Chapter Fourteen
Connor’s cut hung over the Beast’s front end, armholes looped over the hangers so the leather draped across the headlight like a shield. The bottom patch shivered with the engine’s idle while Nash waited for Cassie to climb on.
When she didn’t, he glanced back. She was still standing there, staring at the bike like it was a stranger.
Hell, maybe it was.
He reached a hand back in offering, almost against his better judgment.
Her eyes flicked down to his hand, something stubborn cutting across her face. Then she grabbed the bitch bar, planted her boot on the peg, and swung up on her own. Tucking her skirt tight between her thighs, she settled in behind him, just barely touching.
“You good?” he called over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” she answered, voice clear over the engine’s rumble.
He nodded once and eased out the clutch, the Beast rolling smooth as they wound down the ridge, deeper into the hollow. Fence lines sagged, rusted mailboxes jutted through weeds, porch lights flickered on where shadows stood behind screens, watching them pass.
The sun dropped fast, pulling the color from the hills. Cassie still hadn’t leaned in. Her knees barely touched him, hands gripping the bar behind her like she was keeping a promise to herself.
But distance didn’t hold at fifty miles an hour. Not on this road.
He downshifted at the old mill, the Beast snarling louder than it needed to.
She flinched—barely—and her hands caught his sides, thighs tightening at his hips. Nash grinned quick and mean.
The climb steepened. Moss slicked the switchbacks, guardrails rusted and bowed toward the drop. The air hung thick and wet, carrying the promise of a storm that hadn’t broken. Nothing but engines, wind, and Cassie goddamn Berry on the back of the Beast…after all these years.
At the ridge top, the world opened wide—tin rooftops scattered through blue-green valleys, back roads twisting away into dusk. Nash signaled and turned onto the overlook, the Beast’s tires grating over loose stone. The others followed, bikes fanning into a half-circle facing the drop.
One by one, the engines died, boots hitting the ground almost in unison as Crusher pulled a bottle of Jack from his saddlebag, cracked the seal, and took a long drink before handing it to Sarge. It passed slow down the line, each man tipping it once before passing it on.
Cassie had already slid off. Arms crossed, hair tugging in the wind, she stepped toward the edge and looked out over the valley Connor had always claimed was his.
When the bottle reached Nash, he followed her to the ledge, pouring a small measure into the open air, whiskey flashing once before the dark took it. Taking his own swallow, he handed it over.
Cassie grasped the bottle, their fingers brushing. “I forgot how much he loved this place,” she said, taking a sip. “He always said he could think better up here.”
Nash said nothing. The wind was tugging at his leather, at his memories—
Boots kicked out in front of him, Nash sat shoulder to shoulder with Connor on the overlook.
They’d ridden up late, still buzzing from a messy run moving ghost-pieces across state lines.
The cash was in hand, but Connor kept cracking his knuckles while Nash’s knee bounced, his umpteenth cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers.
Dawn crept slow while they passed a bottle back and forth, drinking off the nerves. Nash lit another cigarette he didn’t want, thumb flicking the lighter open and shut.
“Con,” he muttered. “Listen. I, uh—”
Connor didn’t look at him. Just took a long pull, eyes fixed on the dark.
Nash cleared his throat. “I been thinkin’. And I don’t…shit, I don’t want this to be weird, but—.”
Connor finally cut him a glance, brow raised.
“Jesus. All right,” Nash tried again. “You know how me and Cas been hangin’ out a lot.”
“That so? Thought you were just givin’ her rides?”
“Well, yeah. I give her a ride and then we…hang out.”
Connor stared, unblinking. “Okay. And?”
Nash blew out a breath. “And it ain’t the same anymore.”
“What ain’t?”
“Me and her. We ain’t the same.”
Connor squinted. “What the fuck does that mean? You growin’ gills or somethin’?”
Nash flicked ash. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“Only to people who talk stupid.”
Nash dragged in a breath. “All right, shithead. I think I love her.”
Silence.
“You hear me?” Nash pressed, louder now. “I love her. I love Cassie. Jesus, man, you gonna fuckin’ say somethin’?”
Connor burst out laughing—sharp, sudden, head thrown back, hand to his chest like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
Nash’s shoulders locked. “The fuck is so funny?”
Connor grinned through it. “You really think I didn’t know what y’all been doin’?”
“We weren’t—” Nash started, then stopped. “We didn’t—”
“Man,” Connor cut in, still grinning, “I been hearing you climb up the side of my house and into her room for how long now? You ain’t stealthy.”
Nash looked away, heat creeping up his neck, replaying every night in that room and feeling like a total jackass.
The silence stretched.
“I ain’t mad,” Connor said finally, voice low. “Just don’t hurt her. I mean it, man—she’s already lost so much.”
Nash blinked hard, the sound of Connor fading into the wind. Cassie stood beside him in the very spot her brother had once sat, and he wondered if she felt it too—the weight of old promises long broken.
It was nearing ten when they crossed the county line, engines rolling slow through ridge smoke that rose off the asphalt like breath.
Up ahead, the glow of Slagheap Sally's Roadhouse bled through the trees—a crooked beast of weather-stained timber and flickering signs.
What had begun as convenience had become ritual.
A drink at Sally's before the ride home. Tonight would be Connor's last.
Inside, the air was thick with music, laughter, and the crack of pool balls.
The Kings spread out fast—claiming tables and ordering rounds—while Nash took his usual place at the bar.
He kept his back to the bottles, one eye on the door, one on the room.
Habit—something his old man had drilled into him. Always keep your sightlines clear.
