Edge chronicles stormcha.., p.3
Run With Me: A Bonnie & Clyde-Inspired Dark Romantic Thriller, page 3
My bras and panties are a mess—shifted and disturbed, like someone was searching for something specific. Or touching them. The latter thought somehow bothers me more.
Nothing else looks touched. My fake passports? Still hidden. My cash stash? Unmoved.
If someone broke in, why wouldn’t they take the shit they can use? Did they even take anything at all?
I slam the drawer shut so hard the whole dresser shakes. My fingers flex at my sides, knuckles cracking as I force myself to breathe and hopefully shake off the creeping, slithering sense of violation worming through my chest.
There’s no other proof anyone was here. Maybe I left it open. Maybe I was in a rush the last time I was here. Or maybe some stranger was in my house, looking through my things.
Adrenaline spikes, and I grab the nearest object—an old ceramic mug with crusted coffee inside—and start sweeping the apartment.
Closets. Empty.
Bathroom. Clear.
Under the bed: dust, a sock, the creeping feeling of being watched . . . again.
No one’s here. But the feeling won’t leave.
I rub my arms, forcing a laugh. “Paranoid bitch.”
But that’s the thing . . . paranoia’s kept me alive thus far.
It’s optimism that gets girls like me killed in the fucking scary movie.
Eventually I give up, figuring that either I can sit here freaked out, or assume that if someone is watching me, they’ll at least be polite enough to let me shower before they murder me. Maybe even let me finish my cigarette. That’s the dream, right?
I strip out of my work clothes, letting them fall onto the nearest chair, and sidestep the stack of unpaid bills like they’ll explode on contact. Maybe they will. That would honestly do me a favor—explode and take me out with them.
I toe around into the bathroom and twist the shower knob until the pipes cough and water sputters, then gushes out. I take my time, scrubbing my shift off of my skin, hoping to also erase the parts that Anthony touched. Running my face under the stream, I try to dull the edges, or drown myself trying.
I jump out when the water goes cold, goosebumps already blooming across my raw skin. I towel off and wrap myself in a robe before shuffling back to the kitchen.
Then, a sound, soft and dull. And not inside. My spine goes straight and I move quietly toward the sliding glass door. The blinds clack softly as I angle them with one finger.
A cat—a white, scruffy little thing—is perched on my bannister.
I press a palm to my chest. “Fucking drama queen,” I mutter to myself. “Get a grip.”
Still, I grab a can of cat food from under the sink. I only buy this shit for him. Or her. I don’t actually know as we aren’t really that close.
I crack it open and step outside barefoot, the cement cold under my toes. The cat doesn’t move, just watches, unblinking. Even as a stray, it’s still regal as hell.
I crouch, setting the can down. “You and I have something in common, huh?”
The cat flicks its tail, but doesn’t answer.
Rude.
I sit for a minute, elbows on my knees, watching him eat. It’s oddly calming, this ritual. Like if I feed him, maybe I’m not as empty as I feel. I reach over to the patio table, fingers finding the half-empty pack of cigarettes. I light one up with a flick of my thumb. Inhale. Exhale. This is what I fucking needed.
I lean back against the railing, exhaling slowly, watching the cigarette burn low between my fingers.
Across the cracked parking lot, the busted streetlamp flutters once and dies, throwing the far end of the lot into shadow. That’s when I see a car I don’t recognize.
The driver’s seat is occupied. I can’t make out the face, but I know what I’m looking at. Hood up, posture still, eyes locked. They’re not scrolling a phone, not glancing around, pretending to have a reason to be there. They’re just sitting in the dark, watching . . . watching me.
It’s not Anthony. He would be rage incarnated and filled with entitlement. He would waltz right up to me and demand that I apologize for embarrassing him. Even so, my throat tightens with unease as I stub the cigarette out against the cement and rise slowly, stretching like I’m just tired, and walk back inside like I don’t feel the target that is burning into my skin.
The second the door slides shut, I lock it, double-check, then yank the blinds closed. My knees give out before I even make it to the couch, and I slide down the wall, heart pounding like fists against a locked door.
This feeling . . . I haven’t felt it in a long time—five years, maybe? That prickling under the skin. That low, burning hum in the back of my brain. And it’s familiar. Like my body remembers this pattern, because it already knows how to survive it.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars, because it’s nothing. He’s not here. He’s never going to come back for you. My nerves are just fried from a shitty night at work and then Anthony. I can’t let my mind start spinning out, thinking of ghosts of my past.
But the more I sit here—the more I let myself think it might be him—a mix of dread and hope starts to bloom in my chest.
And I don’t know whether to lock the doors . . . or open them.
That’s the worst part.
The part of me that feels like I can finally breathe, just at the thought of him being near.
FIVE
CASSIDY
FLASHBACK: CASSIDY (12), BINDI (11)
New house, same bullshit.
I stand in the doorway of the living room, gripping the straps of my busted-up backpack. The social worker—some woman whose name I already forgot—just left, and I’m supposed to be “settling in.”
