Page 49 of Ridin’ Dirty

“I’m not going to stand here and defend what he did. If I were you, I’d be pissed the hell off. If that’s where you’re at, you’ve got every right. I guess, I wonder—are you pissed because you still want him? Or is it just the principal of the matter?”

All eyes on me, the truth made me feel more vulnerable than I wanted to admit.

“I—I just thought this arrangement would be…different,” I confessed with a shrug.

“I get that. I do. And I’m bettin’ the two of you could benefit from gettin’ on the same page. It’ll probably take a little time. But I’ve known Pistol for many, many years. And if there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that he always does the right thing in the end.”

“She’s right,” piped in Max. She reached for my elbow, giving me a gentle squeeze as she beckoned my attention. “He’s a guy, and guys are stupid. But he’s a good one. I swear he is. And I’m sorry the last couple of days have been total shit, but he just got back, you know? He’s adjusting to all this too, and it’s obvious he’s handling it like a dummy, but it’s like mom said. He’ll do what’s right in the end. I’m sure of it.

“Besides, he’s into you. I saw the way he looked at you at the diner, and again at the clubhouse before you two disappeared.”

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. I did so with all the skepticism I could muster as I muttered, “So into me that he decided he wanted Cherry instead of me last night?”

“What he did to you? Jackass move,” Sofia interjected. “But you called him on his shit, as you should have. Now you’re here, and that tells me two things. He weighed his options, then put a ring on your finger and moved you into his house. And in spite of what he did, we walked in and found you unpackin’.”

“Okay, so we’re both stupid,” I replied with a flippant shrug. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“No—what I mean is, Pistol’s a Wild Stallion. You know as well as the rest of us—a man who rides with a club, when he’s faced with a problem, he gets rid of it one of two ways. He chooses himself or he chooses mercy. With you, he chose mercy.

“I know it probably doesn’t feel like it, but it’s no small thing that you’re here, in his house. Might not be perfect, but it’s not nothin’. And while the two of you figure out what the hell life is supposed to look like from here on in, you’ve got us in your corner.”

“Here, here,” said Viv as the microwave beeped. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Anyway, since it looks like you’re stayin’, after lunch, we’ll help you unpack. I did my best to help the guys get it all done in some semblance of order, but I’m no miracle worker.”

That explained a few things.

The smell of bacon reminded me I hadn’t yet eaten, and my stomach growled. Rather than go on about Pistol, I decided to help finish making lunch. As Viv washed and sliced tomatoes, I made toast. Soon, we were all at the table, each with a plate of food in front of us, like it was a normal afternoon.

Far from normal as it was, I didn’t fight it.

It was almost five when everyone left. Seeing as I used to live in a one-bedroom apartment, it didn’t take long to unpack everything with the extra hands. After a while, as everything began to find its place, it started settling in that Sofia had a point. In one way or another, they all did.

In spite of what he did, I wasn’t going anywhere, and I had the empty boxes to prove it.

‘…we’ll get used to each other. This doesn’t have to be a hardship.’

It wasn’t exactly a promise, and it was far from an apology, but it had been an intense few days. For both of us. He chose mercy with me, and I spent most of the afternoon debating whether or not I wanted to show him the same courtesy.

For better or for worse, we were in this.

Forgiveness was too strong a word for me to commit to, but dinner I could do. Knowing he’d be home eventually, I pulled the chicken Viv bought out of the fridge. I baked it as a peace offering and tossed together one of the remaining bags of bird food to go with it.

At six, I plated dinner for two.

At six-thirty, I was pushing my salad around my plate with a fork, staring at the back door.

At seven-thirty, I scraped what was on my plate into the trash and pulled out my bag of Doritos. I consumed one chip after another, trying to quell the return of my rage as I imagined Pistol at the clubhouse with Cherry. It didn’t matter how little we knew each other. I didn’t care that he wasn’t mine and I wasn’t his in all the ways that mattered.

Maybe I didn’t deserve better—but that didn’t mean this didn’t sting like hell.

At eight, I set aside the chips and went for his credit card.

So much for a peace offering.

It was time for some retail therapy.

I started small.