Page 57 of Ridin’ Dirty

It wasn’t anger.

Wasn’t disappointment.

It wasn’t even judgement.

It was…nothing.

We hadn’t been close in a long time, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know my brother well enough to understand his blank expression meant whatever he was feeling toward me pushed him beyond his breaking point.

What that meant for me was unknown; and I couldn’t say I was in any hurry to find out.

No sooner had we arrived at the house and shifted into park than Pistol was reaching for the door.

“Wait,” I proclaimed, quickly killing the engine. “Let me help you.”

Shocker—he didn’t wait.

With a barely disguised groan, he unfolded himself from where he sat as he stepped out onto the driveway. Reaper was quick to follow.

“Pistol, slow down,” I called as I grabbed my purse and made my own exit.

“Said it before. I’m fine.”

I raised an eyebrow and watched him lift a hand to press against his side as he gingerly ambled toward the house.

“You know, you’re not all that convincing, tough guy,” I hollered after him.

“Takin’ a shower,” he said in reply.

I merely gaped at him as he went. Seeing as he so obviously didn’t want my assistance, I didn’t press the issue. Nevertheless, as soon as he disappeared into the house, I hurried in after him. Just in case.

I caught up with ease and was two steps behind him as he journeyed through the kitchen, into the living room, and toward the bathroom.

When he flipped on the light switch at his final destination, he paused long enough to mutter over his shoulder, “Been taken my own clothes off since I was two years old. Stop hoverin’. I’m fine.”

While his tone was final, it wasn’t harsh or rude, so I freed a sigh and retreated a couple steps. He nodded, expressing a silent thanks, then shut himself inside. Reaper, who was also not invited, huffed before plopping down in front of the door. She rested her head atop her paws and we both waited helplessly for the sound of the shower.

It only took me a couple minutes to admit how weird it was that I was standing there while Pistol bathed. It might have been true he didn’t need my help cleaning himself up, but he was going to need a lot more than a shower. He had a split lip and a matching cut on his brow and nose. The way he grabbed at his ribs coupled with the memory of Carmy’s fist in his side meant he was likely aching all over and would need pain meds, ice, and bandages.

I wasn’t entirely convinced his tough guy persona would allow me to put a bandage on him, but ice and pain meds were going to be nonnegotiable. With my mind made up, I discarded my purse on the couch and returned to the kitchen, hopeful there was now more than my gelato in the freezer to use as an ice pack.

A quick peek clued me into the fact that Viv wasn’t big on frozen veggies—but there was an ice maker, and I had a couple tea towels I could wrap around some cubes. That would have to do.

Having spent the day going through every drawer and cabinet in the house, I knew he kept a big bottle of ibuprofen in the junk drawer of his kitchen. I took it out and set it on the counter, then grabbed a glass out of a nearby cabinet and filled it with water. That done, I ventured back toward the hallway to see if he was still in the shower. The sound of water informed me he wasn’t finished, so I went back to the kitchen and tried to remember if I came across a first aid kit earlier. I checked underneath the sink but came up short. I knew I had a box of Band-Aids and some Neosporin, but I stowed them in the bathroom.

The only bathroom on the main level.

I frowned and, not for the first time, wondered how sharing one bathroom was ever going to work long term. Even Carmy and I managed to afford a place with two bathrooms back in the day. Not to say Pistol’s house wasn’t sufficient. It was actually pretty nice, if not plain.

That thought triggered another, and I pulled my top lip between my teeth, remembering the thousands of dollars’ worth of goods I purchased in an attempt to make myself feel better earlier.

I closed my eyes as I reached up and grabbed two fistfuls of hair.

While I was shopping, Pistol was getting the shit beat out of him.

For a minute, I felt like a bitch.

Part of me wanted to take the easy way out and justify my actions. Pistol had turned my life upside down, and he was an asshole about it.