Page 27 of Ridin’ Dirty

“What?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Purse, babe. Hand it over. Now.”

Like I was on auto-pilot, I let the strap of my bag fall off my shoulder and down my arm, catching it in my hand before I held it out for him. He snatched it away from me in a second.

“I’m closin’ this door and you will be here when I get back. Don’t bother screamin’ or hollerin’ cause no one will answer you. Understood?”

I managed a nod, and that was apparently confirmation enough.

The next thing I knew, I was closed inside, my thoughts dragging me back to what he said.

‘I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you.’

‘I don’t know you…’

Okay, sure, debatable whether or not the man remembered my name.

And, okay, we hadn’t laid eyes on each other since the wee hours Saturday morning.

But I wasn’t some stranger.

He’d owned my body over, and over, and over again.

Given how many times he made me come, he knew me better than anyone had in a long time.

I was yanked from my thoughts at what sounded like something being jammed beneath the door handle on the opposite side of the barrier. I gasped, quickly leaping toward the door before reaching for the knob. As I suspected, it didn’t budge.

I gasped again, jumping backward when a fist pounded against the wooden surface.

“Don’t even think about it,” he called.

I then listened to his retreating footsteps, his words on a loop in my head.

‘I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you.’

“Shit,” I whispered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He made it to the end of the hallway before he paused, glancing over his shoulder in the direction from which he came. He wasn’t sure whether or not the chair he wedged under the handle of his door was necessary, but he wasn’t an idiot. Neither did he have the luxury of the benefit of the doubt.

What he told her was the truth.

She was an unknown.

She was sexy as hell and a wild good time in bed, but that wasn’t enough.

He didn’t trust her.

Pistol shifted his gaze from his door down to the purse he had in his hand—a hand with knuckles still smeared with the drying blood of the Copper King he needed to bury. Without further delay, he jogged back to his truck. As he knew they would be, Fury and Nomad were huddled by his Chevrolet, their hogs parked behind it. Spurs, who rode to the diner in the truck, was no doubt off dealing with the King’s ride, as they previously arranged.

A stop at the clubhouse was not in their original plan, but Pistol wasn’t deterred. Nothing ever happened exactly as he expected, and he’d learned over the years the significance of adaptability. Now, more than ever, he needed to keep his head on straight and think.

As soon as he reached his truck, he opened the passenger side door, tossed the purse onto the floor, then shut up the vehicle and joined his brothers.

Fury, who stood with his arms folded across his broad chest, spoke first. “What the fuck you gonna do about Lyla?” he asked, nodding toward the clubhouse.

Pistol shook his head, using the hem of his shirt to wipe away the blood on his bruised knuckles.

He hadn’t figured that part out, yet.