Page 29 of Ridin’ Dirty

Only a few nights ago, confined by these same four walls, I was as free as I’d been in years.

Now, I was locked in a cage, and I was on the verge of losing my mind.

I hadn’t slept a wink.

I was hungry.

And I seriously needed to pee.

Before he left, he told me not to bother making a ruckus. He assured me no one would come for me. But I was Lyla Gibbs. I was one of Viv’s girls. I’d been around the last three years while he was locked up. I was convinced surely the Stallions’ knowledge of me would count for something.

Unfortunately, I thought wrong.

I even had a sore hand to prove it.

No matter how loudly I pounded my fist against the door, no one—not a single person—stopped to even holler back. It was like I had to know a secret code word, and I had not a clue what it could be.

In the hours I was left alone, I paced the room about a hundred times. When I thought I might make myself dizzy, I sat on the bed for a while. A part of me thought it might be a good idea to lay down and at least try to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, my memory flooded with the scene I inadvertently walked in on in the alley behind the diner. And when I opened my eyes and smelled the scent of him wafting from the sheets—fresh rain, moss, and leather—it reminded me that in spite of the six orgasms Pistol had been sure to deliver the other night, I was now the woman whose name he could no longer remember.

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

Desperate to get out of my own head, I abandoned the bed altogether.

Except, while I sat on the cool floor, my back against the wall, my mind could not be silenced. This was not altogether surprising.

I was trapped, and I needed to find a way out.

Not just the room—as it was clear that wasn’t going to happen until Pistol returned—but out of this entire situation.

I couldn’t deny Pistol had a point.

We didn’t know each other.

He didn’t trust me, but I couldn’t claim to trust him, either.

I had no idea what to expect when he returned.

I was fairly certain he wouldn’t off me, too.

That seemed an outrageous possibility.

I couldn’t make sense of why he killed that man, but surely he had a reason. The Kings and the Stallions were rivals. Moreover, in my experience, they weren’t mindless, reckless murderers. But it was probably best I not ask any questions. It wasn’t my business. I didn’t want to know.

The less I knew, the more likely it was Pistol would let me go.

Surely, he couldn’t keep me stowed away forever.

I was busy deep breathing, concentrating all my focus onto my bladder, tricking myself into thinking I wasn’t on the verge of wetting myself, when I heard it—the rattling of the doorknob.

I was on my feet, facing the exit, poised and ready to run when the door opened. I barely even glanced at Pistol as I began to hurry my way around him. I didn’t get far before he had hold of my arm. His grip was unyielding as he pulled me close—close enough to smell him; close enough to be sure he’d showered since I last laid eyes on him. If I wasn’t on the verge of bursting, I might have inadvertently relished in the intensified scent of fresh rain—but I was too desperate to bask in his essence.

“Let me go,” I demanded.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?”

There was a part of me, a very small part of me, that remembered the hand which had hold of me killed a man less than twenty-four hours ago, and it was possible I should proceed with caution.

But that part of me was on the verge of drowning in my bladder.