Chapter 6
It had been hours.
I didn’t have my phone. There was no clock in Pistol’s room.
I wasn’t the kind to wear a watch, but I knew it was morning, and not just the wee hours of a new day.
No, the sun was up. I was sure of it. There weren’t any windows in the room, but I didn’t need windows to know a new day had dawned.
The quiet of night had long since passed, and I was still in the prison of Pistol’s making.
Only a few nights ago, confined by these same four walls, I was as free as I’d been in years.
Now, I was locked in a cage, and I was on the verge of losing my mind.
I hadn’t slept a wink.
I was hungry.
And I seriously needed to pee.
Before he left, he told me not to bother making a ruckus. He assured me no one would come for me. But I was Lyla Gibbs. I was one of Viv’s girls. I’d been around the last three years while he was locked up. I was convinced surely the Stallions’ knowledge of me would count for something.
Unfortunately, I thought wrong.
I even had a sore hand to prove it.
No matter how loudly I pounded my fist against the door, no one—not a single person—stopped to even holler back. It was like I had to know a secret code word, and I had not a clue what it could be.
In the hours I was left alone, I paced the room about a hundred times.
When I thought I might make myself dizzy, I sat on the bed for a while.
A part of me thought it might be a good idea to lay down and at least try to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, my memory flooded with the scene I inadvertently walked in on in the alley behind the diner.
And when I opened my eyes and smelled the scent of him wafting from the sheets—fresh rain, moss, and leather—it reminded me that in spite of the six orgasms Pistol had been sure to deliver the other night, I was now the woman whose name he could no longer remember.
‘I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you.’
Desperate to get out of my own head, I abandoned the bed altogether.
Except, while I sat on the cool floor, my back against the wall, my mind could not be silenced. This was not altogether surprising.
I was trapped, and I needed to find a way out.
Not just the room—as it was clear that wasn’t going to happen until Pistol returned—but out of this entire situation.
I couldn’t deny Pistol had a point.
We didn’t know each other.
He didn’t trust me, but I couldn’t claim to trust him, either.
I had no idea what to expect when he returned.
I was fairly certain he wouldn’t off me, too.
That seemed an outrageous possibility.
I couldn’t make sense of why he killed that man, but surely he had a reason. The Kings and the Stallions were rivals. Moreover, in my experience, they weren’t mindless, reckless murderers. But it was probably best I not ask any questions. It wasn’t my business. I didn’t want to know.
The less I knew, the more likely it was Pistol would let me go.
Surely, he couldn’t keep me stowed away forever.
I was busy deep breathing, concentrating all my focus onto my bladder, tricking myself into thinking I wasn’t on the verge of wetting myself, when I heard it—the rattling of the doorknob.
I was on my feet, facing the exit, poised and ready to run when the door opened.
I barely even glanced at Pistol as I began to hurry my way around him.
I didn’t get far before he had hold of my arm.
His grip was unyielding as he pulled me close—close enough to smell him; close enough to be sure he’d showered since I last laid eyes on him.
If I wasn’t on the verge of bursting, I might have inadvertently relished in the intensified scent of fresh rain—but I was too desperate to bask in his essence.
“Let me go,” I demanded.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?”
There was a part of me, a very small part of me, that remembered the hand which had hold of me killed a man less than twenty-four hours ago, and it was possible I should proceed with caution.
But that part of me was on the verge of drowning in my bladder.
Rather than fear, I felt annoyed and angry that I’d been abandoned for hours while he was doing only God knew what before he decided a shower would be nice.
Speaking through gritted teeth, I replied, “If you don’t let me go right now, I’m going to pee myself. And if I pee myself, we’re gonna have bigger problems than the ones we’ve got already.”
He didn’t let me go.
For a second, he just stared at me, and I barely contained my whimper of desperation. The next thing I knew, we were on the move. He escorted me toward the restroom. Rather than let me go at the door, he pulled me all the way to the stall before freeing my arm, closing the door after me.
I didn’t think twice before I dropped my pants and sat, letting out a giant sigh of relief as I emptied myself.
I may have even moaned, lost in the joy of the release.
It wasn’t until I was finished, tugging at the roll of toilet paper, that it occurred to me I didn’t lock the stall.
Rather, Pistol stood just outside, holding the door closed.
