Page 103 of Ridin’ Dirty

“You know good and damn well I got a woman. Sportin’ a ring that says you don’t stand a chance.”

“Please,” she scoffed, pressing in even closer, reaching for his crotch with her free hand. Her lips now pressed directly against his ear she whispered, “We both know that ring doesn’t mean anything. You and I have unfinished business—and last I checked, Lyla’s not your ol’ lady.”

Pistol’s grip tightened around her wrist, his hold so fierce he swore he heard her barely contained whimper. He then turned his head, putting them nose to nose as he all but growled, “I won’t say it again. Don’t try me, bitch. And keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.”

“What the fuck?”

At the sound of his angel’s voice, Pistol snapped his attention across the table and found Lyla staring at them in disbelief. Before he could fully register what it was she saw from her vantage point, he felt Cherry squeeze her fingers around his package as she giggled, like nothing he said penetrated at all.

Unlike the first time she walked in and found the two of them together, Lyla’s eyes didn’t flash with anger before she laid into him. In a split second, too fast for him to react, he saw it as the light inside of those blue irises went dark.

“Lyla,” Pistol began as he stood, forcing Cherry to unravel herself from around him.

He didn’t get the chance to say another word before she murmured, “Fuck you,” then turned and hurried through the doors of the clubhouse.

Cherry’s laughter was the next thing Pistol heard. He reacted on instinct, his fingers clutched around the front of her neck before he realized what he was doing. He’d never laid a violent hand on a woman, but she needed to be silenced.

“Pistol,” she whimpered. All humor and mischief drained from her expression as quickly as the light in his angel’s eyes.

“What did I say? What did I fuckin’ say?” he growled.

He tightened his grip in order to scare her.

“You’re done,” he warned. He then shoved her hard enough for her to lose her footing. He heard her stumble to the ground but didn’t bother watching, his desire for retaliation superseded by his awareness that Lyla had it all wrong. Their history distorted the scene she thought she saw, and he needed to go after her.

He only made it halfway around the table, Reaper following closely behind, before a hand in the center of his chest stopped him in his tracks.

“Think it’s best you give her a head start.”

Pistol shifted his gaze in Nomad’s direction, scowling as he met his friend’s eyes.

“You know where she sleeps. Let her cool down. Let’s you and I have a word.”

Nomad didn’t wait for Pistol to agree before he started across the room, plucking his beer from Smokey’s grasp as he passed. Pistol hesitated, glancing toward the double doors through which Lyla fled. He’d seen her angry often enough. He knew her fire. Hell, she could piss him off and turn him on at the same time with her attitude—but just now, he didn’t like what he saw.

She was hurt.

Fuck, but it messed him up to see her like that.

“Ri,” called Nomad. “Don’t be a dumbass.”

Rather than look over at his friend, Pistol dropped his focus down at Reaper. Much as he wanted to go after his woman, he couldn’t ignore the nagging truth that Nomad knew him better than anyone. It never served him well to ignore the wisdom of the man who’d talked him off a cliff more than once.

Pistol clenched his jaw, turned on his heel, and walked to the end of the bar, where Nomad stood, leaning casually against his elbow. Pistol didn’t bother pulling out a bar stool but faced his brother, his arms folded across his chest.

“This much I know. You and Lyla hopped on a bullet train goin’ a hundred miles an hour headed I don’t know where. Three weeks. That’s how long you’ve known her. That’s how long it took for her to get that look in her eye—that look that tells me wherever you’re headed is on you.”

Nomad paused to take a pull from his beer bottle. Knowing the silence wasn’t an invitation to insert his opinion, Pistol kept his mouth shut and his ears open. The two men stared at one another a moment longer before Nomad continued.

“Don’t got an ol’ lady and never had a wife, doesn’t mean I’m obtuse. What I just saw? Nothin’ more than a little misunderstandin’. But the way she walked out tells me two things: she’s in deep, but whatever the two of you got goin’ on is not built on trust.”

Pistol opened his mouth to speak but knew instantly he couldn’t argue against Nomad’s point. He sealed his lips closed and ground his teeth in impatient irritation, waiting for the man to continue.

Nomad dipped his chin in a slow nod. “Right. So, tell me—you in just as deep?”

“Thought you said you’re not obtuse,” muttered Pistol.

His retort made Nomad’s face light up with a grin as he chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Heard, brother. My advice?”