Page 40 of Ridin’ Dirty

I wasn’t even sad.

I was so far beyond all of that—I was seeing red.

“Seriously? Seriously?!” I yelled.

Pistol, whose eyelids hung lazy as he watched her swallow his dick, nonchalantly lifted his gaze to find mine. He didn’t even flinch at the sight of me.

Worse—Cherry moaned, egging me on, and I lost my shit.

Without thinking, I reached for a fistful of her hair and yanked as hard as I possibly could. She squealed in surprise and lost her balance, toppling over on her backside.

“Hey!” was all she managed to say.

“What the hell?” muttered Pistol.

My eyebrows shot so far up my forehead, I knew for sure they disappeared under my bangs.

“Don’t fucking what the hell me,” I cried, before turning to address Cherry.

“You keep your filthy mouth off my husband. I swear, you touch him again, and I’ll beat your skanky ass. And you,” I whirled around to find Pistol staring at me in curiosity. I hardly noticed, too fired up to give a damn what he thought.

“You are a complete jackass!” I screeched the last word as I pushed at his chest with both my hands. He didn’t budge, but it made me feel better anyway. So, I did it again.

“You married me—married me—today. To. Day! If you wanted your dick sucked, all you had to do was ask your wife, asshole! Cause, in case you forgot, I’m fuckin’ good at it. I’m damn sure better than her, and you know it.”

“Lyla—” he began to say as he closed his jeans.

“Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck. You.”

Before he could get out another word, I reached around for his back pocket, found his wallet, and yanked it free.

“What are you doin’?” he asked, his voice aggravatingly even and unbothered.

When I found the credit card I saw him swiping all morning, I slid it out and then threw his wallet back at him.

“I’m hungry, honey, and dinner’s on you. Welcome to marriage, jackass. What’s it been, seven hours? Funny, suddenly feels like seven years.” I waved the credit card in the air flippantly and continued, “What’s yours is mine, right? Too bad for you, this pussy’s all dried up. Good luck getting between these legs—but if you touch her again, I’ll divorce your ass. And I think we both know what that means.”

It was an empty threat. I wouldn’t go to the cops or the Kings—but he didn’t know that.

I was fuming as I stormed toward the exit, my anger so intense I forgot anyone else was in the room.

When he didn’t call after me, I tried to ignore how much it stung.

I had half a mind to leave the truck where I left it, saddling him with the trouble of figuring out how to get it and his hog back home. But after I dug through my purse for my keys and came up empty, I surrendered, closed myself behind the wheel, and screeched my way off the compound.

I yelled as I sped down the road, as infuriated with him as I was with myself.

How could I be so stupid?

How could I, for even a second, trick myself into thinking I was in an actual marriage?

It took me ten minutes to reach the nearest Albertson’s. When I pulled into the parking lot, I’d calmed down enough not to make a fool of myself but not enough to make wise decisions.

Apparently, my idiocy was trending.

I grabbed a handheld basket and began tossing things into it in the midst of my rage. It wasn’t until I got to self-checkout that I became fully aware of my intentions to eat my feelings for dinner.

I scanned a purple bag of Doritos, a bag of white cheddar popcorn, a frozen bean and cheese burrito, and a pint of double dark chocolate Talenti gelato. It wasn’t exactly a proper grocery run, but I didn’t have it in me to think beyond the night.