Chapter 4
Two Days Later
It was Sunday night, and the diner was sparsely occupied, closing time not long in coming.
In an effort to get a jump on nightly tasks, I was restocking napkins and swapping out condiment bottles in vacant booths while I waited for my last table to finish up and clear out.
As I worked, my thoughts drifted, wandering toward the same memories I’d been revisiting all weekend.
My night with Pistol.
If I was a woman prone to blushing, my cheeks would have likely given away my thoughts a hundred times over as I replayed my favorite parts from our wild night.
Fortunately for me, I wasn’t exactly meek or mild—something Pistol now knew—which meant I was free to get lost in my head without the worry of my body betraying me to the room.
At least, so far as anyone else could tell.
It would have been a lie to say thinking of our night together didn’t turn me on a little.
No one—absolutely no one—had ever made me come so many times in one night.
Pistol didn’t just have stamina, he had determination. It was like he was on a mission to make up for lost time in a single night. After my fifth orgasm, which brought about his third, I was worn out and blissfully sated, convinced as soon as my eyes drifted closed I might sleep for days.
Turned out, an hour later, Pistol wanted more. He woke me with his fingers between my legs and his lips around one of my nipples. Stunned as I was that we weren’t finished, he certainly made it worth my while.
I walked into the clubhouse Friday night intent on celebrating my birthday the way I wanted, consequences be damned, and Pistol was the perfect present to myself.
Now, two days later, I was dealing with the consequences.
Namely my longing to have the Stallion again.
A longing I knew I couldn’t entertain for a variety of reasons.
As per usual, Carmine was a top contender on the list. While he was currently ignorant about who I invited between my legs the other night, I knew if it became a habit, he’d eventually find out. He always did. Without fail.
It came down to the fact that when I chose a man to make a habit, he inevitably came around, and Carmy was always lurking. Watching. Waiting.
Whatever fight would ensue after he found out I was hooking up with a Wild Stallion on the regular was not one I wished to court.
He might have been an annoying asshole, but he was all the family I had left, and I hated fighting with him.
Even after the rift that tore us apart six years ago, going to battle with Carmy opened old wounds and left new scars every time.
But while my brother was certainly a reason why I knew better than to entertain a repeat performance with Pistol, he wasn’t the only one.
I may not have been the most educated woman in the world, but I wasn’t dumb. The past taught me a few things—namely that while I had a rebel trapped inside of my body, that piece of me was only a shield which existed to protect my tender heart.
Twenty-five-year-old me would never have admitted it.
Thirty-year-old me couldn’t ignore it.
Twenty-five-year-old me might have tricked herself into believing six orgasms in one night wasn’t just wild, it was an occurrence so rare it held a special significance which went beyond the physical.
But thirty-year-old me knew one night—hell, a hundred nights of record-breaking sex—didn’t mean shit unless both people wanted it to.
And as much as I wanted another night with Pistol, I didn’t want to open that door and lose myself, giving him the chance to break my heart.
Good as he was in bed, I was sure he took what he wanted—what we both wanted—and left the rest.
When I woke up late Saturday morning, I was tangled in his sheets alone.
He didn’t wake me.
He didn’t kick me out.
He wasn’t a dick, and for that I was grateful.
But he didn’t stay.
It was for the best, and I knew it.
One night.
We had one unforgettable night.
Now, I would feed off the memory until it lost its luster, and then I’d move on.
The bell jingled over the door, alerting me to a new guest. I was a little annoyed anyone would walk in after our kitchen had closed for the night until I straightened and saw Max slide into a booth.
She immediately scooted all the way toward the window and stared out into the parking lot, like she was waiting for someone.
A frown tugging my eyebrows together, I went to talk to her.
“Hey,” I greeted, earning her attention.
She sat up straighter and forced a smile as she echoed, “Hey.”
The thing about Maxine was she shined so bright, it was pretty obvious when a cloud was hanging over her head.
In the few years I’d known her, I rarely saw her overly anxious, frightened, or worried, and I understood why.
Her father was the chapter president of a motorcycle club.
She rubbed shoulders with some of the biggest, baddest dudes in town.
She was constantly protected from the darkness of the world, allowing her to shine her light far more often than not.
