Page 9 of Ridin’ Dirty

A year after that—he was one of them.

If I really stopped to think about it, it pissed me off how he thought it was all fine and good for him to live the life he wanted while I wasn’t free to do the same. But I was thirty-freaking-years old, and he could threaten me all he wanted, but he couldn’t stop me from having a good time. Sure, if he found out, we’d likely fight about it—but that had become the norm. In time, I was sure it wouldn’t hurt so much.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

Wishing to shove aside all thoughts of Carmy, I forced a smile, looked at Max and asked, “So, what are we getting up to tonight?”

She grinned, squealed, and clung to my arm with both hands. “It’s going to be wild!”

“Sounds perfect.”

The door buzzed and clicked before the guard pushed it open, allowing Pistol to step out into the warm, late-summer, afternoon sun. He walked a few paces away from the prison then paused and looked down at his feet, tucked into his favorite boots. It felt odd, wearing his old clothes. Odd, but good. Liberating. The old tee he had on was taut across his chest, the short sleeves clinging to his biceps. The kutte he wore felt heavy on his shoulders, like a mantel—a reminder of who he was and where he belonged.

He closed his eyes, pulled in a deep breath, and tilted his head back as he basked in his newly granted freedom.

The sound of a loud whistle caught his attention, and he looked in the direction from whence it came, spotting Nomad with ease. The man stood leaning against the driver’s side door of his pick-up—one hand resting on the giant belt buckle he always wore, the other hanging by his side, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. Even with that old, worn cowboy hat pulled down low on his brow and a pair of sunshades covering his eyes, Pistol suspected Nomad’s calm and collected mannerisms were a front, masking the relief he was sure they both felt.

Pistol smiled, grateful for the opportunity to put one foot in front of the other in order to make his way across the parking lot toward his friend. Nomad stuck his cigarette between his lips, near the corner of his mouth, and helped close the yards that separated them. When he was in reaching distance, Nomad didn’t hesitate to pull Pistol in for a hug. He gave a tight squeeze Pistol was sure to reciprocate.

“Fuck, it’s good to see you out of that shit khaki.”

Pistol patted his brother on the back with a chuckle, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and tobacco. “You have no idea.”

Their hello was interrupted by a frantic whine followed by three sharp, insistent barks. The two men pulled away from each other, both looking toward the driver’s side window of Nomad’s truck. Reaper was in the front seat, jittery with excitement.

“Think someone’s dyin’ to see you,” mumbled Nomad around his cigarette.

“That makes two of us,” Pistol replied with a grin. “How bad did you spoil my girl?”

“Give me some credit. I didn’t ruin her. She’s still the same beast she always was, fluent in fuckin’ German.”

“Alright, let’s see,” chuckled Pistol.

Nomad strode back to his pick-up, reaching for the door handle before glancing back at Pistol. He nodded, signaling his friend to free his girl, and he pulled open the door. Reaper immediately leapt from the cab of Nomad’s cage and started sprinting.

“Ah—halt. Bleib,” he commanded.

Reaper stopped immediately, voicing her reluctance with a whine and an impatient bark.

“Ri, don’t be an ass. If she whips that tail any harder, she might fly off.”

Pistol smirked as he knelt and murmured affectionately, “Das ist ein braves Mädchen.” She lowered her nose, her whole body wiggling as she inched toward him. Now longing to put them both out of their misery, he whistled and called, “Heir.”

She charged, knocking him on his ass as she leapt at him in her exuberance, frantically licking at his face as she squirmed about in his arms.

“I missed you, too, girl. Fuck, I missed you, too.”

Pistol spent a solid five minutes on the ground, loving on his dog while Nomad finished his smoke.

“Don’t know about you, but I’d say it’s time to get the hell out of this place,” he stated, snuffing out the remains of his cigarette with the heel of his boot.

Peering up at the man with the sun at his back, Pistol agreed. He was sentenced to five years behind bars but managed to get out on good behavior after three. Even with a reduced sentence, he was in that hellhole three years too long, and he couldn’t put it in the rearview fast enough.

Pistol stood, Reaper still circling her way around him in her excitement. He felt bad for the way he left her—the way he was taken from her—without a proper goodbye. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel abandoned. He had every intention of keeping her extra close for a while.

“You hungry?” asked Nomad as they closed themselves into the truck. “Figured I’d swing you by Viv’s for a bite if you don’t mind the wait.”

Reaper licked at Pistol’s ear from behind him before he could reply. He reached his hand up to scratch between her ears. “Alright, Reaper, girl, that’s enough. Platz.”