Page 41 of Ridin’ Dirty

Remarkably—mercifully—I didn’t have a hard time finding my way back to his house. And to my great relief, I noticed he wasn’t home as I pulled into the driveway.

Still totally wrapped up in my feelings, I banged my way through the kitchen—heating up my burrito, hunting for a plate, searching for silverware. When I thought I had everything I needed, I took my food straight to his room, shut the door, and locked it for good measure.

He could have the couch.

Or the guest room.

Whatever.

I situated myself on the bed, propping myself up against his pillow, and the scent of him triggered a knot in my throat.

Fresh rain and moss.

Damn him for smelling so good.

Seriously. Damn. Him!

I swallowed uncomfortably then immediately reached for the gelato. As I shoveled my first spoonful into my mouth, I replayed the scene at the clubhouse. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. He married me to keep me quiet, not because he wanted me.

Except, he had wanted me that first night.

Over and over, he wanted me.

I scooped another bite of gelato and inserted the spoon in my mouth, annoyed how he went to Cherry for a blowjob when he knew what I was capable of; when he knew he had a wife.

The chocolatey goodness of my second bite was still melting across my tongue when it struck me like a slap across the face.

I knew I was good at giving head because I had a reputation.

In Gillette, I had a reputation.

In Gillette…I was Cherry.

As realization dawned, I tried to swallow the melted gelato, but the knot in my throat was back. Before I could force it down, a sob erupted from my mouth instead.

The dam keeping every emotion I’d harbored for the last twenty-four hours at bay burst wide open, and suddenly I couldn’t stop crying. The uncertainty. The fear. The acceptance. The loneliness. The humiliation and the betrayal—all of it was there, heavy on my heart, like I couldn’t carry one more thing. And yet, the truth was there, mocking me.

Whether it was fair or not, I felt I had the right to be angry at Pistol. But he only did what so many men before him had done.

What so many men before him had done with me.

Fuck.

Karma was such a bitch.

I woke the next morning with a dull ache pulsing in my head, and I groaned in discomfort. The bed I slept in was marvelous, but the tears I cried half the night left me dehydrated and emotionally wrung dry. The shit I ate didn’t help, either. I wanted to keep my eyes closed and go back to sleep, but the voices I heard in the hallway beckoned me to sit up.

“What the hell is in this thing?” grunted one of the men.

“Clothes and shit,” came another’s reply. “It’s heavy as fuck when you don’t unpack it.”

“Yeah. Got that. Why didn’t we unpack it?”

“Sounds like work to me.”

I glanced toward the door, understanding my things had arrived. I should have been relieved I wouldn’t have to spend another day in yesterday’s clothes, but the prospect of a shower didn’t bring as much comfort as I thought it would.

Sweeping a bit of hair behind my ears, I looked to the nightstand to check the time but was immediately distracted by what I found. Or, rather, what I didn’t find.