Page 62 of Ridin’ Dirty

Pistol finished his bite, all the while studying Lyla as she waited for his response.

He killed a man, and she watched him do it.

Now, it was casual dinner conversation.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked, leaning toward him. “Is it your head?”

He blinked, not sure how long he’d been staring, then took another big bite.

“They let me walk,” he finally spoke, talking around his food. “Which means they don’t know shit. As for what comes next, couldn’t say. Brother’s and I will figure it out.”

He finished his first sandwich and immediately started on his second. While his jaw protested all the chewing, his mouth rejoiced, and his stomach was silenced.

Lyla was making slow work of her portion. When he noticed her picking at her crust, he slowed down long enough to ask, “What?”

“Hmm?” she hummed in response, dropping what was left of her sandwich.

“You got somethin’ to say, say it.”

She wiped at her fingers before pushing her plate away from her and propping her elbows on the table. She then looked him square in the eyes.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Have my reasons,” was all he said in response.

Lyla nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his before she tried again.

“And are your reasons good ones or petty ones?”

He waited until his mouth was empty before he spoke.

“I’ve experienced death in more ways than one. Know what it looks like to watch a soul leave a body. Know what it feels like to lose someone you love.

“Fucked up shit he was into, can’t imagine he knew much love—but I bet he had a mama, and if she’s still around, it’ll hurt like hell to learn he’s gone. I did that. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again. Like I said, I’ve got my reasons, but they sure as hell aren’t petty.”

The curiosity he saw in her pretty blue eyes gave way to something softer.

Again, he replayed the scene at the Kings’ clubhouse. He saw her tugging at her brother’s arm—zero hesitation. Zero fear.

“I’m not going to finish that,” she said, pointing at her half-eaten sandwich. “You can have it if you want.”

Casual dinner conversation.

He didn’t know her story, but he sure was getting curious.

He ate the rest of his meal and polished off hers before he told her he was calling it a night.

She nodded then got up to clear the table.

He took his time toward his bedroom. The pain meds dulled the throbbing, but his body ached in ways it hadn’t in a while. What he said to his brothers earlier was true. He learned how to take a beating in prison, but it was never as one-sided as it was that night—and never had it lasted that long.

He paused when he reached the hallway, glancing back toward the kitchen as he thought once more of Lyla. The weight of her in his lap. The warmth of her wrapped around him. The scent of her hair—like berries in summertime. She said she knew her brother wouldn’t hit her. Pistol believed that to be true. He wouldn’t hit her on purpose, but she couldn’t have known he wouldn’t hit her on accident.

Fucking insane.

It wasn’t the first time she showed up where she didn’t belong—but she saved him.

There was an odd feeling of comfort, hearing her move around in his kitchen. So odd, it didn’t feel right to trust it, so he didn’t. He continued toward his bedroom instead. He was pulling back the sheets when Lyla entered the room a minute after him. Halting where he stood, he listened, peering through the darkness as she tugged off her boots, like she’d done such a thing in his room a hundred times.