The Dirty Enforcer's Wife

Prologue

Missoula, MT

He was at the clubhouse, sitting with a few of his brothers at the poker table. What he had in his hand was shit, but he wasn’t bothered. Whatever money he lost that night, he’d find a way to earn more. Rather than worry over his shrinking stack of chips, he was content to be with present company.

His girl, Reaper, was curled up between his feet—her golden-brown paws folded over the top of one of his boots, and her black face resting beside them. In spite of the music and the hum of activity in the room, his German Shepherd was sound asleep.

Nomad was on his left. Even after all the years they’d known each other and the depth of their friendship, Pistol could never tell if his brother was bluffing. He had an unbeatable poker face. The well-worn, straw cowboy hat that sat low on his brow didn’t help matters.

Fury sat to his right. He was a big fucker who could hide his expressions behind his thick, dark beard.

Far as any of them knew, there was only one thing that could crack his hard exterior—and it was his ol’ lady.

Though, regardless of his straight face, he always seemed to give himself away.

His tell was all in his sigh. He wasn’t a man with much patience.

Wrangler sat on Fury’s opposite side. The enforcer wasn’t exactly a stranger, but he and Pistol had never been in the same chapter.

Wrangler and Gillette’s VP, Twister, were making the rounds, checking in to see what was what.

Rumor on the street was trouble was brewing—an old problem locked behind bars looking for freedom.

The out-of-town guests were there to check the strength of the Stallions’ northern allegiance.

Fact of the matter was, the Missoula chapter of the Wild Stallions Motorcycle Club was good under Bull’s leadership.

He held the highest rank, but with a humility that earned him respect and loyalty which spanned across state lines.

Moreover, the last thing Pistol and his Montana brothers needed was internal strife.

They had enough to worry about with their rivals down the road.

It was Pistol’s turn. He glanced at his cards and contemplated whether or not he was willing to bluff. When his phone began to ring from inside his pocket, he considered it a sign.

“I’m out,” he muttered, pushing aside his hand as he reached for his phone. It was nearly eleven o’clock on a Thursday night. When he saw Maxine’s name lighting up his screen, he frowned and hesitated only long enough to acknowledge his suspicions.

Maxine Matthews never called with the promise of a good time.

This was a well-known fact.

She had the digits of every patched member with rank—a reality she abused a time or two.

More than once, she called one of them after a drunk night out with friends in an effort to avoid her father.

The first time, she got Spurs, who ratted her out to her old man.

That was enough to knock him off her list.

The second time it was Fury. She threw up all over his boots. It had been over a year since that night, and she still went out of her way to make it up to him any way she could.

The third time she called Pistol. He knew it was only a matter of when, and he came prepared.

They had a bit of a chat. While Pistol wasn’t the sage among his brothers, he’d lived enough life to see where hers was going.

He was as gentle as he could be in his delivery.

He knew what it was to stir up trouble. He’d been doing it since he was fourteen years old.

Another time and in another place, he would have been the trouble she got into.

His shenanigans put his mother through hell.

But he had a dick between his legs, not a pussy.

Maxine was barely twenty years old and as beautiful as a fucking sunrise.

Yet, somehow, even with the parents she got, she danced through life with a naiveté that was bound to land her in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When he last went after her, he was sure he didn’t say anything her old man hadn’t already, but it hit different from someone who wasn’t her daddy.

He thought his message was received.

The Stallions weren’t designated drivers on hogs.

It had been months since their chat.

As his phone continued to ring, he wondered if its effects had worn off.

That night, he did not feel like driving his cage in order to go after her.

But she was the president’s daughter.

Pistol knew better than to ignore her call.

More than that, he had a bit of a soft spot for her.

She was wild; but she was sweet, too.

He slid his thumb across the screen of his phone, lifting the device to his ear as he shifted in his seat, away from the table.

“Yo,” he greeted.

Reaper stirred at his feet, lifting her head at the sound of his voice.

“Pistol, I need your help. I messed up. I messed up so bad.”

He knit his eyebrows together, lifting his opposite hand to plug his other ear. It was obvious something was wrong. She sounded scared—but he couldn’t tell if she’d been drinking or not.

“Where are you?”

