Page 21 of Kash
My ass tingles at the memory, and I grin, leaning closer.
“Hmmm. I certainly do,” I smile.
Kash takes my chin, his thumb brushing my lips, and my breath catches.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Kash mutters, but there’s no anger in it, just want.
We’re inches apart, the air thick with tension, when a sharp crackle cuts through—a police radio, louder this time, right outside the cabin.
“Unit Two, suspect’s bike spotted near the bluff,” the voice says, clear as day.
My heart stops.
Kash’s hand drops, his body tensing as he moves to the window, peering out.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “They’re here…”
Chapter 7
Kash
The police radio’s static crackles like a gunshot in my ears, the words “suspect’s bike spotted near the bluff” echoing in the dim cabin.
My heart slams against my ribs, my hand frozen on the blind as I peer into the night.
The cruiser’s out there, its spotlight cutting through the dark, sweeping the gravel road just beyond the cabin.
They’re too close—way too fucking close.
I’ve got the Harley hidden under a tarp and brush again after our ride, but if they’re this near, someone’s talking. And it won’t be long before they discover the bike. If it was spotted around here earlier, then at some point very soon they’re going to try and find it. And when they do, that’s my option of a fast exit gone.
“Stay down,” I hiss at Spike, my voice a low growl.
Spike is pressed against the wall, his green eyes wide but steady, no trace of panic. The kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that.
Even now, with cops circling, he’s not running.
Part of me wants to shove him out the back door, make him skate off before he gets caught in my mess.
But another part—the part that felt his body under mine last night, his moans calling meDaddy—wants him right here, where I can keep him safe.
“Kash,” he whispers, barely audible over the ocean’s roar. “What’s the play?”
I shoot him a look, my jaw tight.
“The play is you stay quiet and don’t move.” I ease the blind aside, just enough to see the cruiser’s taillights retreating down the road.
They didn’t stop, didn’t search the cabin, but it’s only a matter of time.
These guys are small town cops. I’m not dealing with the FBI, that much is for sure. And thank God for that.
My hand brushes the knife at my belt, a reflex, the weight grounding me.
I turn back to Spike, who’s still watching me, his defiance simmering under the surface.
“They’re gone,” I say, my voice rough. “For now. But they’re sniffing around, and they’re not gonna stop.”
“Then we need a plan,” Spike says, stepping closer, his voicelow but firm. “You can’t just sit here waiting for them to kick the door down. We’re sitting ducks right now.”
