Nash paused, jaw working while he tried to remember what Ollie had said.“Maya…” he replied.“Maya—fuck, that’s all I got.”
Ellis turned back to the screen and started typing again.Two nurses in scrubs cut across the lobby together, both lifting a hand as they headed out.
“Night, Ellis.”
“Night, ladies—drive safe,” Ellis called back, still typing.
“All right,” he continued, voice lower.“I don’t got access to everything, but…it says here she was admitted by ambulance.”
He paused, eyes flicking as he read.
“A’yup.Ain’t say nothin’ about a coma on my end,” he added.“But it does say she checked herself out last night.”
For half a second, Nash didn’t move.
She’d been brought in by ambulance—seizing and foaming at the mouth, according to Cassie; in a goddamn coma, according to Ollie—and then checked herself out a day and a half later?
Connor flashed—those mornings after a bad night when he’d drag himself upright and swear he was fine.Only Connor had never been in a coma.Not that Nash knew about.
So either Ollie was full of shit.Or this place was.
Or maybe none of it fucking mattered—because it wasn’t even Maya he was here for.
“Hell,” Nash muttered and shoved back from the counter, feeling a headache building.“All right.Thanks, Ellis—whatever you need at the garage, next few are on me.”He hesitated, then leaned back in.“Shit—one more thing.What time was she here?”
Ellis clicked a few more times.“Timestamp says 11:18 a.m.”
Nash let out a breath through his nose, rapped the counter once more, and shoved off—stalking back to his truck.
She’d been here nearly eight hours ago.Eight hours of not answering his texts or returning his calls.Eight goddamn hours of ignoring him like the last week had just been—
He pulled the driver’s door shut, hands gripping the wheel.Maybe it hadn’t meant jack shit to her.Hell, maybe he’d been taking a trip down memory lane all by himself.Maybe that was the whole fucking point—maybe she was avoiding him because she knew exactly what he wanted to talk about.
He should’ve kept his mouth shut.He knew better than to spook Cassie when it came to shit like…feelings.
But, goddammit, she was holding all the cards, and he just wanted some direction—
Naw.Fuck it.He wasn’t standing around like a damn stray begging for scraps.
He started the truck, shoved it into drive, and peeled out of the lot—clubhouse bound.
By nine-thirty the boys who’d hauled ass getting that shipment gone had rolled in celebrating, girls and hangers-on in tow, loud enough to drown out damn near everything else.The clubhouse sat in its usual amber haze, neon signs buzzing lazy over the bar.Loud music thumped from the speakers—bass-heavy and fast—while Nash slouched on one of the couches beside Sarge, nursing his second bourbon and one hell of a bad mood.
A couple of girls had climbed onto his newly renovated bar, their heels scraping across the fresh varnish while they swayed and laughed, their skirts riding high enough to give half the room a view straight to salvation.The boys hooted, a few slapping the wood in rhythm like it was their bar to beat on.
Nash, though, was scowling.All he could see were the scuff marks those shoes were going to leave.
And still all he could think about was Cassie—deciding, apparently, that whatever the hell had been lit between them this last week didn’t deserve the courtesy of a conversation.
Which…goddamn stung.And he didn’t do well with that.Never had.
So he swallowed it.Sat there with it.Stewed in it.And let it turn fucking mean.
“Get ’em down,” he muttered to Sarge.“Before they ruin my goddamn bar.”
Sarge stared at him like he’d misheard.Then he barked a laugh.“You serious right now?”
When Nash didn’t reply, Sarge’s smile slid off his face.“Ain’t no way I’m tellin’ those girls to get down.You know who brought ’em in here.”He jerked his chin toward the cluster of Kings.“You wanna start a riot, do it on your own damn time.”
