Page 11 of Ridin’ Dirty

Pistol knew what he did could have started something—but his imprisonment was a stopgap, and Maxine’s silence the thing that held it steady for three years. Now that he was free, what he had in mind would have its own set of consequences; but he had plenty of time to think it through. He was confident he would have his revenge, justice would finally be served, and he would manage it all without starting a war.

If he was wrong and trouble got out of hand, so be it.

He didn’t share his plans with Nomad but steered conversation in a different direction for the remainder of their drive. When they arrived in the parking lot of Route 66, he was famished. As he stepped out of the truck, he called Reaper down after him. Viv’s place wasn’t known for being dog friendly, but Pistol wasn’t leaving his girl behind. Not this time.

They weren’t two steps inside when he heard a squeal followed by a flash of blonde before her body crashed into his.

“You’re here!” she cried, holding him tight around his waist.

Pistol couldn’t remember the last time he had a woman wrapped around him. She smelled as good as she felt—but beautiful as she was, the fourteen years that separated them and the surname she carried was enough for him to consider her a sister more than a lover. He draped an arm across her shoulders as she beamed up at him with her hazel-green eyes.

“Hey, Max,” he said through a lazy smile.

Still glowing, bright as the fucking sun, she replied, “Welcome home, Pistol.”

“Alright, alright. My turn,” insisted Vivienne as she approached.

Maxine gave him one last excited squeeze before stepping aside and making room for her mother. Vivienne cupped a hand around the side of his bearded face, her gaze taking him in carefully.

“You good?”

“I’m home.”

“Right where you belong,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him for a proper embrace.

Pistol tried not to think about how good she felt, either.

Fuck. I need to get laid, he thought.

Viv sighed as she pulled away, glancing down at Reaper pointedly.

“How ‘bout you let it slide? Just this once. Got some makin’ up to do.”

She shook her head, but she did it smirking. “If she wasn’t so well trained, my answer would be different. Keep her on the floor.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come sit here,” said Maxine, backing her way to a nearby table. “I’ll get your order in right away. What’ll it be? On the house, of course.”

“Two bacon cheeseburgers, extra fries, two drafts, and one hot fudge bourbon milkshake,” said Nomad as he slid into the booth.

“You got it.”

Max spun gracefully on her heel then skipped toward the kitchen, her blonde tresses bouncing against her back as she went. When she reached the door, she skidded to a stop, moving to the side as another waitress pushed her way through the swinging barrier, her arms laden with three plates full of food. Max must have asked the woman something because she nodded and smiled in response before she began her trip across the room.

Pistol couldn’t take his eyes off her as she passed.

She wore a fitted white tee, the Route 66 logo across her chest faded from wear, the hem stopping just below her cinched waist, exposing a sliver of skin. She was in a pair of short shorts, her toned legs on display down to her calves, where they disappeared into her tan cowgirl boots. Pistol usually didn’t go for women with short hair, but with the face she had, an exception could be made. Her eyes were as big and blue as the Montana sky, and her plump lips were painted dark red.

The thought of those lips around his cock sent his imagination into a tailspin.

His dick hardened almost instantly, forcing him to shift in his seat as he yanked at his jeans to help ease his discomfort. Reaper, in her hyperawareness of him from where she sat underneath the table, rested her chin on the seat beside his and stared up at him in curiosity.

Nomad’s chuckle signaled his German Shepherd wasn’t the only one to notice.

Pistol cut his eyes across the table.

“Don’t know what’s funny.”