I’ve been through enough of these that I know the drill. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your head down. Don’t touch shit that ain’t yours. The less they notice you, the easier it is to disappear.
I scan the place, nothing but peeling wallpaper—the kind with little blue flowers that probably looked nice twenty years ago—and a lumpy couch that smells like old people and mildew. It’s a step up from the last house, which had more cockroaches than furniture, but not by much.
I move further into the living room and notice a girl. She’s curled up in the armchair across the room with earbuds in, listening to a CD player. She has red hair that’s pouring out of her hoodie which is pulled up over her head, her legs tucked up under her chin. She’s small, but her eyes, they’re wide, locked on me.
According to the social worker, there are a few other foster kids in this house, but most of them don’t really bother with meeting the newbie. They got their own shit to deal with.
But her . . . She’s either intrigued or utterly terrified.
The foster dad clears his throat. “Cassidy, this is Bindi.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t say hi, just keeps looking at me.
I shift my weight, my fingers flexing on my backpack strap. “Cass,” I mutter with a head nod.
That’s it. That’s all she gets.
The guy sighs, rubbing the back of his neck like introducing two kids is some really exhausting shit. “Dinner’s at six. There’s a bunk in the spare room. You two . . .” He gestures between us like we’re supposed to figure out the rest ourselves. “Just don’t make trouble.”
He leaves before I can promise anything. Not that I would’ve.
The second he’s gone, I drop my bag and nod toward the chair. “You gonna keep staring at me, or you got something to say?”
She shrugs, but I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten around the fabric of her hoodie. “You look mad.”
I snort. “Yeah? And you look nosy.”
Her lips twitch like she’s thinking about smiling but decides against it. Smart girl.
I glance around the room again, trying to get a read on the place. No family photos. No decorations. Just a house trying to pretend it’s a home and failing miserably.
“Been here long?” I ask.
She stretches her legs out, tapping her sock-covered foot against the edge of the coffee table. “A year.”
A year? That’s long. I don’t say it out loud, but I sure as hell don’t plan on staying here for an entire year. Most kids bounce in and out of these places every few months. Either they get adopted or they’re shipped somewhere else due to budget, behavior, or bullshit.
Bindi watches me like she knows what I’m thinking. “They don’t like moving girls around as much. Easier to keep us in one place.”
I huff and flop onto the couch. “So, what’s the deal with these people? They suck?”
She tilts her head. “That depends. Are you gonna be one of those kids who acts all nice and sweet for the first week and then turns into a complete asshole?”
That makes me laugh. “I don’t do nice and sweet.”
“Good,” she mutters. “That shit’s annoying.”
I think I like her.
Not like that—not in the way dumb kids catch crushes. I just like how solid she sits. Like she belongs in her own skin, even if it’s been bruised a few too many times.
“You got the top bunk,” she says, already standing—already heading down the hallway. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
We’re sharing a room? That’s a huge no-no, right? I’m twelve; this girl has to be close in age too. Maybe they saw the name Cassidy and assumed I was a girl? Fucking idiots. I shrug and follow her down the hallway into our shared room.
It’s small—a single set of bunk beds against the left wall with a dresser that sits in front of a window and a desk on the opposite side. The window is cracked, letting in just enough of a breeze to air out whatever stench is lingering from the last kid in here.
Bindi climbs onto the bottom bunk, pulling her knees to her chest. I set my backpack down by the wall, eyeing the mattress. It’s thin, and the springs poke through the fabric.
She watches me, her cheek resting against her knee.
I throw myself onto her mattress, my legs hanging off the edge.
“You get kicked outta the last place?”
I roll onto my side, tucking my arm under my head. “Something like that.”
She doesn’t push for details. Good. She gets it.
I glance down at her. “Why didn’t you get adopted?”
Bindi doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, just shrugs. “Dunno. Guess people don’t like girls with loud mouths.”
Something about the way she says it makes my stomach twist. I don’t like it.
“I don’t mind,” I say, mostly because I don’t know what else to say.
Her lips quirk up, but it’s not really a smile. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She shifts, reaching under her pillow, and pulls out a small foil-wrapped package. I watch as she peels it open and breaks a granola bar in half then holds one of the halves out to me. I just stare at it, unsure of what to do.
She rolls her eyes. “Take it, or don’t.”
I don’t ask where she got it, don’t ask if she’s supposed to be saving it for later—she wouldn’t be offering if she didn’t want to. I just politely take it from her and bite into it.
She eats her half in three quick bites, brushing the crumbs off onto the blanket.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the stained mattress above me. It’s quiet now, just the sound of the wind pushing through the crack in the window.
For the first time since walking through the door, I don’t feel like my skin is trying to crawl off my body.
I glance over at her again. “You ever run away?”
She tilts her head back against the pillow, considering. “Not yet.”
Not yet.
I grin. “Bet we could.”
After a long moment, she says, “Yeah.”
And just like that, it’s decided.
Maybe not tomorrow.
Maybe not next week.
But someday.
Because the second I saw her, the second she looked back at me without flinching, I knew.
