3. Cassidy
THREE
CASSIDY
The Greyhound rattles over the road, every bump in the asphalt hums up my spine.
I try to lean my head back, close my eyes, and sleep a little.
Should be simple enough—I’ve slept on concrete, next to bleeding friends on linoleum.
Even curled up on piss-stained couches with a busted lip and broken ribs.
So this? This should be a goddamn baby’s lullaby.
But I can’t shake off the nerves.
The world blurs in neon scars outside the window. Gas stations, motels with buzzing vacancy signs, and liquor stores that are locked behind steel gates flash before me as we head down the road—down south to Miami.
I shift in my seat, adjusting my duffel bag on my lap and ensuring that the strap is still around my body.
Everything I own is inside this bag. Though, that’s not saying much, considering it’s only a few changes of clothes, some cash, a switch blade, and a burner phone that I haven’t bothered to turn on in weeks.
Beside me, an old woman snores through her nose, peppermint and cigarettes on her breath. Her head droops toward my shoulder. I stare at her from the corner of my eye then slowly shift closer toward the window.
My fingers tap my knee in sync with the rhythm of the bus. Tic, tic, tic . Same tempo of the static that crawls beneath my skin.
How long will it be until I’m found? After rolling with Deadman’s MC for five years I managed to get out.
One second I was holding the line, the next, I saw the alley swing open behind me like a fucking invitation.
I took it. Didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.
After five years of work and climbing a ladder, I ended it.
No goodbyes. No bullet to the back of the head.
I earned my exit. I did my time—five years of being their ghost. Five years of being their muscle, their cleanup.
I did jobs that no one wanted. Pulled teeth with pliers so families could never have closure because my boss didn’t want the heat.
I can’t even count the number of bodies I wrapped in rugs and hauled out to the middle of a pasture to bury.
At first, it bothered me, seeing the lifeless faces of people that, like me, were tied to an organization either unwillingly, or because of their stupid mistakes.
But after a while, you stopped seeing the faces and they just turned into more problems for you to handle.
In the end, I kept my head down and my mouth shut, because I understood that this was my penance for them saving me.
I’ve kept my hands clean for a month now—the longest I ever have. But if someone touches her, I’ll start the body count over.
The woman who continues to haunt my nights.
Bindi Vega.
There’s an itch under my skin with her name written all over it—irritating my skin since the day she left me behind. It’s only getting louder now that I know we are so close again.
That was our deal though. I told her to leave and I stayed behind to make sure the blood trail ended at me. So she disappeared. I spent years trying to convince myself that I should just let her go, that she was better off without me. But I could never really let her go.
Instead, I rebuilt her image in my mind every night. Every detail—her voice, her laugh, the line between her brows when she was overthinking. I remembered every piece of her.
Bindi is my fucking religion, and I’ve been a devout bastard since the day she cracked that kid’s nose over a dinner roll, split it in half, and gave me the bigger piece—without even looking at me.
That’s when I knew. She didn’t just feed me, she claimed me.
For the first time in my life someone chose me .
The system chewed us both up and spat us out into different corners of Hell until we met and clung to each other. I made sure that Deadman didn’t know I cared about her. Never mentioned her name, nor kept photos. But I didn’t have to do that, it seemed as if she was already imprinted on my soul.
Her red hair, dirty fists, and a mouth like poison and poetry. She was half-feral and completely irresistible to me.
But once I trusted someone enough, and had enough money, I had them find where she had run off to.
Miami fucking Florida. I don’t think Bindi could have picked a more insufferable place to settle down in.
Makes sense though; she always loved the beach.
I would much rather prefer something that isn’t as loud—not as obnoxious.
But I guess the years of living in a home with a nautical-themed bathroom, even though we lived in a land-locked state, seemed to make her want to be by the ocean.
The bus lurches to a stop.
I rise, swing my bag over my shoulder, and step out into the Florida heat like I’m stepping into a fucking pool. The sky is bleeding across the horizon, thick and red and heavy. Looks like an omen. Feels like one too.
I stretch my neck, roll my shoulders, and breathe in deep.
It’s been five years since I touched her. Since I heard her say my name with that tremble in her voice. Since she looked at me like I was hers.
She will again.
Because I didn’t come back to haunt her.
I came back to run with her.
Like we were always meant to.