Page 45 of Ridin’ Dirty

In the end, Pistol didn’t bother asking who he was, the other half of his mind calling his attention down to his own ring finger. As he exited the office, he shrugged off the nagging weight of guilt that kept trying to claw its way onto his back since the scene Lyla made at the clubhouse.

He didn’t see it coming.

It wasn’t getting caught that haunted him. He didn’t go to the clubhouse looking to get lucky. Neither had he gone with the intention of hurting Lyla. That—how upset she was when she found him—that was what took him by surprise. He still wasn’t sure what to do about it, or if there was anything he could do about it. He married her, but he wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t going to pretend to be something other than who he was; and who he was, was a Wild Stallion. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The breakfast sandwich he went out of his way to bring her before work had little to no effect, but he hadn’t given her much thought since the fight she tried to pick on his way out the door.

The shit he was dealing with, it left no room for guilt. He was trying to move on. Move past it. Every last bit of it. All he wanted was to find his way back to normal—to find his way back to the life that was put on hold for the last three years.

“Hey,” called Cobra as soon as Pistol descended the last step.

He looked over in time to see the coveralls the VP threw at him. He caught the navy-blue jumpsuit against his chest and smiled to himself.

Blue sure as hell beat khaki.

It was good to be home.

“Been a while,” Cobra began with a smirk. “Got a transmission that needs lookin’ at. Word is you remember how to get your hands dirty—but if you want a warmup, got a few oil changes to get done, too.”

Pistol shook his head as he shrugged his way out of his kutte. “I was in the clink, not a coma. Still know my way around a car. Don’t need a warmup.”

The sound of his voice alone a beckoning call, Reaper left her spot next to Nomad—his head hidden under the hood of a sedan—and trotted her way to Pistol’s side, her tail wagging all the while.

Cobra’s smirk stretched into a smile as he chuckled.

“Right. Figured as much. You’ve been ridin’ wild walkin’ free. Haven’t wasted a second, so far as I can see. Hell—hasn’t even been a week, and somehow you’ve not only tempted fate with snake bait in your bed, you fuckin’ married the pretty thing.”

Pistol hung his kutte on an empty hook attached to the wall before stepping into his coveralls. He thought about Cobra calling Lyla snake bait and remembered what Nomad told him about the woman he was now calling his wife.

‘Should’a known you’d spot trouble the first chance you got.’

So far, trouble was right. How much trouble remained to be seen.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew he earned her ire in more ways than one. Worse, he did it without even thinking twice about it. Instinct and impulse had been the driving force behind his every move since the moment he stepped out of prison.

He planned for everything except her.

But Lyla was more than snake bait.

She was gorgeous, even when she was mad as hell.

Especially when she was mad as hell.

It was an ugly truth, but if she’d been nothing more than a used-up club whore who found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, his back would be protesting the digging of an extra grave rather than the aftermath of a morning spent hauling boxes.

Pistol wondered if that face of hers made her more trouble than he knew.

Shoving his arms into the sleeves of his jumpsuit, he tried to put her out of his mind. “Just handlin’ my own,” he replied.

“Sure you are, brother. Come on.”

Cobra started toward the opposite side of the garage, and Pistol followed after him, Reaper at his heels.

It was nearing mid-day and Pistol barely even noticed, grateful for the distraction of an honest day’s work. He and Cobra were working together, shooting the shit all the while, reminding Pistol of old times. It felt good. It felt right.

It was liberating.

So long as he had tools in his hands and car parts at his fingertips, he didn’t have a care in the world. He was home. He was free.