Wherever she goes, I go.
SIX
CASSIDY
A fucking Miami club. Really, Binx?
This place is a neon-drenched hellhole. The bass shakes the walls, rattles the floor under my boots, and pounds against my skull like a goddamn war drum. Strobe lights slice through the air, flashing red, blue, white. Sweat and spilled liquor stain the air. Every inch of this place is soaked in desperation.
And I don’t give a fuck about any of it.
But I have to, because she’s here.
I lean back in my booth, stretching my legs under the table, letting the overpriced bourbon burn slowly down my throat. Neat. Top shelf.
I paid for it the same way I’ve been paying for everything since I walked out of that concrete box at seventeen—with someone else’s name, someone else’s money. A stolen identity, a few well-placed transactions, and suddenly, I’m Harold Mendoza, a very wealthy, very generous VIP guest for the night.
Good old Harold has no idea I exist, but his bank account sure does.
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, watching her.
Bindi moves through the club like sin wrapped in silk, slipping between bodies in a tight little black dress that clings to her like a second skin, with a plunging neckline, daring men to take a look. And they do.
The sight of them looking at her makes my vision turn red.
Her hair, a wild, messy mass of red, is piled up high on her head, but loose strands have fallen, framing her face, brushing against her bare shoulders. The club lights hit just right, tracing over her collarbones, over the freckles scattered like constellations across her skin. I let my gaze roam lower, to the dip of her waist, the soft curve of her thighs.
She’s still so fucking small. Petite. Fragile. But only in body, never in spirit.
That fire inside her? It never went out. I would’ve felt it if it had.
She’s smiling—flashing teeth, playing the part. She lets men think she’s theirs for the night. Lets them believe that if they throw down enough cash, she’ll want them.
I tip my glass back, let the burn settle in my stomach, and try to remember why I came here to watch, not to act.
Then I see him.
Jordyn Hale.
Ex-military. Club security. And Bindi’s fucking lover.
I already know who he is—know that he works for Dimitri Santoro, Miami’s biggest kingpin. The kind of man who collects people like Bindi and doesn’t let them go. Jordyn is his loyal little lapdog, but that’s not why I want to rip his throat out.
It’s because of the way she looks at him. He doesn’t deserve an ounce of her attention. He deserves to have his entrails pouring out across the floor for even breathing the same air as her.
Bindi shimmies up to him, half shouting something. He lifts his thumb up to her lip and fixes her red lipstick.
I change my previous statement, his entrails being smeared across the club floor wouldn’t be fitting. I want to rip his eyeballs out and then cut off his fingers and put them in his eye sockets. Who the fuck does he think he is, looking at my girl, nonetheless touching her. Then he leans in and whispers something in her ear and she laughs.
Not that fake shit I’ve watched her give customers all night. This one is a real laugh. One that is imprinted on my soul.
I set my glass down carefully, flexing my fingers, curling them into fists against my thighs. She doesn’t know I’m here—doesn’t know I’m watching. Doesn’t know that I’ve spent every fucking day picturing her face, memorizing her, holding onto her like she was the last real thing in my world.
So I can’t be mad at her for acting like I never fucking existed. The lights flash red, and for a second, I imagine how his throat would feel under my hands. How easily it would snap, how fast the blood would drain from his face. How, maybe then, she’ll finally fucking remember who she belongs to.
Breathe, Cass. Jesus fuck.
But what if I walked up to her right now? I wonder how many seconds it would take her to realize that it’s me. Would her body react before her mind could fully process what she was seeing? Would she feel fear or relief first? Or would she run away from me again? Try to fight? Or would she finally stop pretending that I haven’t been inside her head this whole fucking time.
I swallow back the urge. Not yet.
The night drags on, and I stay put, nursing my drink, burning a hole into the back of her skull with my eyes.
Bindi keeps working the floor, floating between VIP tables, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, touching hands that don’t deserve it. Now and then, Jordyn glances at her from his post leading up to the VIP section. If he’s here working it means that Dimitri is here, which is even more of a reason not to cause a scene. Everyone knows who the Santoro family is—another reason to get Bindi out of here. She doesn’t need to be associating herself with someone that could very well get her killed.
And then, just when I think I can’t take another second of this bullshit, she turns and her eyes flick to mine.
I go still.
It’s quick, barely a glance. She doesn’t realize what she’s looking at, but for one second—one breath—she looks right at me. As quick as she looks at me, she turns away and continues to move through the crowd again, disappearing.
Did she see me? My teeth clench so tight my jaw aches. She has to have seen me, right? I’ve been here. I’ve been watching her all fucking night. I take another sip of bourbon and force myself to breathe.
I’ll reunite with her soon. It doesn’t have to be rushed. I’ve waited years. What’s a little longer?
SEVEN
BINDI
Jordyn flew out this morning. He called last night to remind me to lock the balcony doors even though we’re twenty floors up. I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder then snatch my keys off the hook. The second I swing the door open, my eyes catch on something sitting on my welcome mat.
