Page 47 of Ridin’ Dirty

“I won’t pretend to know her well. She’s one of Viv’s, she runs with Max, and she hangs around. Ol’ lady has a real soft spot for her. By now you know she’s no stranger to this life. But I’ll tell you one thing—she’s not a fuckin’ toy. Hangs around but doesn’t mess around, until you.

“Won’t tell you how to live your life, brother, but I will give you some advice. What went down last night? Pretty fucked up. She’s doin’ you a solid. Maybe show a little respect.”

Rather than speak right away, Pistol buried his fists into his pockets and stared at his president, willing himself not to fold. Nighthawk might have been the first one to say it, but the truth was, he saw the same expression on Fury’s face when they met up at Lyla’s apartment earlier, and again when he got to the garage and saw Nomad.

The guilt he’d been battling was back. This time, rather than ignore it, he let himself feel it. In doing so, his conscious stirred up memories of his mother. He didn’t have to hear her say it. He simply knew.

She raised him better than that.

Nevertheless, he felt compelled to defend himself.

“She wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t, until you made up your mind to marry her. Now, whatever the two of you work out is none of my business. But don’t be an asshole. You could have done a hell of a lot worse.”

Having said all he intended to say, Nighthawk began to walk away, patting Pistol on the shoulder as he passed. “Finish up here. Report back to me as soon as you hear somethin’.”

Locking his jaw, Pistol looked down at Reaper—staring at the black shepherd as his mind struggled to trudge through the mire of the last couple of days. Of all the men in the club, Prez and his ol’ lady had the longest and happiest marriage, second only to Bull and his wife, Winnie. Given how little time he spent with the Gillette chapter, Bull and Winnie were almost folklore, while Nighthawk and Viv were what Pistol always believed was the exception to the rule.

There was a reason he had no intention of settling down.

A reason he approached marriage as a business deal.

A reason why when he woke up Monday evening and found Lyla asleep on his couch, alerting him that the previous twelve hours hadn’t been a wild fever dream, he went looking for an escape.

She wasn’t part of the plan.

More than that, he didn’t know jack shit about being married.

‘You keep your filthy mouth off my husband.’

He hadn’t been able to forget the rage of his bride, still in her white dress.

Short sighted as it was, it shocked him to learn putting a ring on Lyla’s finger meant something to her—strangers though they were.

He moved her into his house that morning, but he still didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

Reaper whined and spoke a half-hearted bark, tilting her head in question. It was enough to pull Pistol from his thoughts, reminding him he had other problems and a recon mission to complete.

Four days back in Missoula and marrying his one-night stand was only one of his issues. Lyla would have to wait.

“I hear you, girl. Hier. Let’s go.”

By late-morning, I’d managed to unpack most of my kitchen boxes, leaving behind only what I didn’t think I needed anymore. I tried not to overthink the fact that I was moving into a house with a man who was not my brother. I handled the situation with a more pragmatic approach.

Aesthetically, his stuff and my stuff went together like odds and ends. I started a growing list in my head of things I thought could make the space look more homey and less thrown together. Not that I ever spent much time in homey houses growing up. The house I was forced to live in for most of my childhood wasn’t much better than a disgusting hellhole. Even before I ran off and made the clubhouse home in Gillette, living with Carmy wasn’t exactly picturesque. While things were certainly better with just the two of us, we were still young and trying to make ends meet back then.

Yet, even though I could never afford to live in the cozy home that existed in my imagination, that didn’t mean I hadn’t seen it in my dreams a million times.

Not that I was hanging my hopes on this being my dream house—but I didn’t see what choice I had other than to make the best of my situation. For now, at least.

I had no idea what kind of financial position Pistol was in or how high his credit limit was, but I deduced enough. He didn’t lose his house while he was locked up, and he didn’t make a fuss over the price of my dress or the shoes I insisted he buy. His credit card still in my possession, I had every intention of giving the place the feminine touch it lacked.

It was mid-afternoon and I was sitting in the middle of the living room floor, sorting through boxes of my best thrift-shop décor finds, when a knock sounded at the back door. I reclined onto my elbows as I peered down the stretch of house to catch a glimpse of who it was. Before I could even think to stand up, Vivienne was walking into the kitchen, her arms laden with grocery bags.

“Whatever you’re doin’, take a break. You’ve got company,” she demanded with a wry grin.

“Hey, babe,” greeted Sofia as she followed behind Viv. In one hand she had a sack of groceries. In the other was a six pack of beer. She raised it as she went on to say, “Come crack one open with us. We brought lunch. Hope you’re hungry.”