Chapter Twenty-Two
Nash ducked under the half-raised bay door and stepped into a wall of heat and grease. Music pulsed low, while a couple of guys in the main bay worked on stripping down a boosted pickup—hood up, doors open, parts laid out in neat rows.
“Shut that fuckin’ door,” he barked, walking past the pickup without slowing.
“It’s hotter than hell in here,” a prospect muttered. “Ain’t nobody—”
Nash stopped fast, turned, and stared at the younger man until the rest of the sentence died in his throat.
“Half is still open. And I don’t need somebody’s mamaw driving by on her way to church and blabbing to half the goddamn town.”
He kept moving, headed into the back bay where the noise thinned and the reason he was here sat on rolling carts and worktables.
Hard cases lined the floor, black and scuffed.
Several were popped open—one showing foam cutouts holding a mix of silver and matte black handguns.
Another case held longer shapes—rifles in pieces.
Nash stalked between benches, counting the cases. Counting what was visible. He counted the men in the room, too—who was actually working and whose attention kept drifting.
“Get off your phones,” he added, eyes cutting to Crusher.
Crusher went a little sheepish as his hand came up from under the table and set his phone aside.
“I want this shit moved—yesterday,” Nash muttered, heading for the office.
Christ, they’d only just dealt the last of the previous load, and with Con’s death still hanging in the air, Nash had been crystal clear with the supply chain: keep the product away from Clifton until the heat died down.
So when Boone had called at the ass crack of dawn and said there was another shipment, Nash had been forced to drop Junie half-asleep at Addison’s and haul ass up into town with his nerves strung tight as a wire.
He checked the padlock on the office door, then checked it again before testing the latch on the back bay. Not because he didn’t trust his people—because he knew what panic could turn people into—and he knew better than to trust timing that didn’t match the plan.
Finished with the locks, Nash claimed an empty station and started working—but not before firing off a text asking Cassie to call him when she woke up.
By mid-afternoon, the garage was nearly empty. The last of the boys were packing up the last of the shit, moving with that quiet, efficient speed that meant they wanted it gone as bad as he did.
Standing alone in the bay, Nash checked Cassie’s thread again. He’d sent another message later that morning. Nothing crazy…just seeing what was what.
Still no reply
He hit call anyway, letting it ring until her voicemail cut in, ending it before the beep.
“Yeah,” he muttered, shoving his phone in his pocket. “All right then.”
He wasn’t the kind of man who chased women—even when the woman was Cassie Berry.
He’d only just turned to leave and was in the process of locking up the place when his phone rang. His hand was on it before his brain caught up—and the second he saw the name, whatever had lifted in him fell straight back down.
“What?” he ground out, heading for his truck.
“Junie left her pack in your truck,” Addison snapped.
Nash opened his mouth, shut it again. “Be there in ten,” he muttered, and hit end, shoving the phone away.
Inside the cab, sure enough, Junie’s blue backpack was on the floorboard, half shoved beneath the passenger seat.
Fifteen minutes later, after he handed the bag off and was back in his truck, he tried calling Cassie again. Because while he wasn’t the kind of man who chased women, that apparently didn’t apply to Cassie goddamn Berry.
Voicemail.
So that was it. She was ignoring him. Or she’d cut and run and was already on a plane back to somewhere else—New York, France, hell if he knew. Somewhere that wasn’t here.
Tossing his phone onto the seat, he told himself he was headed to the clubhouse—just to put his hands on something. Find something that needed fixing. Anything that wasn’t this.
But instead of taking the turn toward the club, he found himself headed into the ridge. Just for a look, he told himself. Just to see if her car was there. Just to shut his fucking brain up.
Margie’s place came up fast, Nash slowing the moment he saw the empty space beside Margie’s truck. He pulled in anyway, killed the engine, and sat there for half a second with his hand on the wheel.
“She ain’t back yet,” Margie called out. She stood with a groan in the middle of her wild yard, a pile of fresh-picked tomatoes tucked up in her shirt.
Nash’s shoulders loosened some. “Where’s she at?”
“County. Went to the market this mornin’ for my bacon, then she was stoppin’ to see that girl—the one Con was always runnin’ around with. Should be back any minute now.”
“Goddammit,” Nash muttered, heat rising fast. “I told her I’d take her.”
“Oh for the love of God and sweet tea—Cassie’s a big girl, Nash. You think she can’t manage at a hospital on her own?” She jerked her chin toward the vines. “Now c’mon. Get your ass over here and help me bring in the tomatoes.”
