Page 94 of Ridin’ Dirty

“None. Had a cravin’. Satisfied it. Leg day tomorrow. I’ll make up for it.”

Even as I took another bite, I furrowed my brow in deeper confusion. While I chewed, I shifted my gaze between the show and Riley, still trying to make the present moment make sense. While I understood we were only a couple weeks into knowing each other, this version of him seemed so foreign. He was rarely home. Between work, and shit with the club, not to mention his workout routine and regular breakfast runs, the house felt more like a pitstop than a destination for him. As far as I could tell, when he wanted to kick back and relax, he did that at the clubhouse with his brothers.

“Angel, you got somethin’ to say, say it, babe,” he ordered, his attention still directed at the television.

My stomach fluttered in that way it always did at his term of endearment, but I took it in stride as I finished my bite. I then enjoyed a sip of my coffee, stalling before I blurted, “Are you feeling okay?”

He turned his head to look at me. “Yeah. Why?”

“I guess…” I paused and offered him a shrug. “I’m used to seeing you move at one speed, which is nonstop.”

“Doesn’t happen often, but when the mood strikes to sit around and do jack shit, I don’t fight it. Don’t think I’ve stopped to come up for air since I got back. Nothin’ I gotta do today that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay. Um—would you rather veg alone, or⁠—”

“Don’t mind the company.” He paused, glanced down at my pastry, then met my eyes before he continued, “Would prefer if you ate your fill of donuts so I can polish off the rest.”

I grinned and barely contained a chuckle.

I liked how I didn’t know which donut was his favorite because he left behind one of every choice; and how even now, he wanted to make sure I got the ones I wanted before he got greedy.

More than that, I liked how he didn’t mind my company, and how we were about to spend a slow Sunday morning at home together.

“I kind of want half of the chocolate and half of the powdered sugar.”

“Deal,” he said as he knifed off the couch, immediately starting for the kitchen.

Reaper’s head lifted in excitement while I burst into laughter. Before either of us could even think of trailing after him, he was on his way back with the box of remaining donuts in hand. He settled back into his spot, we ate our donuts, I drank my coffee, and we vegged.

By the time a third episode of the barbecue cook-off show started, I found myself stretched out in the opposite direction of Pistol, my cheek propped up on the back of one of my closed fists, and my feet in his lap. If I thought about it too hard, the ease at which we’d fallen into this moment felt far too good to be true—so I didn’t think about it. Instead, I decided to merely enjoy it.

“The woman with the dreads is really good. Like, does she ever screw up? But, I’m rooting for the Filipino guy. He’s like a quiet powerhouse.”

“Dreads is gonna win,” he replied, his hands casually reaching for one of my feet.

“Have you seen this already?” I asked as his thumbs went to work.

“Nope. Just bettin’ on it.”

It took me a second to find my words again, his massage somehow nonchalant but incredible. I had the presence of mind not to moan in delight, hoping not to distract him or give him any reason to stop.

“How’d you get into this show, anyway?”

“Random search. Cookin’ shows are mindless entertainment without bullshit drama. Got enough goin’ on in real life. Don’t need to get sucked into some twisted plot that’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

“Yeah. I get that,” I said.

I meant it, too.

Thinking back over the last couple of weeks, Pistol wasn’t the only one to keep the TV switched off most days. I’d certainly done my fair share of retail therapy, but my brain was too crowded to pick a show, let alone get lost in it. I was living out my own drama—each day full of the unexpected.

“Do you ever get scared?” I asked, focusing my attention on him.

“Of what?”

He was still rubbing my feet, still watching the show, still engulfed in the chill vibe he managed to create.

“Of getting caught. Of going back to prison—or worse? Do the Copper Kings not scare you at all?”