Chapter Twenty-One #2
Luanne slowed as they turned into Margie’s drive, her headlights catching Nash’s truck still parked where Cassie had left it that morning.
“You want help?” Luanne asked, glancing toward the back of the Jeep.
They’d driven through two counties, stopping at every pawn shop listed on Connor’s receipts. Some had nothing. Others had more than she’d expected. The back seat was covered in bags now, filled with bits and pieces of a home that no longer existed.
“No.” Cassie was already unbuckling. “I got it.” She hesitated. “I’d invite you in, but I think I just need to be alone right now.”
“I get it. Call me if you need me.”
“I will. And—thanks, Luey. For today. For the funeral, for—”
“Girl, please,” Luanne muttered, waving her off. “We’re always friends. Hell, you could disappear for another ten years and we’d still be.”
Warmth hit Cassie at her words—and then something quick and painful.
She grabbed her bags from the back, pausing with one hand on the open door. “It’ll never be that long again,” she promised softly.
Then the Jeep was gone, rolling down the drive with its headlights sweeping once across the yard before disappearing into the dark.
Margie’s kitchen windows glowed warm ahead, voices drifting faintly through the glass beneath the steady chorus of cicadas. Bags in hand, Cassie crossed the yard and stepped inside, stopping just outside the kitchen.
Margie and Charlie weren’t alone. Nash and Junie sat opposite them at the table, listening as Margie spoke animatedly.
“Hey there, Cas.” Charlie was the first to notice her, and the room quieted, everyone turning toward her though she only had eyes for Nash.
He didn’t look angry or defensive. If anything, he seemed like he was taking her in, trying to read her.
“Looks like you found somethin’,” Margie said, nodding toward the bags in her hands.
“Yeah.” Cassie shifted her grip. “I’m just gonna go put this stuff down…”
The words trailed off as she stepped back and turned away.
In the spare room, she set the bags on the bed and stood there, feeling utterly directionless. She didn’t know if she should go back downstairs—if Nash even wanted her sitting at that table with Junie after this morning—or if it was better to just stay out of everybody’s way.
She was still staring at the bags when footsteps hit the stairs, then the hall. A moment later Nash appeared in the doorway.
“Thought maybe we should talk—” he started, just as Cassie exhaled, “I’m sorry about this morning—”
He tipped his head, mouth twisting slightly. “Two sorries in how many days? Thinkin’ it might be a record.”
A reluctant smile slipped through mood. “You’d probably be right.”
Downstairs, Junie let out a peal of laughter, followed by Margie and Charlie chuckling, and her smile evaporated. Her eyes flicked toward the hall.
“Junie…is she…okay?”
“She’s…fine.” Nash paused to rub a hand over his neck. “Listen. That shit with Addy—that ain’t new. You’re just her latest target.” His voice dropped. “And if I’m bein’ honest? She’s madder than usual ’cause it’s you.”
His hand tightened on the doorframe, then eased. His gaze hardened. “Cas, about what she said—”
“Don’t.” Her sharp reply cut through the room. “I’ve been to half the pawnshops in the state tryin’ to get pieces of my family back. I don’t want to fight or…” She swallowed. “Just—not tonight.”
“You should’ve told me,” he ground out. “I deserved to know.”
Cassie looked away, nostrils flaring. “I know. But—”
“But,” he cut in, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut behind him. “I get why you didn’t.”
Surprise shut her right up. She tried to form words—a thought, anything that wasn’t just shock sitting heavy in her throat.
“I woulda never let you go,” he said, even quieter now. “To the clinic. To college. I woulda forced you to keep a kid neither of us were ready for…” He trailed off with a sharp shrug. “Just to keep you here.”
The brutal honesty of it knocked the breath from her—she sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed her palms to her thighs.
“That’s…” She let out a humorless laugh and shook her head. “That’s disturbingly self-aware of you.”
“Ain’t always as stupid as you think I am,” he muttered. “Hell, I woulda never had Junie if me and you…stayed together.” His gaze moved to the door, like he could see her through it. “Much as I’d love to dropkick Addy off a cliff most days, that kid is…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. His love for his daughter was written all over him.
“For the record,” she said softly, “I don’t think you’re stupid—just stubborn as hell.”
“That so?” Nash’s mouth twitched. “You know, that might be the nicest thing you ever said to me.”
She returned his smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dare—I know who I’m talkin’ to.”
“You implyin’ I’m mean?”
“Mean?” he echoed. “You’re a holy fuckin’ terror, and you damn well know it.”
“I don’t know what that makes you, then,” she replied with a huff, “seein’ as you seem to really enjoy bein’ terrorized by me.”