Didn’t matter tonight. He wasn’t seeing a damn thing but her.
Cassie was mid-game with Snake. Boot braced on the rail, she leaned in and took aim, the low cut of her dress revealing all that smooth skin and the hotter-than-fuck line of her back—and the sight of it was nearly as brutal as having her on his bike all night.
Nash took a pull from the glass, gritted teeth, heat burning both ways down.
Somewhere beyond the noise of his pulse, the room broke into cheers and laughter as Cassie dipped into a theatrical bow.
Eyes flashing, Snake leaned into her, saying something Nash couldn’t hear—and didn’t need to.
The smug curl of Snake’s mouth was enough to have Nash drop his glass to the counter and push off the bar, only to freeze when Cassie let out a sharp, unbothered laugh.
Then she hip-checked Snake straight out of her space and bent into her next shot. Another clean sink.
Nash, cursing under his breath, reclaimed his glass and took another drink.
“Still kickin’ asses and takin’ names,” Boone said, shaking his head. “You reckon she’s been swindlin’ boys outta their wallets from here to Timbuktu?”
Nash didn’t answer. He didn’t take his eyes off her either.
Yeah, she could still run a table and hold her own with the meanest of them, but neither was she the same girl who used to hop on the back of his bike at two in the morning, stand on the pegs, arm in the air, and dare him faster.
Didn’t mean she’d mellowed any—hell no, she was still chaos walking.
But all that beauty and brash just cut cleaner now, tempered by time and whatever else she’d lived through.
And for Nash, who’d missed the years that carved her, looking at her was starting to feel less like admiration and more like… another kind of funeral.
“Who’s next?” Cassie pointed her cue at Crusher, grinning. “Rack ’em, Crush. I’ll be back.”
“She’ll be back!” an out-of-state King bellowed, dropping into a rough Schwarzenegger growl. “Hasta la vista, Crusher!”
Cassie laughed with the rest as she wove through the crowd, disappearing down the hallway toward the bathrooms. When she reappeared, Boone called out her name, waving her over. Nash shot his friend a look, only to be ignored as Cassie slid into the open spot between them.
Boone tapped the counter, motioning the bartender over. “Get this lady a drink,” he said. “Whiskey, all right, Cas?”
“And a beer,” she added, nodding.
The bartender—a wiry old man in a grease-stained apron who’d been working Sally’s longer than Nash had been alive—slid a whiskey and a long-neck beside it.
“You’re even better than I remember,” Boone said, exhaling smoke. “You still hustlin’ backroom stick while you’re off livin’ that fancy fiddle life?”
“Fancy fiddle life,” she echoed with a laugh. “Boone, I’m a musician. I rehearse nonstop and live out of suitcases half the year.” She took a sip of whiskey and grimaced. “But yeah—I still like closing down a bar now and then.”
Boone nodded around another drag of smoke. “You got folks out there who’ve got your back?”
A softer smile flickered, and Nash wondered who she was thinking of.
“Yeah,” she said. “You’d like ’em, too.”
“They drink and talk shit?”
“Constantly.”
“Then I already do.” Boone lifted his glass, prompting Cassie to clink hers against it.
“Y'all excuse me a minute,” he said, shoving out of his seat. “I gotta hit the head.”
While Boone walked off, giving Nash a pointed look over the top of Cassie’s head, Nash tracked him for a second too long before clearing his throat.
“You always play that clean, or was Snake just easy pickin’s?"
Cassie shot him a glance, her lips twisting into a smirk. “You should know. You’ve been staring since we got here.”
Nash held her gaze. “What can I say—always did like watchin’ you run a table.”
Her smirk deepened. “That so? Guess you used to be better at hiding it.”
“Used to be better at a lot of shit,” he said, half a smile of his own creeping up. “Like keepin’ my damn distance.”
“Now that’s a damn lie, and you know it. You couldn’t stay away. Always showing up wherever I was, findin’ excuses to give me rides. Thought you were real smooth with all them cheesy one-liners.”
Cassie took a sip of her drink, her green eyes glinting. “You keep standin’ there watchin’ me, little Berry,” she mocked in a comically deep voice. “You might as well climb up on.”
Nash found himself leaning into the bar—into her space. Barely sixteen and trying to show off at the garage, he’d gotten clocked twice for that one—first by Connor, second by his old man.
“Worked, didn’t it?” he murmured.
She tilted her head, her smirk returning. “Maybe. Or maybe I just liked watchin’ you try.”
She tossed back the rest of the whiskey, grabbed the beer, and drifted back toward the tables. Just before disappearing into the noise, she glanced over her shoulder, eyes catching his for half a heartbeat. Heat pooled low and cruel—a hell of a lot more than just a spark this time.
Slow this time, Nash took a long drink, letting the burn do what it could.
Boone dropped onto the stool beside him. “Christ, Nash, just go get your goddamn girl.”
Nash’s eyes stayed on the crowd. “She ain’t my girl no more.”
Boone snorted. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.”
Across the room, Cassie’s laugh rang out—a little drunk, and bright enough to hit him right where it fucking hurt.
It sounded like the good parts—back when his old man was still here, Connor too; back when life was young and loud, and full of fight—and goddamn it, he wanted to grab it, drag it back, make it fucking stay this time.
“Fuck it,” he bit out, throwing back what was left of his drink and setting his glass down hard enough to make the bar jump. Pulling Connor’s folded cut from his vest, he handed it off to Boone.
Boone’s laugh rumbled after him. “Atta boy.”