But tonight, carefree was not at all what she exuded. I glanced out the window, wondering what or who she was looking for, then asked, “Is everything okay?”
“What? Yeah. Totally. I, um—”
The rumble of an approaching motorcycle caused her to abandon her sentence as she glanced anxiously out the window.
I followed her lead, watching as a single hog drove through the parking lot before disappearing out of view.
When Max continued to stare expectantly, I folded my arms across my chest, holding on to my suspicions.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked her.
“Oh, um, sort of,” she muttered, reluctantly dragging her focus away from the window and onto me. “Don’t worry. I don’t need anything. I should only be sitting here a few more minutes and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Seeing as it seemed she wasn’t going to tell me what was going on, I offered her a nod and then left her alone. My last guests took their leave, and I went to start clearing their table—tucking their signed check into my apron before stacking empty plates and cups.
Ten minutes later, I was getting ready to lock the front door when I heard another motorcycle.
This one didn’t arrive alone. I glanced at Max, watching as her gaze followed each hog across the lot.
Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, she raked her fingers through her hair, and then she got up and left without even bothering to say goodbye.
It was weird as hell.
I locked up behind her, peering into the parking lot.
Other than the familiar cars of the remaining staff and Max’s disappearing taillights, there was nothing to see.
With a shrug, I turned and surveyed front-of-house, checking to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
Satisfied with what I saw, I journeyed back to the kitchen to ask Will, Viv’s kitchen lead and assistant manager, if there was anything he needed help with before I went home for the night.
From the looks of things, it wouldn’t be long before he and his remaining crew were done with their shift.
“Get outta here,” Will insisted, not unkindly, with a jerk of his chin. “Oh—but take that bag of trash out with you, would you?”
I glanced to where he was pointing and saw what looked like a forgotten sack of trash by the door. “Sure thing,” I replied.
I slipped into the bathroom, where my purse was stowed away in my locker. When I returned to the kitchen, my bag hooked over my shoulder, I grabbed the sack of trash, waved goodnight, and headed for the back door.
The heavy barrier slammed shut behind me before I heard it—the sickening sound of flesh and bone pounding against flesh and bone. Slowly, the scene unfolding in front of me began to register in my mind.
There was a truck. It wasn’t new or old—it just was.
I didn’t note the color, too distracted by the rest of what I saw.
There were three Harleys present, which meant four vehicles even though there were five men in the alleyway.
From the looks of things, the fifth was the one getting the shit beat out of him.
I watched as the man with familiar, blond hair in a Wild Stallions kutte squatted over his victim, delivering blow after blow after blow. I stared, wide eyed and aghast at the lack of fight his victim possessed.
My jaw fell open when I heard Nomad declare, “Ri—brother—that’s enough. He’s gone.”
Pistol lifted his arm to deliver another punch, but Nomad’s hand caught him around his elbow, stopping him. Instead of the brutal sound of violence, all I heard was the sound of distant traffic, and the heavy breaths Pistol panted.
Or, perhaps, it was the sound of my own frantic breaths which echoed in my ears.
‘…that’s enough. He’s gone.’
Those were Nomad’s words.
‘He’s gone.’
Dead.
Fucking hell—I’d witnessed a murder.
The bag of trash in my grasp slipped from my fingers, landing in a pathetic clump against the pavement. While the sound was far more subtle than the door that slammed behind me only a moment ago, it was enough to earn me the attention of four pairs of eyes.
I couldn’t move, too stunned for my brain to communicate to my legs that I didn’t want to be standing in a back ally watching the aftermath of one man killing another with his fucking bare hands.
And yet, I saw it when Pistol’s brow pinched together in a deep scowl before he grumbled, “Shit.”
His left hand was fisted around the shirt of the dead man. When he let him go, his lifeless weight made his head land against the ground with a thud that made me flinch. Then Pistol straightened, turned, and began closing the distance between us.
Not once did he look back at the dead man.
Not for a second did he take his eyes off me.
The closer he came, the more aware I was of the rapid beat of my heart.
The pounding in my ears was suddenly louder than the footfall of his boots.
I still couldn’t make myself move, my brain too busy trying to process what was happening as fast as I possibly could.