Page 26 of Ridin’ Dirty

But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, ordinary about this night.

Righting myself, I stared unseeingly out the windshield, trying not to think of the dead body in the bed of Pistol’s truck.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, I thought, definitely failing in my attempts to think of anything else.

I replayed the last ten minutes.

Had it been ten minutes?

I reheard the sound of Pistol’s fist connecting with the dead King’s face.

Pressing my eyes closed tight, I shook away the memory and quickly backtracked in my mind.

How was this happening?

How did I end up here?

I jumped, my eyes flying open as I remembered Maxine.

She’d been acting so strange.

Was she in on this?

Did she know?

What the hell is going on?

Before I could open my mouth to speak my question aloud, Pistol was pulling onto the compound. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or anxious. Admittedly, I welcomed the escape of the clubhouse.

Whatever would get me away from the dead King and the Stallion who killed him.

Shit! Am I an accomplice? I wondered as we came to a screeching halt in front of the clubhouse.

“Stay,” demanded Pistol as he shifted into park.

He hopped out, not bothering to stop the engine, before he made his way to my door. He opened it, reached for my arm, then insisted, “Out.”

“What are we doing here?” I asked, following his lead.

He didn’t answer. Rather, he kept hold of me, hurriedly escorting me inside.

“Seriously, I won’t say anything,” I assured him, trying to keep up with his long strides. “Can’t I just go home?”

“No,” he bit.

“But—”

He stopped us in the middle of the main lounge, jostling me until we stood toe to toe. While I wasn’t exactly short, he was tall enough I had to look up to catch his eyes.

And what I saw there sent a chill down my spine.

“I don’t know you, but somethin’ tells me you’ve got more than shit for brains, which means you understand I got a situation on my hands—a situation I need to deal with pronto. What I don’t need is you pepperin’ me with questions, slowin’ me down. You want to go home? Too bad. Like I said, I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you, which means you’re stayin’ here until I know what to do with you. So, stop yappin’, babe, and let me do what I gotta do. You hearin’ me yet?”

I didn’t respond, my mind stuck on something he said.

My silence seemed not to bother him.

He started for the hallway, pulling me alongside him until we reached his room. He opened the door, pushed me inside, then muttered, “Purse.”