Page 44 of Ridin’ Dirty

‘…we’ll get used to each other. This doesn’t have to be a hardship.’

After what happened at the clubhouse, it seemed ridiculous to think I signed up for anything resembling a real marriage—but I was there. In Pistol’s house. Our house. The man hadn’t missed a beat. Who knew what time he started that morning. And in spite of our argument, he left with the expectation I’d spend my time unpacking.

Feeling equal parts mad, defeated, and spiteful, I decided I was going to do precisely as he instructed and make myself at home. He might have been a jackass, but I wasn’t going to let him treat me like a sheep.

My first order of business was to find my toothbrush.

It took me thirty minutes of sorting through the boxes in the guest room to find my bathroom things. As soon as I unearthed the gold mine, I brushed my teeth, which improved my mood leaps and bounds, and then proceeded to make space for my belongings in what would now be our shared bathroom.

I thought long and hard about replacing his shower curtain with my own. Yet, annoying as it was to admit, I liked his better. It was off-white with large, patterned navy, green, and tan Aztec print. It matched his beige bathmats which were, admittedly, clean.

Not for the first time, I wondered if his tidiness was a reflection of his living habits or his most recent extended absence from Missoula.

After I unpacked what I intended to keep and started a box of what I would be willing to part with, I decided it was time for a shower. I stood under the hot spray of water for a long time, wanting desperately to wash away bits and pieces of the last day and a half—bits and pieces I couldn’t scrub from my brain no matter how hard I tried.

Pieces I unwittingly uncovered and wished I didn’t.

Man, I need coffee.

With a mission to propel me forward, I finished in the shower and went to get dressed. Remembering they didn’t unpack my dresser before moving it, it took no effort for me to find what I needed. Seeing as there was no one I was trying to impress, I opted for a pair of old, cut-off jean shorts, a sports bra, and a loose tank top. I left my damp hair to dry however it wanted, then returned to the kitchen in my bare feet.

Pistol didn’t have a coffee machine. While I hadn’t seen one in my rage hunt through the kitchen the previous night, a more careful search this morning confirmed it. Oddly enough, all the man had was a tea kettle. I’d dig into that later. For now, it was imperative I find my Keurig, and so I did. I made a home for it by his toaster, filled it with water, then went on another search for my stash of K-cups.

I still didn’t know who I had to thank for clearing out my apartment, but most of the boxes I opened were relatively organized. Mostly. I found my coffee—the four servings I had left, anyway—and used one of Pistol’s mugs to brew myself a cup. As I listened to the machine do its thing, I tried to remember what other food stuffs I had left in my pantry. I felt certain I wouldn’t find anything inspiring. I had planned to go to the grocery store on Monday.

I got married instead.

Fortunately, I was able to find my container of sugar to add a spoonful to my cup. I didn’t bother checking the fridge for milk, knowing I wouldn’t find any. This would have to do for now. I’d make a list and do a grocery run the first chance I got.

My coffee was halfway to my lips when I remembered my Mustang was still on the compound. Just to make sure it wasn’t dropped off with the rest of my things, I went to the kitchen window and peeked out into the driveway. My car wasn’t there—something to add to this list of reasons why I wasn’t my husband’s biggest fan.

Turning my back to the window, I caught sight of my now cold breakfast offering. Seeing the brown paper bag didn’t rouse my appetite so much as it turned my stomach.

‘I didn’t fuck her.’

The recent memory should have played more like an echo in my mind, but it didn’t. It posed a question I never thought to ask myself before last night. A question I didn’t want to answer.

How many times had a man come down my throat only to tell his woman he hadn’t fucked me?

I shrugged away the thought and downed a gulp of coffee, letting the bitterness of my milk-less cup bring me to the here and now. The here being a kitchen cluttered with boxes I needed to unpack. The now being my new reality as Mrs. Wells.

Somehow, all of my actions—all of them—led me here.

In need of the distraction, I got to work.

He hit complete at the bottom of the screen, then stood from where he sat in the small office above the garage. Jenni, the office coordinator, looked up at him with a small smile. While he didn’t know the woman intimately, he knew her well enough from their joint tenure at Stallion Motors. They were about the same age—would have gone to high school together if they’d grown up in the same town.

Jenni was a Missoula lifer.

“Finished?” she asked, reaching for the tablet.

He handed over the device, feeling more impatient in that moment than he was when Cobra sent him up to sort out his employee paperwork in the first place. He wasn’t new; he was back. He wanted to get underneath a car, not on top of tax forms and benefits.

“We done here?” he asked with a lifted eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah. Get out of here,” she replied, waving her hand with her painted fingernails. The motion caused the bracelets around her wrist to jangle, and he noticed the rock she was sporting on her ring finger.

Pistol had half a mind to ask her who put it there. Before he got locked up, he remembered she was into those dating apps. She worked at the garage and spent plenty of time on the compound, but Jenni was never drawn to a man in a kutte. Last he knew, she was still looking. Pretty as she was, it didn’t surprise him to learn someone snatched her up.