Gritting her teeth, she tried again, louder.“I said, thank you.For the—”
Before she could finish, a tall blonde barreled between them, looping an arm around Nash’s neck.“C’mon, Walker—dance with me!”she demanded, giggling as she tried tugging him toward the floor.
Cassie’s gratitude died in her throat.The woman—skin-tight jeans, glittery tank, bright beachy waves—was practically a mirror image of Addison at twenty-one.
“You’re right, Rook,” Cassie called over her shoulder.“Some things really don’t change.”
If Nash reacted, Cassie didn’t wait to see it.Slipping past without a backward glance, she wove through the crowd and reclaimed her seat beside Becca, cider trembling faintly in her hands.
Chapter Eleven
Nashrolledoffthethrottle, flexing his bleeding hand on the grip as he and Snake pulled up to Shooter’s, where music thumped through the thin walls.Two locals leaned against the railing, smoking.
Killing the engine, he swung a leg off and fished a rag from one of the saddlebags, wiping blood from his knuckles.Snake stayed astride his bike, tying a bandana around the bloody gash on his forehead.
“Burns like a goddamn son of a bitch.”
“Next time a tweaker’s comin’ at you, fuckin’ duck.”
“Hard to duck when the bastard’s swingin’ sideways.What’s the move now?”
Shoving the rag back into his saddlebag, Nash said, “Don’t know yet.Ask me after the funeral.”
They’d ridden out to the old rail yard—the same stretch where Connor’s body had been found…and the stink of it still hadn’t left him—same as the image of Connor laid out in it.
They’d gone out there to talk—to see who knew where the fentanyl was coming from.Should’ve been simple.Only it never was with tweakers.No one had wanted to speak to them; hell, most of them were too strung out to string a sentence together.
But when they’d come across a pair holed up in the old maintenance shed—jaws grinding, pupils blown wide as nickels—one screaming about faces in the walls and the other muttering about government spies, it had gone bad fast.By the time Snake caught a bottle to the head, Nash was already done talking.
Snake climbed off his bike, still adjusting the bandana.“You really think something else is goin’ on?”
“Ain’t a soul in that department smart enough to run anything bigger than a church raffle.But I damn sure wouldn’t put it past Tate to plant that shit on Con, tryin’ to get to us.”
Nash shoved though Shooter’s door, shaking his head.“Man’s had a hard-on for the club since gettin’ himself elected.”
They stepped into a wall of music and voices, Luanne Hayes on the mic.The place was packed—half the damn county crammed inside, Christmas lights strung over the stage throwing everything red and green.
“Gonna clean up.”Snake peeled off toward the bathroom while Nash scanned the room, spotting Crusher.He started toward him, trying to shake his mood, when he stopped short, his gaze snagging on a familiar shape wedged between Crusher and Rook.
Cassie was balanced on the brass foot rail, bent toward the bar, hips swaying in time with the music.His gaze traced the flex of her shoulder blades before catching on the faint scatter of freckles just below her hairline.
Her spot.
His spot.
Jesus.He could almost taste the salt of her skin—
Cassie barreled into the garage, her backpack hitting the floor with a careless thunk, violin case thudding beside it.Without a word, she went straight to the CD player and swapped out Waylon Jennings for Bach’s Air on the G String—of all fucking things.
“Aw, come on, Cas.Not this fuckin’ shit again,” Sarge grumbled from under the hood of the Chevelle.
From across the garage, Maverick called out, “Hell, let the girl play her songs.From where I’m standin’, y’all could use a little gussyin’ up.”
Connor appeared from behind a Nova, wiping grease from his hands.“You give her an inch, Mav, next thing you know she’ll be makin’ us waltz.”
Maverick snorted.“Only dancin’ I’m doin’ is on this transmission’s grave.”
Cassie was humming by the time she reached Nash’s bay, fingers drifting across his battered workbench, trailing over his sweat-slicked back before dropping down beside him and snatching a crumpled magazine from the corner.
