Page 39 of Ridin’ Dirty

I had his last name but not his phone number.

Irritated, I stomped back toward the kitchen—as if staring out the window would make him come back faster. Then I spotted them. The keys to his truck. They’d slid under my purse.

Hesitating a moment, I asked myself whether or not I wanted to drive around town in the vehicle that had not long ago carted a dead body to its final resting place.

Then my stomach gurgled uncomfortably.

More than creeped out by Pistol’s truck, I was annoyed he’d left me again with no food.

He did a better job of taking care of his dog, for crying out loud. Surely he got hungry, too. More importantly, he couldn’t possibly expect me to make myself at home in this place in its barely lived-in state.

My mind made up, I went to fetch my heels, tucked my feet inside, then returned to the kitchen to gather my things and his keys. I fiddled with the few he had on his ring, trying to work out how to lock up behind me. Once I figured it out, I hurried for the truck.

After adjusting the seat and the mirrors, I cranked the engine and slowly began to back my way out of the long driveway. Night coated his neighborhood in darkness, only a few street lamps along the main drag giving me any clues as to where I was. I drove, in search of the nearest major road, and was pleasantly surprised to find he didn’t live far from the clubhouse. He actually lived closer to the clubhouse than the nearest grocery store.

Noting this, I decided to do a drive-by to see if he was there.

When I pulled onto the compound, I spotted his Harley right away. Until I saw it parked in front of the clubhouse, I didn’t know it was his—but I didn’t need to be told the hog with the doggy sidecar belonged to Riley Wells.

I swear, he didn’t go anywhere without Reaper.

Now, I was even more irritated to learn he left me to come party with his brothers. Up until this point, he’d been calling all the shots. But I wasn’t some shy little wallflower to be trampled upon. I followed his lead all day. The least he could do was feed me.

Wouldn’t say no to an orgasm, either, I admitted to myself.

I parked behind the row of bikes, not the least bit concerned I was blocking in a good number of them. I killed the engine of the truck, but I didn’t bother pulling the keys from the ignition. I left my purse behind, too, so focused on my mission to have a word with Mr. Wells I didn’t think twice about it.

I tugged open one of the front doors and stepped inside then stopped short and scanned the lounge hurriedly. It didn’t look much different than any other night. Maybe a little quieter, but it was Monday.

Buff was behind the bar, where he often was, while Smokey and Crow sat opposite him, their beers half empty in front of them. Rooster and Nomad were shooting the shit on a couple of couches in the middle of the room—Rooster’s ol’ lady, Hazel, perched across his lap. Nighthawk, Cobra, Fury, and Spurs were at one of the poker tables. But I didn’t spot Pistol.

It wasn’t until I took a second pass of the room that I noticed the awkward glances aimed my way. At first, I thought maybe I’d caught a few people off guard. My dress didn’t exactly scream blushing bride, but I knew better than to think our marriage was a secret. Then again, I was still trying to grapple with the reality of it all—still trying to make the ring on my finger feel like mine rather than some foreign object—so it would stand to reason the Stallions would need more than a millisecond to get used to the idea, too.

Except, the closer I looked, the clearer it became it wasn’t what I was wearing that was the issue. It was the snide expression on Hazel’s face that caused the muscles of my stomach to tighten anxiously; but it was Sofia who made my stomach flip uncomfortably.

Sofia caught my attention as she hurried toward me, her pretty brown eyes round with concern. Fury’s ol’ lady was half Italian, reflected in her long dark hair, her olive skin, and her fiery spirt. She was also half Irish, which she attributed to her gentle nature. She was as beautiful as she was feisty, but she was also a sweetheart. Only, something told me I didn’t want to hear what she had to say.

“Hey, Lyla. How are you? I hear you’ve had quite the day.”

Any other night, and I’d think she was merely being kind.

Tonight, I could tell she was trying to distract me.

Stall me.

I ignored her question and flat out asked, “I know he’s here. Where is he?”

She pressed her lips into a tight, forced smile, but the quick glance she shot across the room was answer enough.

He was on the far side of the clubhouse, leaned up against one of the pool tables. He was also oddly alone and not playing pool.

The ache in my stomach shifted from one of anxiety to one of trepidation as I searched the room one more time. When I saw no sign of her red hair, I came unglued from the spot where I stood and walked deliberately across the room.

I found her on her knees, her eyes staring up at her mark, her mouth fully occupied.

All at once, I wasn’t hungry.

I wasn’t anxious.