Nash shifted forward, coming to stand over her. Nudging her knees apart with his, he stepped in close. “Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth,” he said quietly.
They held each other’s gaze, heat curling low in her belly. But, Jesus, she wasn’t about to jump him in Margie’s spare bedroom…especially not with Junie downstairs.
Clearing her throat, she reached for the nearest bag and dragged it forward. “You’re gonna want to see what I found.”
Nash’s focus dropped to the bag; backing off, he sat down beside her, watching as she eased the carefully wrapped clock free.
“First place we stopped,” she told him, peeling the paper back, “my family’s clock was hanging right there on the wall. Guy tried to tell me it was carved by Mennonites…” A short laugh slipped out of her.
“Look at that.” Nash ran his hand along the detailing at the top. “At the risk of soundin’ like my old man…they just don’t make shit like they used to.”
Murmuring in agreement, Cassie set it aside and grabbed another bag. One by one, she began laying things out on the bedspread: Connor’s leather jacket—heavy and worn, still in good condition. A solid silver belt buckle, filigreed and gaudy as hell.
“Hideous,” she said with a small laugh. “I made fun of him whenever he wore it.”
“We all did,” Nash added. “’Til realizin’ it just made him wear it more.”
Next came a large leather sheath. Nash took it from her before she could say a word, drawing the titanium blade just enough to reveal the Kings of Anarchy emblem—and Connor’s initials etched beneath. His gaze stayed on the knife like he was seeing something only he could see.
“Keep it,” Cassie said.
His eyes lifted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. What am I gonna do with it? Strap it to my violin? Sword fight on stage?”
She reached for the last big item—an old toolbox, dented red and covered in more rust than paint.
“I knew it,” Nash growled, snatching it straight out of her hands. “I fuckin’ knew he stole it. Hell, all Mav’s antique tools were—”
He popped the latches and let loose a string of curses.
“All the tools are gone—sold,” Cassie said, apologetic. “But the shopkeeper found this inside.” She pulled a dented Polaroid from her pocket and offered it to Nash. “Said she keeps photos and such—case someone comes back.”
A slow smile spread across Nash’s face as he took in the snapshot of Maverick and Margie—Mav’s arm around her waist, Margie tilted back in a kiss. She looked half-laughing, half-scowling, like she’d been caught mid-protest. Mav and Marge, 1986 was scrawled across the bottom in fading black ink.
“Do you think she’d want it?” Cassie asked, nodding toward the photo. “All things considered…I wasn’t sure.”
“Can’t hurt to ask—might do her good, seein’ it. Knowin’ where it’s been all this time.”
Cassie frowned. “You think her findin’ out Mav kept her picture in his toolbox all the while he was married to your mama would do her good?”
“I don’t know—would it do you any good?”
“Would what do me any good?”
“Knowin’ I kept your picture in my kit all these years?”
The room went quiet, their eyes locking.
“Did you?”
Nash stared at her long enough that her stomach flipped. Had he really done that? And why did she suddenly want the answer to be yes?
Then he jerked back with a laugh. “Nope.”
“Asshole,” she hissed, smacking his arm.
Catching her wrist, Nash yanked her closer. “But I think you just answered yourself.” He dragged his mouth over hers—slow at first, then deeper when she leaned into it.
“Stubborn and oh, so fucking arrogant,” she breathed, between kisses.
“You’re the one suckin’ my face,” he retorted, pulling back just enough to look at her.
“’Sides,” he continued, his hand moving from her wrist to her waist, “I didn’t need a photo.
Your face is everywhere. The club’s books.
Margie’s mantle. The walls of the Rooster.
Ain’t a damn place in these hills I’ve ever been able to hide from you. ”
For a moment, they just looked at one another, Cassie seeing the truth of them so clearly it hurt.
She’d been able to disappear into other places, other noise, while Nash had stayed right here, confronting it every day without answers.
It didn’t erase what he’d done—didn’t erase what she’d kept from him, either.
Cassie found her hand on his face, fingertips grazing through his beard. “I really am sorry for how I handled things.” Her voice caught slightly. “For all of it.”
Nash held her gaze, looking like he wanted to argue, then didn’t. His eyes softened for half a second before dropping to her mouth, the hand on her hip squeezing tight enough to make her breath catch. His other hand came up, sliding into her hair, gripping tight.
And then they were kissing, hard and hungry, and when he shifted as if to pull her into his lap, she broke away first, shoving him back against the mattress.
Climbing over him, she shoved his cut open, hands sliding up his chest before tangling into his hair as she bent and caught his mouth again—