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“No, she’s not okay.” He stomped into his boots and knelt to tie the laces with sharp jerks. “Not fucking okay at all.”
His savage tone caused her to fumble as she reached for her own boots, and the violent glare in his eyes made her fingers nerveless.
“Cyril took her to a house party at goddamn TJ Jameson’s place and proceeded to get roaring drunk. When Elle tried to leave, TJ and his asshole friends blocked her way. She’s locked herself in the bathroom, too terrified to come out.”
“Cyril? Drunk?” Stunned, Penta groped for her bootlaces without tearing her gaze from Cash’s hard, brutal expression. “Why would he go to a party at TJ’s? He doesn’t hang out with those horrible boys anymore.”
“Are you sure about that?” He snatched his keys off the floor where they’d fallen out of his pants.
Her skin went cold. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have time to explain. My daughter had to barricade herself in a fucking toilet to avoid getting assaulted. Because of your son.” He strode out of the cabin and she scrambled after him, hopping on one foot.
“Cash! Wait!” She shoved her second boot on, not bothering with the laces. The engine thundered into life and she clambered onto the passenger seat. Before she had a chance to grab hold, he was off.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cash was aware of little more than his daughter’s voice in his ear as he ignored speed limits and stop signs on his way to her side.
But he couldn’t ignore the sickening stew of self-hate bubbling in his gut.
He shuddered each time Penta’s body brushed his as the bike swayed around corners and accelerated on the infrequent straight stretches. Her stupid, stupid son had put his daughter in danger. Though it was ultimately Cash’s fault, he had more than enough rage to go around.
Penta, for being too lenient as a parent.
Cyril, for bringing Elle to the party.
Tyrone, for masterminding the plan. Because Cash had no doubt this was a twisted punishment for rejecting the gang’s business.
The neighbourhood where Tyrone lived—the neighbourhood Cash had escaped—was frequently patrolled by cops. He couldn’t afford to be stopped for a traffic violation, not now, not in this mood, so gritted his teeth with bitter impatience as he negotiated the streets with care.
“Almost there, baby.” Elle’s distraught directions had been vague and incomplete, but she’d managed to landmark the house within a block or two. He could only hope to find signs of the party. In this area, the neighbours didn’t call the authorities if the music was too loud or a fight broke out on someone’s front lawn.
“There.” Penta pointed over his shoulder. She hadn’t said a word the entire ride. “Felix’s car. Maybe he came to get Cyril. God, I hope everyone’s okay.”
At the moment, he couldn’t give two fucks about Penta’s sons. He’d come for Elle and Elle alone. Steering the bike onto the buckled sidewalk, he killed the engine. The thump of drums and scream of guitars bled from a house two doors down. “I’m here, Elle. Stay in the bathroom. I’ll be right there.”
Penta slid off the seat. She hadn’t wrapped her arms around him as she always did when they rode and had used his shoulders as a prop only when necessary. He’d been torn between needing her familiar embrace and relief that she hadn’t touched him except when unavoidable.
His focus was on Elle—had to be on Elle—yet curdling underneath that grinding panic was the realization his time with Penta was finished. When she found out this debacle was his fault it would all be over. His heart cracked into a thousand shards of glass.
Tearing off his helmet, he tossed it to the ground. Penta was on his heels as he stormed up the dilapidated wooden steps leading to the open front door. The music rattled his teeth and the stench of weed choked his nostrils. Without sparing a glance for the bodies sprawled on the floor and furniture of the front room, he headed down the short hallway to his right. Three closed doors greeted him.
“Elle?” He tried the handle of the first. It opened and he caught sight of pumping buttocks and chunky legs pointing at the ceiling.
A girl with blue eyeshadow looked over a tattooed shoulder and shrieked. “Get out. Get out!”
He slammed the door shut and tried the one on the other side of the hall. Locked. “Elle? It’s Dad. Are you in there?”
The knob wriggled under his grip and he released it. The door opened and he glimpsed a mascara-streaked, tear-stained face before Elle fell into his arms. “Oh, Daddy! I was so scared!”
“I know, honey. I know.” He stroked her long dishevelled hair with a shaking hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Tucking her to his side, he led her to the front room. Empty liquor bottles covered every flat surface and the air was grimy with smoke. As they passed the couch, a young man with the same heavy-set build, dark hair, and broad face as Tyrone rolled his neck and peered up at them. With the laziness of the very drunk and totally stoned, he smirked at Cash. “She’s kinda young for you, ain’t she? Besides, she’s a cold bitch. Wouldn’t play when we wanted to.”
The marrow in his bones flowed like molten lava, yet he continued toward the front door, determined to get Elle away from this hellhole.
Until the raucous rock assaulting his ears cut off abruptly and a voice stopped him.
