Chapter 4 #2
I understood the nature of the men who identified themselves as Wild Stallions or Copper Kings or the like. I wasn’t na?ve or ignorant of the company I’d been keeping for years. I couldn’t say I was surprised Pistol was capable of such violence.
But there was a huge difference between imagining what was possible and witnessing it.
I liked men big, kind of scary, tatted, hot, and rough around the edges—but I wasn’t completely stupid. So when Pistol got within a foot of me, I found the will to take a cautious step back.
Not that it did me much good.
“Babe, you run, you’ll regret it,” he warned as he continued his advance.
I honestly couldn’t say whether it was his words or the sound of his voice that stopped me in my tracks; my memories of this man—memories I spent half the night revisiting—clashing with this present version of him.
Before I could stop my mind from racing long enough to make the choice whether or not I wanted to heed his warning, it was too late. He grabbed hold of my upper arm and tugged. I gasped, not because he was hurting me but because I was pretty sure he had hold of me with his bloodied hand.
“Pistol—”
“You keep talkin’, I will find a way to shut that mouth, birthday girl.”
Birthday girl.
I almost stumbled over my own feet as he pulled me toward the truck.
Birthday girl.
Had he forgotten my name?
I didn’t have time to dwell on it, too distracted by the shrinking proximity between me and the dead guy splayed on the ground.
Pistol wrenched open the passenger side door of the truck, not so gently encouraging me inside.
As soon as my ass was in the seat, I felt the cold, wet nose of his dog graze the side of my neck as she sniffed at me.
I jumped, sucking in a startled breath as I turned to glance back at the black shepherd.
I knew her name was Reaper. I heard Pistol call to her between rounds the other night, when he got out of bed long enough to give her a chance to relieve herself, but we weren’t exactly acquainted.
“She won’t bite,” said Pistol as he began to close the door.
“Wait!” I called, shifting my attention his way.
He didn’t wait.
He closed me inside and immediately returned to the scene of the crime.
His crime.
He said something to Nomad, Spurs, and Fury—the other Stallions present—but he spoke low enough that I couldn’t hear him through the glass of the window or over the sound of Reaper’s anxious whine.
I then watched as Pistol and Nomad stood on opposite sides of the body, each man bending to grab hold of either end of him.
I froze when they lifted him from the ground, and I caught sight of what he was wearing.
A kutte.
A Copper Kings kutte.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe as I scanned him up and down.
When I was sure it wasn’t Carmy, relief washed over me as I filled my lungs.
The reprieve was incredibly short lived.
A Stallion killed a King.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered, snapping my gaze out the windshield as my mind continued to race.
Pistol killed a Copper King.
Pistol—who was released from prison three days ago.
Max insisted he’d been locked up for a justifiable crime.
Was this justified?
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered.
I was pulled from my thoughts when the truck bobbed, the clunk of a dead body being tossed in the bed of the vehicle making me flinch.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watched as Pistol hopped up onto the tailgate before hurriedly working to cover up the deceased King.
It only took him a few seconds, and then he was jumping back down onto the ground.
He closed the tailgate, then spoke a few words to the men who had his back. Try as I might, I couldn’t make out what he was saying, and then he was on the move. He stomped his way around to the driver’s side, opening the door and folding himself behind the wheel without a bit of hesitation.
It was when he started the engine that it hit me.
I needed to say something.
I needed to convince him I could keep my mouth shut.
More importantly, I needed to find a way out of the truck.
“Look, I—I didn’t see anything. Not really. I’m not a threat, I swear.”
“Shut it,” he ordered, shifting the truck into drive.
“Pistol—”
He turned his face enough to catch my eye and silenced me with his look. With his mouth, he asked, “You hard of hearin’, or what?”
I looked away from him then, understanding this was not a battle I was going to win.
As he pressed his boot to the gas, easing us out of the back ally, I caught sight of Fury picking up the bag of trash I left behind.
I turned in my seat as we passed, watching him carry the sack to the dumpster—as if it was an ordinary night and he was taking out the garbage at the request of his ol’ lady.
But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, ordinary about this night.
Righting myself, I stared unseeingly out the windshield, trying not to think of the dead body in the bed of Pistol’s truck.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, I thought, definitely failing in my attempts to think of anything else.
I replayed the last ten minutes.
Had it been ten minutes?
I reheard the sound of Pistol’s fist connecting with the dead King’s face.
Pressing my eyes closed tight, I shook away the memory and quickly backtracked in my mind.
How was this happening?
How did I end up here?
I jumped, my eyes flying open as I remembered Maxine.
She’d been acting so strange.
Was she in on this?
Did she know?
What the hell is going on?
Before I could open my mouth to speak my question aloud, Pistol was pulling onto the compound. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or anxious. Admittedly, I welcomed the escape of the clubhouse.
Whatever would get me away from the dead King and the Stallion who killed him.
Shit! Am I an accomplice? I wondered as we came to a screeching halt in front of the clubhouse.
“Stay,” demanded Pistol as he shifted into park.
He hopped out, not bothering to stop the engine, before he made his way to my door. He opened it, reached for my arm, then insisted, “Out.”
“What are we doing here?” I asked, following his lead.
He didn’t answer. Rather, he kept hold of me, hurriedly escorting me inside.
“Seriously, I won’t say anything,” I assured him, trying to keep up with his long strides. “Can’t I just go home?”
“No,” he bit.
“But—”
He stopped us in the middle of the main lounge, jostling me until we stood toe to toe. While I wasn’t exactly short, he was tall enough I had to look up to catch his eyes.
And what I saw there sent a chill down my spine.
“I don’t know you, but somethin’ tells me you’ve got more than shit for brains, which means you understand I got a situation on my hands—a situation I need to deal with pronto.
What I don’t need is you pepperin’ me with questions, slowin’ me down.
You want to go home? Too bad. Like I said, I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you, which means you’re stayin’ here until I know what to do with you.
So, stop yappin’, babe, and let me do what I gotta do. You hearin’ me yet?”
I didn’t respond, my mind stuck on something he said.
My silence seemed not to bother him.
He started for the hallway, pulling me alongside him until we reached his room. He opened the door, pushed me inside, then muttered, “Purse.”
“What?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“Purse, babe. Hand it over. Now.”
Like I was on auto-pilot, I let the strap of my bag fall off my shoulder and down my arm, catching it in my hand before I held it out for him. He snatched it away from me in a second.
“I’m closin’ this door and you will be here when I get back. Don’t bother screamin’ or hollerin’ cause no one will answer you. Understood?”
I managed a nod, and that was apparently confirmation enough.
The next thing I knew, I was closed inside, my thoughts dragging me back to what he said.
‘I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you.’
‘I don’t know you…’
Okay, sure, debatable whether or not the man remembered my name.
And, okay, we hadn’t laid eyes on each other since the wee hours Saturday morning.
But I wasn’t some stranger.
He’d owned my body over, and over, and over again.
Given how many times he made me come, he knew me better than anyone had in a long time.
I was yanked from my thoughts at what sounded like something being jammed beneath the door handle on the opposite side of the barrier. I gasped, quickly leaping toward the door before reaching for the knob. As I suspected, it didn’t budge.
I gasped again, jumping backward when a fist pounded against the wooden surface.
“Don’t even think about it,” he called.
I then listened to his retreating footsteps, his words on a loop in my head.
‘I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you.’
“Shit,” I whispered. “Shit, shit, shit.”