a bitch.”
“Next time a tweaker’s comin’ at you, fuckin’ duck.”
“Hard to duck when the bastard’s swingin’ sideways. What’s the move now?”
Shoving the rag back into his saddlebag, Nash said, “Don’t know yet. Ask me after the funeral.”
They’d ridden out to the old rail yard—the same stretch where Connor’s body had been found…and the stink of it still hadn’t left him—same as the image of Connor laid out in it.
They’d gone out there to talk—to see who knew where the fentanyl was coming from. Should’ve been simple. Only it never was with tweakers. No one had wanted to speak to them; hell, most of them were too strung out to string a sentence together.
But when they’d come across a pair holed up in the old maintenance shed—jaws grinding, pupils blown wide as nickels—one screaming about faces in the walls and the other muttering about government spies, it had gone bad fast. By the time Snake caught a bottle to the head, Nash was already done talking.
Snake climbed off his bike, still adjusting the bandana. “You really think something else is goin’ on?”
“Ain’t a soul in that department smart enough to run anything bigger than a church raffle. But I damn sure wouldn’t put it past Tate to plant that shit on Con, tryin’ to get to us.”
Nash shoved though Shooter’s door, shaking his head. “Man’s had a hard-on for the club since gettin’ himself elected.”
They stepped into a wall of music and voices, Luanne Hayes on the mic. The place was packed—half the damn county crammed inside, Christmas lights strung over the stage throwing everything red and green.
“Gonna clean up.” Snake peeled off toward the bathroom while Nash scanned the room, spotting Crusher. He started toward him, trying to shake his mood, when he stopped short, his gaze snagging on a familiar shape wedged between Crusher and Rook.
Cassie was balanced on the brass foot rail, bent toward the bar, hips swaying in time with the music. His gaze traced the flex of her shoulder blades before catching on the faint scatter of freckles just below her hairline.
Her spot.
His spot.
Jesus. He could almost taste the salt of her skin—
Cassie barreled into the garage, her backpack hitting the floor with a careless thunk, violin case thudding beside it. Without a word, she went straight to the CD player and swapped out Waylon Jennings for Bach’s Air on the G String—of all fucking things.
“Aw, come on, Cas. Not this fuckin’ shit again,” Sarge grumbled from under the hood of the Chevelle.
From across the garage, Maverick called out, “Hell, let the girl play her songs. From where I’m standin’, y’all could use a little gussyin’ up.”
Connor appeared from behind a Nova, wiping grease from his hands. “You give her an inch, Mav, next thing you know she’ll be makin’ us waltz.”
Maverick snorted. “Only dancin’ I’m doin’ is on this transmission’s grave.”
Cassie was humming by the time she reached Nash’s bay, fingers drifting across his battered workbench, trailing over his sweat-slicked back before dropping down beside him and snatching a crumpled magazine from the corner.
“Lookin’ to decal that fiddle?” he muttered.
“Funny,” she said, flipping a page. “Maybe I’m plannin’ how to trick out my future hog. Think it needs flames. Or dice. Or, ooh—tassels.”
“You put tassels on a bike, and I’m callin’ the law.”
“You’d never call the law on me, would you?” she asked sweetly.
One boot slid up onto the rung of his stool, nudging the inside of his knee. Nash glanced over—and found the frayed edge of her cutoffs riding high on her thigh and Cassie smirking at him over the magazine.
To hell with work.
Wiping his hands off on his jeans, he pulled her into his lap, giggling and squirming. Sweeping her hair away, he pressed his mouth to the cluster of freckles at the base of her neck. She went still, breath catching.
“That’s my spot,” she whispered, turning in his arms, green eyes darkening.
Their mouths met—messy, urgent.
No, Nash thought, fingers twisting in her curls. It’s mine.
“Get a fuckin’ room, would ya?” someone yelled, followed by the clang of a wrench hitting concrete…
…the sound ricocheted as the garage dissolved and Shooter’s came back around him in a wash of sound.
Nash blinked, the bar pulling into focus again, only to find Cassie had turned from the counter. Eyes painted dark, her hair was straight and shiny and tucked behind her ears. No bra under the camisole; jeans hugging every curve. She looked too damn good for this fucking dive.
Crusher’s voice carried through the din, telling him to watch himself before he took a jar to the jaw. Nash barely clocked it; Cassie was saying something, too—something he couldn’t make out. Shaking his head, he leaned in.