“Um—I—um…Pistol, promise you won’t tell,” she insisted on a whisper.

“Max—”

“I mean it. My dad will kill me if he ever finds out.”

Pistol fought the urge to shake his head in exasperation. Nighthawk was a tough bastard, but he loved his daughter more than life itself. She knew that better than anyone.

“Maxine—”

“Promise me!”

“Where the fuck are you?” he asked, losing a bit of his patience.

He could feel Nomad’s curious gaze, but he ignored it as he strained to hear Maxine, who was still whispering on the other end of the line.

She hesitated before she confessed, “Outside Stallion territory.”

His chin dropped to his chest as realization began to dawn.

“Gonna need more than that, babe.”

“Promise me you won’t tell my dad. I’m already in so much shit as it is.”

“Fine. I promise. What the hell is going on?”

“I, um, I don’t know exactly where I am.

He told me he was going to bring me someplace special.

I thought—I don’t know. I thought I could trust him.

I thought—fuck what I thought. I was wrong.

I don’t know what’s going on, but he took my purse.

He doesn’t know I have my phone. I locked myself in the bathroom, but if I stay in here much longer—”

“Send me your location. Now. And don’t you leave that room. Hear me?”

“Pistol—”

“Hear me?”

“Okay. But—hurry.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he declared as he stood.

He disconnected, and not two seconds later she was sharing her location.

He swore under his breath.

“That sounds like trouble,” said Nomad, eyeing him carefully.

“I got it. I’ll be back.”

Reaper sat at attention beside him, patiently waiting for his instruction. He reached down to lovingly stroke the top of her head and around one of her ears. “I’ll be right back, girl. You stay put.” He then glanced at his friend and asked, “Keep an eye on her for me? Shouldn’t be long.”

Nomad nodded, signaling toward the door, and Pistol hurried out to his hog.

He didn’t know he lied to his girl for the first time since he claimed her as his.

Gillette, WY - One Month Later

I watched as his fingers tensed around the glass of Corona he had in his hand before he leaned toward me. The familiar scent of him, cedar and amber, made my belly tingle in excitement—my brain slow to alert my insides there was nothing about which to get excited.

My heart, braced as it always was, didn’t require such a warning. The look on his face was enough to send another crack through the already splintered organ.

“Hear this—” he began with a snarl. “Your cunt will never know my dick again. Best chance you got at foolin’ anyone into makin’ you his ol’ lady is if you pack your bags and find yourself a dumb-fuck in another chapter.

“In fact, you get gone, I’ll be so relieved to not have to see your face again, it’ll be me keepin’ my mouth shut.

I won’t tell my brothers how used up you are; how you’ll spread your legs as a ploy; or how you’re so fuckin’ selfish, the only thing you care about is a man’s title and the power it’ll earn you. ”

His words landed like an anvil on my heart, crushing my lungs in the process. I was his—had been for three years—but he constantly refused to acknowledge it. As my eyes welled with tears, I furrowed my brow, glaring at him in an attempt to keep myself from breaking.

“That’s not true!” I managed around the knot lodged in my throat. “How could you say that? After everything we’ve shared—”

“Lyla, the only thing you’ve shared is your pussy—and the second you took Scorpion’s cock, you sealed your fate. The fact that you don’t know that makes you dumber than I thought. Now, get the fuck out of my face.”

I could feel my hands as they began to tremble.

I’d been here before. I’d stood in front of a man I loved and endured the torture of his berating as he pushed me away with brutal force.

The pain his statement caused was familiar and new in equal measure.

This time, I couldn’t find the words to defend myself.

Twister wasn’t wrong. I did fuck Scorpion, but not for the reasons he thought.

How could he not understand? How could he not know how desperate I was—how desperate he made me? How could he not see how much I loved him?

“Twister…” My voice came out hardly above a whimper, and he was quick to turn away from me.

I stared at him, powerless against the helplessness I felt.

I was no angel, and I knew it.

On the compound, I was a sheep among Stallions.

I played my part. I paid my dues in exchange for a life surrounded by a family I wanted to belong to.

Sure, I messed around with a few of the guys—but until Phoenix happened, Twister was mine.

Or, at least, I wanted him to be. I was waiting for him to be; fighting for him to be.