Page 24 of Ridin’ Dirty

Those were Nomad’s words.

‘He’s gone.’

Dead.

Fucking hell—I’d witnessed a murder.

The bag of trash in my grasp slipped from my fingers, landing in a pathetic clump against the pavement. While the sound was far more subtle than the door that slammed behind me only a moment ago, it was enough to earn me the attention of four pairs of eyes.

I couldn’t move, too stunned for my brain to communicate to my legs that I didn’t want to be standing in a back ally watching the aftermath of one man killing another with his fucking bare hands.

And yet, I saw it when Pistol’s brow pinched together in a deep scowl before he grumbled, “Shit.”

His left hand was fisted around the shirt of the dead man. When he let him go, his lifeless weight made his head land against the ground with a thud that made me flinch. Then Pistol straightened, turned, and began closing the distance between us.

Not once did he look back at the dead man.

Not for a second did he take his eyes off me.

The closer he came, the more aware I was of the rapid beat of my heart.

The pounding in my ears was suddenly louder than the footfall of his boots.

I still couldn’t make myself move, my brain too busy trying to process what was happening as fast as I possibly could.

I understood the nature of the men who identified themselves as Wild Stallions or Copper Kings or the like. I wasn’t naïve or ignorant of the company I’d been keeping for years. I couldn’t say I was surprised Pistol was capable of such violence.

But there was a huge difference between imagining what was possible and witnessing it.

I liked men big, kind of scary, tatted, hot, and rough around the edges—but I wasn’t completely stupid. So when Pistol got within a foot of me, I found the will to take a cautious step back.

Not that it did me much good.

“Babe, you run, you’ll regret it,” he warned as he continued his advance.

I honestly couldn’t say whether it was his words or the sound of his voice that stopped me in my tracks; my memories of this man—memories I spent half the night revisiting—clashing with this present version of him.

Before I could stop my mind from racing long enough to make the choice whether or not I wanted to heed his warning, it was too late. He grabbed hold of my upper arm and tugged. I gasped, not because he was hurting me but because I was pretty sure he had hold of me with his bloodied hand.

“Pistol—”

“You keep talkin’, I will find a way to shut that mouth, birthday girl.”

Birthday girl.

I almost stumbled over my own feet as he pulled me toward the truck.

Birthday girl.

Had he forgotten my name?

I didn’t have time to dwell on it, too distracted by the shrinking proximity between me and the dead guy splayed on the ground.

Pistol wrenched open the passenger side door of the truck, not so gently encouraging me inside. As soon as my ass was in the seat, I felt the cold, wet nose of his dog graze the side of my neck as she sniffed at me. I jumped, sucking in a startled breath as I turned to glance back at the black shepherd.

I knew her name was Reaper. I heard Pistol call to her between rounds the other night, when he got out of bed long enough to give her a chance to relieve herself, but we weren’t exactly acquainted.

“She won’t bite,” said Pistol as he began to close the door.