23. Cash
CASH
Dawson’s barn smells like old leather, motor oil, and the faint trace of weed that never quite leaves no matter how many times we air it out.
The string lights we hung up last summer are buzzing faintly overhead, and the old speakers in the corner are playing some twangy country song that none of us actually know the words to.
Makai lines up another throw, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth like he’s aiming for Olympic gold instead of just trying to beat me at darts for once. He lets it fly and it sticks just outside the triple twenty.
“Goddamn it.”
I laugh and lean back against the old pool table we dragged in here a couple years ago. “You throw like you text your girlfriend—all hope, no results.”
Makai flips me off and goes to pull his darts out of the board. “At least I have someone to text.”
“Yeah, and it’s clearly going great for you,” I say, grabbing my beer off the edge of the table. “She’s been ignoring you for what … six hours now? That’s gotta be some kind of record.”
He checks his phone again, jaw tight. “She said she’d text when she got back to the hotel from the show …”
I take a long pull from my bottle and shrug. “Maybe she’s busy, or maybe she finally realized dating you is a full-time job and she needed a night off.”
Makai doesn’t laugh, he just keeps staring at his phone like if he glares at it hard enough, Maggie might magically text him back. Then he tries calling Dawson again.
I roll my eyes and line up my own throw. The dart hits clean in the bullseye, but I don’t even celebrate it. I just walk over and yank the darts out like it’s nothing.
This is what I’ve been doing the last few days. Dawson is out of town, and Rhett would rather me be on house arrest. So I’ve just been shooting the shit with Makai, trying to forget that the letter Rhett shoved at me on the porch is still sitting in my jacket pocket like a loaded gun.
Because I already know what it probably says. Some wise, old-man bullshit about love and family and not being a fucking idiot. And right now, I’m not in the mood to be told I’m a fucking idiot by a dead guy who used to slip me whiskey when my parents weren’t looking.
Sorry, Grandpa; I love you, but I don’t need your wisdom.
Makai’s call to Maggie goes to voicemail again. He curses under his breath and tries Dawson one more time, pacing across the concrete floor like a caged animal.
“Bro,” I say, not even trying to hide how over this I am. “You’ve called him like five times. Cell service probably sucks. Leave the man alone before he blocks your number.”
“He’s staying at the same hotel as Maggie,” Makai says, like that’s supposed to explain everything. “If anyone can check on her, it’s him.”
I throw another dart, harder than I need to.
It sticks just left of center. “Or you could just … not. Let her breathe. Jesus Christ, you’re acting like she got kidnapped or something.
She’s probably just busy or doesn’t feel like being attached to her phone every second of the day. Not everything is a fucking crisis.”
Makai finally looks at me, and for a second I think he might actually throw a dart at my head. “You don’t get it.”
“You’re right,” I say, grabbing my beer again. “I don’t. Because I’m not the one losing my goddamn mind over a girl who probably just has bad reception. This is exactly why I’m done with all that shit.”
I drop into one of the old leather chairs and prop my boots up on the coffee table.
“Relationships are a fucking headache,” I continue, waving my beer toward him.
“You spend all your time worrying about what they’re doing, who they’re with, if they’re gonna text back fast enough—it’s exhausting.
I’d rather just … not. Single. Simple. No one to answer to; no one to stress over.
I go out, I have fun, I go home. End of story. ”
I finish my beer and set the bottle down harder than I mean to. The sound echoes through the barn.
My phone starts vibrating in my pocket, and I pull it out to see Miranda’s name lighting up the screen.
I answer on the second ring. “Yeah?”
“Cash,” Miranda says, and the tone of her voice makes me sit up straighter. She doesn’t bullshit around. “I got the background check back on Zachariah Mercer.”
My stomach tightens. “And?”
There’s a short pause on her end. “Where’s Halle right now?”
I check the time on my phone.
One fifteen.
“Closing The Bar by herself tonight.”
Miranda doesn’t waste time. “Has her ex ever threatened her?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Yeah. He has.”
Another pause, then her voice comes back sharper. “His car ran a red light in a city about thirty minutes outside Cedarbrook around forty-five minutes ago—heading in that direction.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
Miranda keeps going. “I don’t like the timing of this, Cash. You need to get to The Bar. Now.”
I’m already standing up. “I’m heading there,” I say, already moving toward the door. “Send me the background check.”
“It’s sending now,” she says. “Be careful.”
I hang up and shove the phone in my pocket, my heart beating faster than it should. Something feels off. Really fucking off.
Makai finally looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised. “Everything good?”
“No,” I say, already grabbing my keys off the table. “I gotta go.”
He sits up straighter. “What’s going on?”
I don’t have time to explain everything. “Halle might be in trouble. If you get a hold of Dawson, tell him to call me as soon as he can. Tell him it’s important.”
Makai’s expression shifts, the usual easygoing look gone. “You want me to come with you?”
“No. Stay here in case Dawson calls.” I’m already heading for the door. “Just pass the message on.”
“Cash—”
“I’ll call you when I know what’s going on,” I cut him off, already halfway out.
The cold night air hits me as I jog across the gravel to my truck. I yank the door open and slide in, starting the engine before I’ve even shut the door all the way. My phone buzzes in my pocket again—the background check from Miranda coming through.
I don’t open it.
I just throw the truck in drive and peel out of the lot, tires kicking up dust behind me as I head toward town.
Toward The Bar.
Toward her.
My hands are tight on the wheel, jaw clenched so hard it hurts.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m walking into, but every instinct I’ve got is screaming that something’s wrong.
That Zach showing up isn’t some random coincidence.
That I should’ve gone to her sooner instead of sitting around pretending I didn’t give a shit.
I press down harder on the gas.
I’m coming, Darlin’.
Just hold on.