Page 43 of Ridin’ Dirty
In that order.
I was still standing in the kitchen when Pistol returned. He had two boxes this time, the top one still open, the contents of which appeared to have been gathered from what once was my kitchen. My blender and a cheese grater were sticking out of what I was afraid was a horribly packed box. He discarded it on the counter, beside the mysterious breakfast item, then paused long enough to give me his full attention.
“Viv knows what’s up. She’s cleared your schedule for the next couple of days. Unpack what you want. What you don’t can go in the garage. We’ll get rid of it later.” I watched as his eyes shifted to the blender he saw before he looked at me and muttered, “My blender’s better. Knives, too.”
On the tip of my tongue was a snarky remark about how his things were better not because they were newer but because they’d been untouched for years—but I kept my mouth shut.
He didn’t seem to notice.
“Got shit to do. I’ll leave you to it.”
Seeing as he was perfectly fine having a one-way conversation, I said nothing in response. Besides, I didn’t so much care if he was leaving. It would be better if he was gone when I got in the shower. He’d lost the privilege of seeing me naked.
When he didn’t move to leave, I quirked an eyebrow at him in silent inquiry.
Pistol sighed, shifting his weight on his feet as he raked his fingers through his blond curls. “Look—we’ll get used to each other. This doesn’t have to be a hardship.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, somehow aware that was as close to an apology I was ever going to get, but it sure as hell was not going to cut it.
“Oh, yeah, cause it’s always been my dream to marry a man who would stoop so low as to go fuck another woman on our wedding night,” I replied mockingly.
His face got stoney in an instant.
Under very different circumstances, that look might have turned me on.
Fuck, but he was handsome.
A handsome asshole.
“I didn’t fuck her,” was his reply.
“Don’t feed me that bullshit,” I argued, folding my arms across my chest. “Like I don’t know your playbook.” I lowered my voice, poorly mimicking his as I recited, “You’ll take my dick, then you’ll swallow my cum. I’ll eat your pussy and return the favor. I like what I taste, I’ll take more—that sound about right?”
I swear, his lip twitched in an irritated snarl before he shook his head and turned his back on me. “Fuck this. I don’t have time to argue with you.”
He mumbled his statement like he didn’t mean for me to hear it.
Still bruised from the night before, I couldn’t help but to hurl the last words.
“This was your idea, Riley. Not mine!”
He didn’t acknowledge me but kept on walking. I almost flipped him off; but when Fury entered the room and I realized I wasn’t yet alone, I restrained the urge.
“Hey,” he said warmly. “We’re clearin’ out.”
I nodded, not quite sure what to say, and a little surprised I kind of felt like crying again.
Fury was no shorter than six-foot-three, with intimidatingly broad shoulders, arms that broadcasted his commitment to the gym, and a bearded face that was equally fierce as it was handsome. They didn’t call him Fury for nothing, and yet his gentle manner in that moment felt like more than I could stand.
“I get this is a lot. All of it. You need somethin’, anything, you holler. And don’t be surprised if the ol’ lady drops by later to help out with these boxes.”
Tension I didn’t realize I was holding in my shoulders dissipated, relief hitting me for the first time since I woke up. Not merely at the prospect of Sofia stopping by, but the reminder that while I might have been Pistol’s stranger bride, I was no stranger to the club.
“Thanks, Fury.”
He dipped his head in farewell, and soon, I was all alone.
When the silence settled, I looked around me, the boxes filled with my belongings a severe reality check. This wasn’t a fairytale. Neither was it a nightmare. It was all very, very real.
