Page 3 of Ridin’ Dirty

He disconnected, and not two seconds later she was sharing her location.

He swore under his breath.

“That sounds like trouble,” said Nomad, eyeing him carefully.

“I got it. I’ll be back.”

Reaper sat at attention beside him, patiently waiting for his instruction. He reached down to lovingly stroke the top of her head and around one of her ears. “I’ll be right back, girl. You stay put.” He then glanced at his friend and asked, “Keep an eye on her for me? Shouldn’t be long.”

Nomad nodded, signaling toward the door, and Pistol hurried out to his hog.

He didn’t know he lied to his girl for the first time since he claimed her as his.

Gillette, WY - One Month Later

I watched as his fingers tensed around the glass of Corona he had in his hand before he leaned toward me. The familiar scent of him, cedar and amber, made my belly tingle in excitement—my brain slow to alert my insides there was nothing about which to get excited.

My heart, braced as it always was, didn’t require such a warning. The look on his face was enough to send another crack through the already splintered organ.

“Hear this—” he began with a snarl. “Your cunt will never know my dick again. Best chance you got at foolin’ anyone into makin’ you his ol’ lady is if you pack your bags and find yourself a dumb-fuck in another chapter.

“In fact, you get gone, I’ll be so relieved to not have to see your face again, it’ll be me keepin’ my mouth shut. I won’t tell my brothers how used up you are; how you’ll spread your legs as a ploy; or how you’re so fuckin’ selfish, the only thing you care about is a man’s title and the power it’ll earn you.”

His words landed like an anvil on my heart, crushing my lungs in the process. I was his—had been for three years—but he constantly refused to acknowledge it. As my eyes welled with tears, I furrowed my brow, glaring at him in an attempt to keep myself from breaking.

“That’s not true!” I managed around the knot lodged in my throat. “How could you say that? After everything we’ve shared⁠—”

“Lyla, the only thing you’ve shared is your pussy—and the second you took Scorpion’s cock, you sealed your fate. The fact that you don’t know that makes you dumber than I thought. Now, get the fuck out of my face.”

I could feel my hands as they began to tremble. I’d been here before. I’d stood in front of a man I loved and endured the torture of his berating as he pushed me away with brutal force. The pain his statement caused was familiar and new in equal measure. This time, I couldn’t find the words to defend myself.

Twister wasn’t wrong. I did fuck Scorpion, but not for the reasons he thought.

How could he not understand? How could he not know how desperate I was—how desperate he made me? How could he not see how much I loved him?

“Twister…” My voice came out hardly above a whimper, and he was quick to turn away from me.

I stared at him, powerless against the helplessness I felt.

I was no angel, and I knew it.

On the compound, I was a sheep among Stallions. I played my part. I paid my dues in exchange for a life surrounded by a family I wanted to belong to. Sure, I messed around with a few of the guys—but until Phoenix happened, Twister was mine. Or, at least, I wanted him to be. I was waiting for him to be; fighting for him to be.

He threw Scorpion in my face like that was somehow the final nail in the coffin where our relationship was trapped, but I knew better. We were over after he went to that fucking wedding. He hadn’t touched me since he left town to watch Wrangler and his lawyer get hitched.

Three years. Three years rendered irrelevant in a single weekend.

I didn’t go after him because of his title. It wasn’t about the size of his dick, either. Though, that didn’t hurt. He was good looking. That was undeniable, too. But it was more than that. It was the feeling I got when he spotted me across a crowded room and beckoned me with nothing more than the jerk of his chin. That feeling—the one I got knowing he could have anyone he wanted and yet he wanted me—there was nothing like it.

Even on those nights when he picked someone else, driving me into the arms of another, I still longed for that feeling. There was a sense of security in it. Or, as was now blatantly obvious, a false hope.

Maybe I was dumber than he thought.

Maybe I was dumber than I thought, too.

I was pulled from my musings when Twister stood, forcing his barstool to scrape against the floor. I watched as he reached for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and dropped it on the bar. He didn’t even spare a glance my way before stomping toward the exit.

The bar was far from silent, the live band on stage and the buzz of chatter filling the space with noise. Nevertheless, when the door slammed shut, I felt it—the finality of it reverberating through my chest.