Nash’s face went hard, his voice dropping low.“Take the cash and go, Snake.”
The man’s smirk twitched, then died.Snake had heard that tone before—right before Nash put someone through a wall.
“Touchy,” he muttered, grabbing the box and backing off.“All right.I’m goin’.Text if you need me.”
As the door banged shut behind him, Nash cracked a beer and drank deep, leaving him no better off.His head still buzzed with Cassie, with Connor, with all the shit he’d fucked up and couldn’t fix.
“Nash?”Boone’s deep voice echoed across the garage.
“What.”Nash didn’t turn, just stared at the busted bolt.
“Got that package comin’ in tonight.You want me to—”
Jesus Christ.In the middle of this mess with Connor, he’d completely forgotten about business.
“Fuck.Yeah, yeah, grab a crew, keep it small.Take it to Charleston.Break it down and get rid of it quick.I don’t want nothin’ stickin’ to Clifton right now.”
Boone grunted.“You want ’em sorted first or just scattered?”
“Sorted,” Nash muttered, rubbing his temple.“Cracked, cleaned, serials gone.Split the load into thirds—move one east, one north, keep the last close.If the law comes sniffin’ after Con’s bullshit, I don’t want ‘em findin’ ours.”
Boone lingered, boots scuffing on the concrete.
Nash’s shoulders tensed.“Spit it out.”
“Some of us were wonderin’ if we’re doin’ somethin’ for Con.You know…club-side.”
Nash kept his eyes on the bolt.He hadn’t thought that far yet.Hell, he hadn’t even wrapped his head around Connor being gone for good—not just sleeping it off somewhere.But Boone was right.The club needed a sendoff, and Connor—as fucked up as these past few years had been—deserved his final ride.
Problem was, Nash didn’t have his colors.Cassie had taken them when she’d cut and run this morning.One second the leather was on the bar, the next—gone.
Just like her.
Nash let out a slow breath and finally looked at him—Macon “Boone” Saylor.Born and bred in Clifton, same as Nash, they’d grown up side by side.Boone’s old man had ridden with the Kings until the day he died, barely a year after Nash’s own father went into the ground.Out here, old age was a luxury most men never got.
“We’ll do somethin’,” Nash promised.
Boone nodded.“Want me to start makin’ calls?Get the word out?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Boone stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him.Quiet again.Nash drained the can, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it in the trash.
“Goddamn you, Con,” he muttered, staring at the empty space where Connor should’ve been—the burn marks singed into the bench from all the smokes he’d dropped while working.He could see him now, half-crouched over that old Sportster he’d been forever upgrading, cigarette dangling from his mouth, wrench set laid out backward—biggest to smallest—driving Nash batshit every time he looked at it.
“What the fuck am I s’posed to do?”
Memory hit hard—Connor’s rough, barking laugh.And right on its heels, his voice:quit your bitchin’ and figure it the fuck out—you always do.
Nash shut his eyes, jaw tightening.Yeah, he was gonna get it figured.But if he wanted to do it right…he’d have to talk to Cassie.
Cracking another beer, Nash muttered, “Just need to get it figured without your sister tryin’ to knock my fuckin’ face off.”
Chapter Five
Cassiewokeslow—blinkingheavilyat the pale stripe of light cutting through broken blind slats, catching dust like drifting ash.
Bits and pieces came back in broken flashes: meeting Ollie on the road, seeing the wreck of her childhood home; Margie’s truck; Margie herself, guiding her inside and tucking her into bed.Pulling the quilt over her…
