Prologue #2
He threw Scorpion in my face like that was somehow the final nail in the coffin where our relationship was trapped, but I knew better. We were over after he went to that fucking wedding. He hadn’t touched me since he left town to watch Wrangler and his lawyer get hitched.
Three years. Three years rendered irrelevant in a single weekend.
I didn’t go after him because of his title.
It wasn’t about the size of his dick, either.
Though, that didn’t hurt. He was good looking.
That was undeniable, too. But it was more than that.
It was the feeling I got when he spotted me across a crowded room and beckoned me with nothing more than the jerk of his chin.
That feeling—the one I got knowing he could have anyone he wanted and yet he wanted me—there was nothing like it.
Even on those nights when he picked someone else, driving me into the arms of another, I still longed for that feeling. There was a sense of security in it. Or, as was now blatantly obvious, a false hope.
Maybe I was dumber than he thought.
Maybe I was dumber than I thought, too.
I was pulled from my musings when Twister stood, forcing his barstool to scrape against the floor. I watched as he reached for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and dropped it on the bar. He didn’t even spare a glance my way before stomping toward the exit.
The bar was far from silent, the live band on stage and the buzz of chatter filling the space with noise. Nevertheless, when the door slammed shut, I felt it—the finality of it reverberating through my chest.
Relieved.
That was the word he used.
He’d be relieved to not see me again.
“Hey.”
I snapped my gaze behind the bar, the motion enough to force a couple of tears to spill over my lashes and down my cheeks.
Rodeo was propped against the counter, the look in his eyes akin to pity.
“You need a drink?” he asked, not unkindly.
I couldn’t speak, Twister’s departure and everything it meant robbing me of my words.
“Come on, Lyla—what’d you expect? I know you’ve seen them together. She might be in the wind now, but nothin’s snuffin’ out the candle he’s got burnin’ for her.”
My chin began to wobble, and I knew there was no stopping the tears I was trying my damnedest to keep at bay—but I sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in the middle of Steel Mustang.
I turned on the heels of my cowgirl boots and hurried for the exit. The cool, night breeze did nothing to sooth me, and I choked on the sob clawing its way up my throat. I hurried toward the clubhouse, certain of only one thing.
I had to get out of there.
Three years ago, I ran from home and landed in Gillette.
I’d lost everything that mattered to me, and the chance to roam amongst the Stallions felt like an opportunity at a fresh start.
I wanted to do things my way. I wanted my choices to be mine and mine alone.
I ached to be in control of my own life.
But now—now I was forced to face the reality that I didn’t belong in Gillette. Not anymore.
I wasn’t sure where I belonged.
Once at the clubhouse, I sprinted through the main lounge toward the lady’s den.
At least, that’s what we called it. There were four of us girls who considered the clubhouse our home.
We shared a room, tucked away behind the kitchen.
It wasn’t exactly paradise, but it was never meant to be permanent, either.
I didn’t see it coming that I’d be leaving like this.
I didn’t have much. I was twenty-three with hardly more than a couple hundred dollars to my name when I left home.
I arrived on the compound in the only thing I had of value—my dad’s old nineteen sixty-seven Ford Mustang—my duffle stuffed full in the backseat.
It was that same duffle I was shoving full of clothes when Charity entered the room.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
I shook my head, bothering neither to lie nor look up at her.
“What happened? What are you doin’?”
“I’m getting out of here.”
“Like—leavin’?”
I nodded sending more tears racing down my cheeks.
The humiliation I felt was overwhelming, even in front of Charity.
She’d been around for longer than me. She helped me settle in when I arrived.
We were friends. We were each other’s confidants.
She knew the depths of my feelings for Twister as much as I knew she was down bad for Slick.
I never really saw the appeal, but to each her own.
“Stop,” she pleaded. She stood on the opposite side of my bed and yanked my duffle out of reach, forcing me to look up at her. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t stay here! I can’t act like it doesn’t hurt like hell every time I see him. What am I supposed to do? Stay wasted while I pretend every dick I take is his? I’m such an idiot.”
I swiped at my cheeks angrily, resenting myself for being a fool.
“You’re not an idiot.” She sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “You’re the prettiest of us all. Don’t even try to deny it. We all know it’s true. You’re fuckin’ Snow White around here.”
I scoffed, reaching for my bag once more. “Yeah, well, I didn’t get the guy.”
She was silent for a moment, with no argument against the truth.
“Where will you go?”
I hesitated, but I already knew the answer. I only had one real option. I was twenty-six with still hardly more than a few dollars to my name.
I never went to college. The only work experience I had was waiting tables or sucking dick, and neither had gotten me very far.
Living at the clubhouse, the girls and I were responsible for its upkeep; in exchange for our service, the Stallions made sure we were taken care of—but that didn’t mean my bank account wasn’t nearly empty.
Starting over wasn’t free.
I needed help, and there was only one place I was going to get it.
Things with Carmy were pretty bleak. I couldn’t remember the last time we talked, but he was still my big brother. Much as I didn’t want to go crawling back, agonizing as I knew it would be to admit he was even a little bit right, I didn’t have much of a choice.
“I’m going home,” I admitted, wiping at my cheeks once more.
“Missoula? I thought you said your brother—”
“Was an over-protective asshole?” I interrupted, shoving the last of my clothes into my bag. I nodded then began searching for my purse. “Yeah. He is.”
“So…no more Stallions?”
I tried to ignore the way my heart ached upon hearing that word. Much as I enjoyed the life and the unadulterated carefree nature of it, there was only ever one Stallion I truly wanted.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s time I get a real job. Make something of myself. I’ll be twenty-seven in a few weeks.”
“Yeah. Right,” she muttered lamely.
I winced looking over at her. Charity was pushing thirty and still chasing ol’ lady status.
“Oh, babe, I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” She forced a smile.
Purse in hand, I hooked a thumb over my shoulder and said, “I’m going to do a quick sweep of the bathroom.”
I wasn’t gone long. It took less than thirty seconds to dump my makeup and hairbrush into my bag. We all shared a curling iron and blow drier. I tried not to think about the extent of what I didn’t own.
“Are you really goin’ to leave tonight?” Charity asked, still perched on the side of the bed. “It doesn’t seem right. We should get the girls together and—”
“No,” I declared with a shake of my head. “Everyone will know why I’m leaving. The last thing I want is a pity party.”
“Okay.”
She stood as I strapped my duffle over my shoulder.
“Promise you’ll call?”
I made my way around the bed and pulled her into me for a hug.
“Promise.”
She squeezed me with her thin arms and whispered, “I hope you find happiness.”
Happiness.
I wasn’t quite sure I even knew what that looked like anymore. As I pulled away from my friend and waved goodbye, I knew only one thing for certain. Watching Twister love someone else was torture, and I couldn’t do it anymore—even if escaping it meant going home with my tail between my legs.