He almost said no. Almost told her he had shit to do—mostly because part of him was already halfway down the road, headed for Wierswood Medical to tear Cassie a new one for going without him.
For not even telling him. For making him feel like a fucking idiot standing here wondering where the hell she was.
Instead, he swallowed it down and did as he was told. Wouldn’t do him any good for Cassie to see him like this—pissed off and possessive, the same ugly streak she only ever seemed to like when he had her pinned beneath him.
By the time they finished dinner—Margie’s infamous cornbread and tomato gravy—Margie and Charlie were at the sink, Margie washing dishes while Charlie dried, while Nash killed a second cup of coffee and stared down at his phone.
Still nothing from Cassie.
He’d checked her room already—sticking his head in on his way to the bathroom—and found her suitcase, her violin, all of it still there.
Proof she hadn’t run off.
And yet she still hadn’t come back.
He checked his phone again.
No reply.
He dropped the phone onto the table harder than he meant to, and Margie glanced over her shoulder, caught the look on his face, and made a sound under her breath.
“What?” he asked, too sharp.
Margie spun around, brandishing a soapy spoon at him. “Now don’t go actin’ like an ass in my kitchen.”
“I’m not,” he bit back. “I’m just—”
“Oh, I know exactly what you’re doin’,” Margie huffed. “Been that way with her since the summer she started fillin’ out. Ain’t changed a lick, I guess.”
Nash shoved his chair back. “Yeah, well, I kept better track of her back then.”
“You know she don’t keep her ringer on,” Margie called after him. “Maybe she met up with Luey and got to talkin’—oh, hell…there he goes.”
Nash swung his truck slowly through the main lot at Wierswood Medical, eyes moving row to row for Cassie’s little rental. The sun was still up—low enough to turn every windshield into a goddamn sheet of glare.
He didn’t see it.
Which didn’t mean a damn thing. Folks parked wherever they wanted around here—in the grass, up on curbs.
Hell, she could’ve gone in through the emergency entrance or pulled down a side street.
Either way, squinting at windshields wasn’t going to conjure her up—so he parked and headed for the main doors.
Inside, a semi-circular desk framed the quiet lobby. The security guard seated behind it lifted a hand in greeting.
Relief flickered—small and stupid. If Nash was going to get stonewalled, he’d rather it be by somebody he knew than some brand-new rent-a-cop.
Ray Ellis was good people—unofficially, of course.
A familiar face at the garage now and then, and once or twice, when the club needed something they couldn’t exactly walk into a drugstore and buy, Ellis had helped out in a pinch.
Not for free. Not as charity. But because life in these goddamn hills was complicated, and favors were better currency than cash had ever been.
“Walker.” Ellis smiled at his approach. “Don’t tell me you’re needin’ stitches again?”
Nash stopped at the counter, rapping the wood with his knuckles. “Not today,” he said. “Wondering if a Cassie Berry came in today. Five-foot-nothin’. Dark hair. Damn hard to miss, if you know what I mean.”
“Hell, I haven’t seen a pretty face in days.” Ellis laughed, turning to his screen and pulling the keyboard closer. “Only been on since five,” he added. “Lemme check.”
Nash folded his arms over his chest, scanning the faces in the lobby beyond. A nearby elevator dinged, opened, and out came an orderly pushing a cart, his sneakers squeaking across the floor.
Ellis stopped typing. “Cassandra Berry,” he read. “Yeah, man. She came in this mornin’.”
Nash’s annoyance tightened into focus. “She still here?”
“Naw,” Ellis replied, still reading. “Looks like she wasn’t even given a visitor’s pass.”
And just like that, he was annoyed all over again. “Why not?”
“Looks like…patient she was askin’ for weren’t here.”
Nash’s eyes narrowed. “Weren’t here? That girl was in a goddamn coma two days ago—”
Ellis’s fingers stilled. He glanced up, surprised. “Coma? Ain’t heard nothin’ round here about a coma. You got a name on the patient?”
Nash paused, jaw working while he tried to remember what Ollie had said. “Maya…” he replied. “Maya—fuck, that’s all I got.”
Ellis turned back to the screen and started typing again. Two nurses in scrubs cut across the lobby together, both lifting a hand as they headed out.
“Night, Ellis.”
“Night, ladies—drive safe,” Ellis called back, still typing.
“All right,” he continued, voice lower. “I don’t got access to everything, but…it says here she was admitted by ambulance.”
He paused, eyes flicking as he read.
“A’yup. Ain’t say nothin’ about a coma on my end,” he added. “But it does say she checked herself out last night.”
For half a second, Nash didn’t move.