Chapter 13 #2
Lyla confronting me, staking her claim over Twister, it was my reminder of who he was—of where he came from.
‘My house. My counter. My name.’
The past two nights, I’d been fucking Benson. But Twister? Twister was the Stallion. His life was on the compound. He left me in his house that morning, but that was only part of him.
The Stallions weren’t mine to keep. I never frequented the clubhouse, but that giant mancave on a hill was his home.
Was that where all his secrets lived?
“Hey.”
I stopped short at the sight of Mustang, standing in the open doorway behind the bar.
“Is she gone?” I asked, suddenly anxious to busy my mind with work.
He dipped his chin in a silent nod, and I headed toward him.
Before I could pass, he said, “It’s not true, by the way.”
I paused, frowning up at him in confusion. “What’s not true?”
“He’s never claimed her.”
For the second time in five minutes, I could feel heat creeping from my chest into my face.
Only this time, it was embarrassment. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
I was mortified Mustang, of all people, felt the need to reassure me about a relationship that wasn’t even defined—a relationship that was somehow out there for people to judge.
I shook my head and muttered, “Yeah, well, I could give a fuck,” before getting back to work.
Unfortunately, the night wasn’t nearly as busy as I hoped it would be. In order to keep myself occupied, I found menial tasks to complete. It was obvious my attempt at distracting myself irked Mustang, seeing as I couldn’t keep still, but he didn’t say a word.
Not that my efforts did much good. By the time we were kicking people out for the night, I was exhausted—not from tending bar, but from battling my own thoughts.
That night, I was reminded how little experience I had. Sure, I’d known more than a few men; but as far as dating was concerned, I hadn’t done it since I was nineteen. The insecurity that reared its head at me after Lyla’s little visit was infuriating.
It wasn’t a competition.
If he wanted her, he could have her.
Except, it wasn’t until she confronted me that I realized how tightly I was holding on to the feeling I had when he stopped in the middle of our ride to nowhere; the feeling I got when he told me he hadn’t slept with anyone else since the night of the wedding.
Maddening as it was to admit—his exclusivity mattered to me.
He called what we had real , and I wanted to believe him.
But Lyla—her fight, her insistence that she’d claimed him first—it filled me with doubt. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter. What mattered was he made her believe it.
Was he playing me like he played her?
Was I so desperate that I’d fallen for it?
After saying goodnight to Mustang, I was headed toward the Bronco when I saw him. I stopped mid-stride as the memory of his earlier goodbye collided with that of Lyla coming straight for me. I didn’t do drama, and I wasn’t about to start—but we were going to have words, Twister and me.
I drew in a deep breath, nodded to myself, then continued across the parking lot.
Twister was leaned against my driver’s side door—arms folded across his chest; feet crossed at the ankles.
“Hey,” he greeted casually as soon as I was in ear shot.
“Got a visit from your girlfriend earlier,” I announced cooly in return.
He frowned. “Sparky, I don’t do girlfriends , and the only woman on my radar these days is you.”
“Hmm. Well, Lyla seems to think otherwise.”
As he straightened and turned to face me head on, he replied, “Lyla will spread her legs for anyone with Stallion ink.”
“And yet she seems to think you belong to her,” I shot back with a flippant shrug.
I saw it as his facial expression hardened before he got in my space.
“I belong to no one but me, ” he spat. Glaring up at him, I refused to flinch as he continued, “Let me be clear—this is the last fuckin’ conversation I want to be havin’.
Seein’ as I happen to give a damn about this thing between you and me—for only God knows why—I’ll lay it out:
“Has Lyla been in my bed more times than I can count? Yeah. Is she sportin’ my ink?
Hell, no. She is not mine and I am not hers.
I’d even go so far and say, this thing between you and me goes sour, hers will not be the pussy I seek for solace.
She had no business talkin’ to you, and I’ll see to it that doesn’t happen again. That good enough for you?”
It was the right answer. It echoed what he’d been trying to tell me for days, but I no longer knew how to trust it.
“Whatever.” I shook my head, looked away from him, and said, “I’m going home. I’m tired, and my shit quota has been met.”
He curled a finger, butted it under my chin, and forced my head back. With nowhere else to look, my eyes found his brown ones—his irises barely perceptible in the scarcely lit parking lot.
“I’m not shittin’ you, sparky, and I’m no jackass. You’re not chasin’ my kutte, and I know it. Respect I’ve got for you goes deep. Deep enough to know better than to treat you like a sheep.”
A self-deprecating laugh crawled up my throat, and I was quick to cut it off as I replied, “Didn’t say you were stupid—said I was goin’ home. Not in the mood for a night on your couch, Twister.”
He stared at me, and I could tell he was annoyed, but so was I. There was no way I was going to let him sweet talk me onto his dick when I still wasn’t sure whether or not he was trustworthy.
I couldn’t think when he was inside of me, and I needed the space to sort fact from fiction.
“Just remember this, baby.”
When he didn’t say anything, I furrowed my brow and asked, “Remember what?”
No sooner had I got the words out than his mouth was pressed firmly against mine. He grabbed hold of either side of my head, keeping me where he wanted as he slid is tongue across my lips.
I hated for him to win, but I opened my mouth and let him in, anyway.
Our exchange was a bitter one, and I could taste his irritation as I poured out my own frustration into the kiss.
But fuck me. As it lingered on, his tongue tangled with mine and the whiskers of his beard scraping at my face, I found it hard to hold onto the resentment I’d been battling all night. I wanted him. Fuck, but I wanted him.
Before I was ready, he was done.
He broke the kiss, my head still in his hands as he muttered, “Guess I’ll see you later.”
He then let me go and walked away.
Somehow, he left me feeling as though I was being unreasonable.
Now, the doubt that gnawed at my stomach was about me more than him.
“Bastard,” I breathed, reaching for the handle of my door.