“Why don’t you fuck off,” Snake clapped back.
“Okay, kiddos,” Kara interjected.“Put the testosterone away—I just got my bar back!”
When no one answered—mainly because everyone was still glaring at Snake, and Snake was glaring right back—she slapped her rag across the bar with a loud crack.
“Hey!Hello?Earth to all you matching jacket motherfuckers—”
“Now someone better fill me in on this Cassie and Nash drama from back in the day.Y’all know I don’t get out much.Gimme the gossip.”
Yeah, Nash,” Snake said, eyes still locked on him.“Fill us in on all the ways you—”
Nash shot to his feet, but Sarge cut in first.
“They were kids, ya goddamn vultures.”
“Then they weren’t,” Sarge went on.“Shit happened.Some of it bad timing.Some of it bad decisions.”
He tipped back the rest of his Ole Smoky and set the glass down hard.
“An’ far as I can tell, neither one of ’em ever got over it.End of fuckin’ story.”
Silence settled around the room.Nash turned away from Snake and looked at Sarge instead.Sarge held his gaze, expression unreadable, like he’d said more than he meant to—and didn’t regret a word of it.
“Bad decisions,” Kara murmured, lips twisting.“That code for you fucked it up, huh, Nash?”
Nash sat back down in his seat, exhaling hard through his nose.
“Yep,” he gritted out through his teeth.“I fucked it up.”
He glanced around the bar, then back to his beer.
“Now,” he added, slightly calmer, “does anybody need that carved in stone, or can I finish my goddamn drink in peace?”
Without waiting for a reply, Nash tipped the bottle back and was halfway through a long pull when the front door slammed open and Crusher stormed in, boots pounding, hair wild.
“You ain’t gonna believe this shit,” he barked.“I was ridin’ down Dry Fork when the law came flyin’ past—two sheriff rigs and a county truck.”
He scanned the room, still short of breath.
“Figured them Barter boys finally blew their meth shack sky-high.So I followed—for the gram.”
He swallowed, voice dropping.
“But they pulled up at Con’s ol’ place.Hauled somebody out on a stretcher.”
Nash’s stool scraped hard as he shoved back.
“Cassie?”he asked, already moving.
“Don’t know,” Crusher called after him.“Couldn’t see.”
Nash hit the door, boots kicking up dirt as he flew across the lot and threw a leg over his bike.His hands shook while he jammed the key into the ignition.
They didn’t send medics into the holler unless somebody was dying—and sometimes not even then.
And who besides Cassie would’ve been inside that goddamn wreck of a house?
By the time Nash reached Wierswood, the sky had gone flat and gray.He jerked the Harley to a stop outside the emergency room and was off the bike before the engine fully died.