“I said thank you.” Her breath moved across his cheek, sweet and sharp with peach schnapps. Her perfume hit him next—rich, unfamiliar, not that cheap shit she used to swipe from the drugstore. “For—”
Before she could finish, a blur of blonde barreled into Nash. “C’mon, Walker, dance with me.”
Shawna Keating—someone who’d warmed his bed now and then—had shoved between him and Cassie, arms looped around his neck.
Cassie’s expression cooled in an instant. She glanced toward Rook, muttered something Nash couldn’t quite hear, then turned—slipping into the crowd before he could get a word out.
He watched her go, wondering what in the fuck had just happened.
“Come on. Dance with me.” Shawna still swung from him, laughing, oblivious.
He eased her hands from his shoulders. “Not now.”
“Later?” she asked, pink lips pushing into a pout.
“Maybe.” Brushing past her, he made for the bar, signaling Darlene for his usual.
She slid him a shot and a beer without a word. He tossed back the shot, chased it with a swallow of beer, and leaned back against the counter only to find Crusher half laughing into his drink. Even Rook looked amused.
He eyed them both. “Somethin’ funny?”
Crusher guffawed. “One more run-in tonight, and it’s a goddamn hat trick.”
Snorting, Rook lifted his bottle and clinked it against Crusher’s.
Nash exhaled. “Do you ever not say the first fuckin’ thing that pops in your goddamn head?”
Crusher grinned. “No, I surely do not.”
“Fuck, no,” Rook added. “Man’s got two brain cells and one of ’em’s always drunk.”
“You keep starin’ like that, Walker, you’re liable to burn a hole clean through her.”
Nash cut Darlene a hard look. “Mind your business, Dar.”
Darlene slapped a rag across the counter, swiping up a spill. “My bar. That makes it my business.”
A couple hours had slipped by since he’d walked in.
Shooter’s had thinned some, but the noise sure as hell hadn’t.
Crusher was on the mic, murdering a Skynyrd song.
Snake had some woman pinned against the wall by the bathrooms. Rook was carving another coaster to death.
Shawna was dancing with her girlfriends, all of them singing loud and off-key.
And Cassie—goddamn Cassie—sat between Luanne and Becca, her back to the bar, shooting the shit and laughing like she hadn’t a care in the world. Like he didn’t fucking exist. Even when she got up for refills, she refused to look his way.
But him? He couldn’t stop looking.
Her being at Shooter’s, surrounded by the same crowd—it was almost like old times. Except now he couldn’t get within five feet of her without lighting her fuse. Hell, maybe that part hadn’t changed much either.
The only real difference was that she wouldn’t be climbing on the back of his bike when the night was over. Wouldn’t be wrapped around him, tearing his clothes off as they fumbled their way inside. Half the time, they never even made it to bed.
Nash drained the last of his beer, the bottle landing hard on the counter. He scanned the room for something, anything to latch onto—anyone but Cassie. Nothing. No one. Same decrepit walls, same faces, same busted jukebox that hadn’t lit up since…hell, since before she’d left.
He lifted a hand. A fresh bottle slid his way. Darlene came with it, leaning a hip on the bar, one brow ticked up. “You might could try talkin’ to her.”
“She took a bat to the booze,” Rook said down the counter. “Tried to take it to Nash, too.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Darlene’s grin spread slow. “She been gone all them years, livin’ that high life, and still comes back swingin’.” She gave the counter another wipe. “You can take the girl outta these hills, but you ain’t takin’ these hills outta the girl.”
“She looks different,” Rook said, eyes on his knife-work. “But she ain’t. Was ribbin’ Crush and me like old times.”
Just then Crusher hit a note that made the whole room groan. A guy playing darts yelled, “I’ll pay someone to take that mic away!”
Crusher bellowed back mid-song, “Hell, everybody knows you ain’t got no cash, TJ!”
“I got cash if it shuts you up!”
Grinning, Crusher turned toward the crowd, leaning into it, singing worse on purpose—until Luanne pushed her way onto the stage, shoving him aside and snatching the mic.
“That’ll be enough of that.”
“Baby,” Crusher drawled, reaching for it again, both of them gripping it tight. “I know you didn’t just take my mic.”
“Don’t you baby me,” Luanne shot back. “I ain’t your girl.”
“Oooh—” someone hollered from the back.
Crusher grinned, slow and cocky. “You could be—for tonight, that is.”
A chorus of “oh hells” and whistles broke out around Shooter’s.
Luanne scoffed, planting a hand on her hip.
“Oh, please. Just lookin’ at you, I know you ain’t worth the rug burn.”
As the crowd howled, Luanne stepped closer to Crusher, her gaze dragging slow down his body.