I froze for a moment, stuck in my confusion.
I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed or completely uncaring, my exhaustion making it difficult to decide.
Realizing it didn’t really matter one way or the other, and I couldn’t stay in the stall all day, I finished my business, fastened my jeans and flushed.
The sound of the toilet was Pistol’s cue to let me out.
I didn’t bother looking at him as I went straight for the sink to wash my hands.
It wasn’t until he had hold of my arm again that I dared to look at him.
I glanced up, catching our reflection in the mirror.
His face, even in his impassiveness, was irritatingly handsome—but I didn’t dwell on it.
There were far more pressing matters about which to worry.
Now, unbothered by my bladder, my mind was free to latch onto a new sort of desperation—this one intent on figuring out what he was thinking. It was clear he had no intention of letting me leave, but I was a woman with needs. Even a plant needed to be watered every now and again.
In spite of my efforts, I caught nothing in his eyes before he was tugging me away from our reflection. The next thing I knew, I was closed inside his room again. He pulled me toward the bed, not-so-subtly encouraging me to sit before he tossed a brown paper sack into my lap.
Reaper, who I hadn’t noticed before, laid in a black heap on the floor. She lifted her head to look at both of us but was decidedly uninterested, as evidenced by the exaggerated way her tongue stretched out as she yawned before she rested her nose on her paws with a tired sigh.
I wondered what all she witnessed over the past several hours.
In a way, I envied her freedom, bred from a sense of loyalty to her Stallion I couldn’t seem to prove I, too, possessed.
I had every intention of keeping my mouth shut.
There was nothing to gain by being a rat.
Not to mention, while Pistol was new to me, the rest of his Stallion brothers weren’t.
I knew the rules of the game, but I wasn’t sure how to make him believe it.
“Eat up. We’ve got someplace to be,” he ordered, yanking me out of my thoughts.
I pinched my eyebrows together in confusion, unsure whether or not I was too hungry to ignore his offering in search of answers or if, maybe, a little food might make it easier for me to think. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. Sometime before my shift. However long ago that was.
Curious what was in the bag, I opened it and peeked inside.
I was greeted by the smell of what looked like a warm bagel sandwich, and my stomach growled.
Yet, before I reached inside to pull out the food I genuinely wanted, I remembered I was no longer alone but still trapped in a predicament in which I didn’t belong.
“Okay—uhm, thanks for the food, but I’d like to go home if it’s all the same to you,” I said, crumpling the bag closed.
“No,” he stated simply.
I nodded, not at all surprised this wasn’t going to be that easy.
“Look, we don’t know each other very well, but I’m not as new around here as you might think. Talk to Viv. Talk to Nighthawk. Whatever shit you got into last night, I don’t want to be a part of it. Trust me, I—”
“Thought I made myself clear. I don’t trust you. It’s why we’re here,” he interrupted. “Now, I’ve been up all night. Patience is wearin’ thin. Said it before, we’ve got someplace to be. You gonna eat that or not?”
My own exhaustion getting the better of me, I bit back, “Depends. Is this my last meal? Because if it is, the least you could have done is gone to get me a burger from Viv’s.”
He frowned at me like I was the one who wasn’t making sense.
“Woman, I’m not gonna kill you.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I retorted.
For a fraction of a second, I was genuinely comforted by this news—in spite of my sarcasm—until he went on to inform me, “Takin’ you to the courthouse. Puttin’ a ring on your finger.”
I reared my head back, sure I hadn’t heard him correctly.
“Excuse me?”
“Babe, I don’t much like to repeat myself.
Given the circumstances, I’ll lay it out for you one more time.
I spent three years on the inside and I’m not goin’ back.
Last night you witnessed me handlin’ my unfinished business—business I intend to get away with.
But the only way I can be sure that’ll happen is if I tie up every loose end.
Didn’t plan on you, but here we are. As of this moment, you are my last loose end.
“Soon, you won’t be a witness, you’ll be my wife. If your promises aren’t bullshit, I don’t have to worry about you turning me in. But if things go sideways, my ring on your finger will be my insurance policy.”
I gaped at him, still not entirely sure I understood.
“I’m sorry—what?”
Pistol sighed as he reached up and ran his fingers through his curls. His irritation made me irritated. I tossed my breakfast onto the bed next to me as I stood.