Page 42 of Ridin’ Dirty

I sobbed my way through a third of a pint of gelato, hardly tasted half my bean and cheese burrito, and munched on a handful of Doritos before I laid down to sleep, knowing it was my best chance at escaping the thoughts running rampant in my mind. I didn’t leave the room—not even to stow the gelato in the freezer—completely uncaring if it melted.

I didn’t pay for it, so what did it matter?

Except, nothing I purchased the night before was on the nightstand.

Shifting my gaze back toward the door, I noticed the lock wasn’t engaged.

Guess I should have known better than to think a Stallion couldn’t overcome a simple door lock in his own house. But that wasn’t what surprised me. What surprised me was how he cleaned up after me, but he didn’t wake me. He didn’t kick me out of his bed. Again.

I groaned for a second time, now out of frustration, and clapped my hands over my face. There was no sense in reading into any of Pistol’s actions. More than anything, he probably just didn’t want a mess of melted gelato waiting for him when he reclaimed his space.

So what if he cleaned up after me?

What he didn’t do was apologize.

I’d gone over it in my head repeatedly, an awful, ugly guilt gnawing at my insides in a way it never had before. When I lived in Gillette, I lived as wild and free as I wanted, and I would be lying if I said I regretted it. As far as I was concerned, every man was responsible for his own actions.

If he wanted me, and I wanted him, game on.

At least, that’s how it was for as long as I could stand it.

Until the only one I truly wanted didn’t want me back.

That changed everything.

It changed me.

I wasn’t that woman anymore.

I was no longer that young and dumb.

But in the three years I’d been back in Montana, I never once put myself in the other woman’s shoes. In the past, I envied the other woman. Every Stallion who fucked me had no intention of claiming me. I was hardly more than a plaything while she got to be his everything.

I wasn’t Pistol’s everything. Not even close. But I’d been a damn good sport, and it sucked more than I thought it could to walk in on him and Cherry.

It sucked being the other woman.

Aware I was going to have to leave the room eventually—and hopeful I might find a toothbrush amongst my things—I slid out of bed and gingerly made my way out into the living area. I wasn’t two steps beyond the hallway when Rooster came lumbering toward me, his arms full of two boxes stacked on top of each other, forcing his chin up to clear his load. I scurried out of his way, and as he noticed me, he winked and said, “Mornin’ sunshine,” before continuing to the guest room.

From what I could tell, most of my stuff was being deposited in what floor space was left in there. I watched as Buff came through the living room next, his arms also full—full of boxes I hadn’t packed but were, nonetheless, filled with my things.

“Hey, Lyla,” he greeted with a nod

I waved pathetically, wondering how it was possible all my things were put in boxes and carted to my new residence when I didn’t even know I was going to have a new residence twenty-four hours ago.

“No, not in here. That one goes in the garage,” I heard Pistol say.

Curious what of mine was destined for the garage, I followed the sound of his voice and found myself in the kitchen. Like the other guys, Pistol was coming in through the back door with a load in his arms. His only made it as far as the dining room table. He plopped the box down atop the mail I sorted then paused when he saw me.

It didn’t go unnoticed how he’d changed out of yesterday’s clothes. He was wearing a pair of worn blue jeans and a white tee, both of which fit him a little too well. It was nearly impossible to ignore his sculpted arms and the ink displayed there, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of staring. Putting aside what he looked like in his clothes, I noted further evidence that he was in and out of his room with me in his bed, and I slept through all of it.

“Hey,” he greeted unenthusiastically. He then signaled with his chin toward the counter before he added, “Breakfast is in the bag. We’re almost done.”

It was all he said before he turned and started for the driveway.

I peeked out the window and saw four trucks and an SUV parked outside. As he said, it appeared they were just about done. I turned to look at the clock on the stove, frowning when I saw it wasn’t even eight-thirty.

The paper sack on the counter that held my breakfast had a grease stain in the corner. On a normal day, the promise of melted cheese, butter, or bacon on a biscuit or a bagel would have been appealing; but after my emotional feast the night before, I wasn’t quick to reach for it. What I really wanted was my toothbrush and some coffee.