Page 83 of Smith

Thiswas the situation I was wondering how I’d gotten myself into.

Cash behind the wheel of a company SUV.

“We’re not on Route Irish, asshole, you don’t need to drive like we’re dodging IEDs.”

“Unpucker your asshole, Smith, and enjoy the ride.”

There was nothing enjoyable about Cash driving. He drove like he did everything else—with no regard for his safety. He played fast and loose with every aspect of his life. It was a damn miracle he was still breathing. Not that I had much to live for but it would seriously fucking blow to come home after a decade living overseas only to die in a car crash behind an outlet mall.

I drew in a slow, steady breath, then another. The effort was mostly in vain. My anger still simmered. Anger that had nothing to do with Cash’s driving or his stupid-ass comeback. Cash was Cash. In more ways than one he was a lot like Zane; he said whatever he wanted to say, he buried his demons, and used humor to cover his pain. He was as honest as he was loyal, taking both of those to an extreme. Which meant he poked hisnose in everyone’s business and gave zero fucks if you wanted his counsel or not.

Therefore, I knew what was coming.

And I knew Cash had maneuvered to get me right where I was—alone in a car with him for an hour. The Escalade fit four men comfortably, seven uncomfortably. There was no reason to take two SUVs, yet Easton and Jonas were following us.

Cash didn’t make me wait, which was unfortunate for him. He had more to hide than I did.

“Aria or Valerie?” Cash asked.

Anger morphed into bitterness. All consuming, barely restrained, overwhelming resentment shrouded in revulsion.

“Warned you, brother, you don’t wanna do this.”

“Valerie it is,” he announced.

Fucking hell.

“Don’t say her fucking name.”

“That right there is why we’re talking abouther.”

My neck throbbed and my lip curled in disgust.

“You don’t wanna go there, Cash,” I warned.

“No, you don’t wanna go there,” he rightly returned as he switched lanes and sped up.

I changed my mind; it wouldn’t suck dying in a fiery crash if it meant not talking about my ex.

“That’s rich coming from you. King of avoidance. You bury your shit so deep, lock your past up so tight, it’s a wonder you can function.”

“Everythingfunctionsjust fine,” he joked.

“Except your balls. Those don’t work.”

I didn’t need to look at my teammate to know he was smiling.

“Right, except those,” he snickered.

“So maybe instead of getting up in my shit, you should worry about your own shit.”

That was a low blow but he’d opened the door. Not only that, he’d barreled through it and threw down by having the audacity of sayinghername.

“Oh, I know my damage. Unlike you, I own that shit. I got no problems talking about my bitch of a momma.”

He was so full of shit. He might know his damage and own it but he sure as fuck didn’t talk about it. Not about his mother, not his time in foster care, not why he ran away from the last home he was placed in, and certainly not about being a street kid—homeless and forging for food and shelter.

“You had no control over what happened?—”

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