Cash (The Henchmen MC 2)

Nothing, literally nothing to go on.

“Augh!” I growled at the screen, clicking out of one of the open internet tabs, leaving me staring at a picture of Damian in his black and red jacket with medals hanging off the left side of his chest, big golden buttons down the center, white and black hat on his head, typical Marine deadness to his eyes.

“A little... frustrated?” Cash's teasing voice asked and my head jerked up to where he was leaning in the kitchen doorway.

Christ. How hadn't I heard him climbing up the stairs?

He looked different. Sweaty, sure. The wetness was making his shirt cling to his chest and stomach and the long side of his hair was drenched and slicked slightly back from his face. It wasn't just the exercise-flushed skin or the sweat though. All the traces of genuine anger and confusion and challenge I had seen in his kitchen before were gone. It was the usual Cash standing in front of me- casual, easy-going, playful smirk on his lips.

“Don't flatter yourself. It has nothing to do with you,” I said in as hollow a tone as I could muster.

“Sure it doesn't,” he said, giving me the power of his full smile and I had to force one of my brows to lift. Unaffected, he twisted open the top of the water bottle he was holding and brought it to his lips. I did not... absolutely did not watch his Adam's apple as he swallowed. Nope. Not me. I was a strong, sexually experienced woman who did not go all ga-ga over a fucking Adam's apple. “What?” he asked, looking me up and down and waving a hand at my body, “no guns?”

“Do you really think it would be wise for me to have a weapon on me when I'm around you?” I shot back, giving him my own smirk.

He look down at his feet for a second, shaking his head. “I like this Lo, baby. But I think I like the vulnerable one better.”

“There's only one of me,” I said with force behind my words. I wanted it to be true. It had to be true.

“Honey,” he said, rounding the dining table and leaning back against it right beside my chair, “there's at least two of you. And the crazy part? I don't think anyone knows either one.”

God, he was so right. “What? Have you been going to night classes? Psych 101? You don't know what you're talking about.”

His smile got a little softer and his hand reached out, touching my chin gently. “I'm gonna figure you out sooner or later. Just so you know. And I'm sure you'll be pissed at me for getting under those shields, but too fuckin' bad.”

I swallowed hard because nothing about his words suggested there was anything but determination there. “What happened to hating me?”

His fingers stroked out over my cheek. “You know what I think?” he asked, almost as if waiting for an answer. I didn't and, well, I found myself wanting to know so I shook my head. “I think you want me to hate you. I think that's easier for you to accept. So I'm not going to do that anymore.” Oh, hell. Great. That was just great. And he wasn't done either. “I am going to give you something no one has ever given you before.”

I didn't want to ask. I really didn't. But I couldn't help myself. “What's that?”

“A chance.”

Thrown, my head jerked a little, his hand falling from my face. “A chance for what?”

“To show yourself to me.”

I closed my eyes against the rush of warmth at his words. I wanted that. I wanted that chance. I wanted someone who gave a shit enough to be patient, to let me slowly battle my comfort zones. God, how I wanted that.

But that person could not be Cash.

Because Cash would eventually fuck me and be done with me like every woman who came before. Unlike them, though, I would never fully recover. And I had enough damage stitched together with sheer power of will and a hefty thread of denial.

“That's not going to happen, Cash.” Why did my voice sound so sad?

“Maybe... maybe not. We'll see.”

I took a breath, shaking my head. “I'll be out of your hair as soon as my ribs feel better. Another day or two and I should be able to handle my own shit again.”

He shrugged my comment away like it changed nothing and pushed off the table. Before I could think to react, he was standing behind me, bent over my shoulder and looking at the picture open on my laptop.

“He looks like an asshole,” Cash said with a casual chuckle. “Did he drown a bunch of bunnies or something?” he went on, completely oblivious to how my body had tensed, how every cell in my body was poised to attack or run if he overstepped the invisible line I kept around the subject. “Who is Damian Crane, babe?”FifteenLoI remembered my wedding night with what was the genuine definition of 'bittersweet'. I was eighteen and way too young to enter into that kind of arrangement, signing my future away to the boy next door. But that being said, it was my only way out. It was the only end in sight. It was the only way to get away from my father. So six weeks after the birthday finally making me legally able to no longer be the property of one man, I walked up to the Justice of the Peace and became the property of another.

I was young, idealistic, nose hopelessly buried in romance novels I bought at the drugstore with the money leftover from buying the groceries for the week- a thing my father allowed only because he felt they were a good way for me to learn to take care of my future husband.

My father liked my husband because, well, he was in the Marines. That was all it took for my dad- be a brother. It didn't matter where your stance was on political issues or social beliefs. If you were a fellow Devil Dog, you were alright in his book.