Page 34 of Ridin’ Dirty

After three years behind bars, his choice was a no-brainer.

As he feared, it wasn’t a short wait to see a judge. He tried to keep hold of his sanity by reminding himself it was fortunate Missoula County didn’t require a waiting period after applying for a marriage license. By day’s end, and after less than a week of being granted his freedom, his retribution mission would be complete.

That was all the solace he needed.

Pistol and Lyla didn’t talk much while they waited. A few times, Lyla dozed off, her head dropping onto his shoulder each nap. She never stayed asleep long, sitting up with a start and a soft apology he deemed unnecessary. He couldn’t blame her for her exhaustion. He felt much the same. The only thing keeping him conscious was the reality that the job he started wasn’t done and wouldn’t be until they said ‘I do.’

After a long ninety minutes, their names were finally called.

The ceremony was simple and straight forward, two desk clerks standing in as witnesses to what Pistol explained was a secret elopement. One of the clerks, a plain looking woman with an unfortunate body type and poor taste in wardrobe, looked on dreamily—like a secret elopement between strangers was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen.

When it was all over, the judge declared, “You may now kiss your bride.”

His bride.

Even dressed in all white, with his ring on her finger, Pistol didn’t consider Lyla his bride until that very moment. Before the impact of what he did could penetrate, the plain woman cried, “Don’t be shy. Kiss her, already!”

Both he and Lyla looked over at her before they focused their attention on each other. Lyla tilted her head, a smirk pulling at her red lips, silently daring him to seal the deal.

He was no coward.

Without second guessing himself, he reached up and grabbed hold of the back of her neck, pulling her toward him. He heard her soft gasp as she brought her hands up to catch herself against his chest, leaning her head back as he descended for a kiss. As soon as their lips met, he felt an immense sensation of relief.

They did it.

It was over.

A tension he didn’t realize he was holding in his shoulders melted away, and without thinking, he swept his tongue across the seam of her lips, prying them open. She whimpered softly in response, the sound barely audible to his ears as she kissed him back in earnest.

She tasted good.

Like freedom.

Like victory.

He drank from her until the pathetic sound of applause sounded in the mostly vacant courtroom.

Coming back to himself, Pistol pulled away and looked down at the woman who stood clinging to his shirt—her lipstick now faded, and her blue eyes dazed and confused.

It was then when it struck him.

Lyla Gibbs was no longer Lyla Gibbs.

He made her Lyla Wells.

He was a married man.

As the truth settled, only one word came to mind.

Fuck.

The ring he slid onto my finger was nothing fancier than a thin, plain, white gold band—and yet it held my attention for the entirety of our drive. His was black and silicone. Practical. Resilient. But mine was somehow delicate in nature, in spite of the fact that it held no diamonds.

I didn’t have it in me to be disappointed in its lack of sparkle, the weight of its significance far more important than any stone could ever be. We were married. I had a husband.

Riley Wells.

That was his name.