Chapter 7
He stood impatiently with his shoulder propped against the wall in the narrow hallway, each side of the back corridor lined with closed dressing room doors. The overhead music was poppy and annoying—all of it mind-numbingly repetitive. Sliding his phone out of his pocket, Pistol checked the time.
Eleven thirty-seven.
Fifty-six minutes.
He was dog tired and bored out of his mind. Lyla was running out of time. He’d entertained her for long enough—a concession he made on account of she put up less of a fight than he anticipated. But he was done.
Seeing as it was not even noon on a Monday, the mall was far from crowded; but they had been to four different stores, and she spent no less than two-hundred dollars of his money.
He was still walking around with their rings in his pocket, and somehow he found himself swiping his credit card for her like he’d been doing it for years.
Another minute ticked by, and his good humor dried up completely.
“Lyla,” he called. “Let’s go,” he barked.
“Thirty seconds,” she replied, sounding unbothered.
He didn’t resist the urge to sigh as he reached up and rubbed at his eyes with this thumb and middle finger.
His day was far from over, but he wanted to get on with it.
While Lyla shopped, he managed to complete the application for their marriage license online.
It was easy enough with her there to fill in the blanks he didn’t know, but he was smarter than to think they’d be in and out of the courthouse.
Nothing that happened in a government building was over that quick.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
Pistol shot his head up, having not heard her exit the fitting room, and suddenly felt a lot more alert than he was thirty seconds ago.
Shit. She’s a fuckin’ knockout.
She had on a pair of white platform high heels with a bow tied at the back of each ankle—purchased at the first store they entered.
Her makeup was freshly applied. He knew she touched it up with what he bought at the second store she dragged him into, and he was sure whatever he paid for that tube of red lipstick was worth it.
But the dress—the dress she couldn’t find at their third stop before she insisted she needed to try one more store—it was perfect.
It wasn’t too modest or too frilly. It was simple but sexy, reminding him of all that existed underneath the smooth, white fabric. It was a sleeveless, off the shoulder number that clung to her every curve until the hem that stopped at the middle of her thighs.
Her hair hadn’t changed a bit, but he liked it how it was. Her bangs were fanned across her forehead, her short, thick bob hanging unceremoniously just below her chin. For the first time since the idea of marrying her had been planted in his head, he admitted maybe luck was on his side, after all.
“Here,” she murmured, handing him the tags she’d already ripped off the dress. “I’ll sample some perfume on our way out. It’s not a shower, but it’ll have to do.”
He glanced down at the price of the dress.
One hundred seventy-nine dollars.
He wouldn’t miss it.
Lifting his gaze, he watched her saunter across the store—yesterday’s clothes shoved in one of her shopping bags. Dressed in all white and in those heels, he doubted she was going to make a run for it, but he knew better than to trust her.
He was tired, not stupid.
She was hot, not loyal.
They were strangers, not lovers.
Until she was his wife, she was a liability.
Without further delay, he headed for the register, anxious to pay so they could be on their way.
Twenty minutes later, they were ascending the steps into the Missoula County Courthouse.
They were halfway up the stairs when Pistol felt Lyla’s hand slip into his.
It startled him as much as it surprised him, and he flinched.
If not for her gentle yet firm grip, he would have yanked away entirely.
Instead, he stopped mid-stride and raised an eyebrow at her in silent inquiry.
“What? Do you want to sell this or not? We don’t have an appointment. I get the feeling if we don’t at least look like we like each other, they might suspect we have no business getting married—or worse, that I’m here under duress.”
His eyebrow still cocked, he made a show of giving her a proper once over then muttered, “Babe—you, in that dress, with those red lips? No one would question me.”
She parted her lips, as if to speak, but then immediately changed her mind. She then shut her mouth and began to pull her hand away from his, but he clamped her fingers in his grasp as he continued up the stairs, silently pulling her along behind him.
She had a point.
Only fools in love got hitched on a whim.
Hell, as far as he was concerned, only fools got married at all.
He’d seen more marriages fail than succeed.
While there were exceptions to every rule, he believed marriage wasn’t worth the hassle or the heartbreak.
Settling down with an ol’ lady was one thing—but a legally binding union was on another level.
Twenty-four hours ago, marriage was the furthest thing from his mind.
Now, it was the law that drove him to it.
The way he saw it, he had two choices.
Risk his freedom or give a woman his name.
After three years behind bars, his choice was a no-brainer.
As he feared, it wasn’t a short wait to see a judge.
He tried to keep hold of his sanity by reminding himself it was fortunate Missoula County didn’t require a waiting period after applying for a marriage license.
By day’s end, and after less than a week of being granted his freedom, his retribution mission would be complete.
That was all the solace he needed.
Pistol and Lyla didn’t talk much while they waited.
A few times, Lyla dozed off, her head dropping onto his shoulder each nap.
She never stayed asleep long, sitting up with a start and a soft apology he deemed unnecessary.
He couldn’t blame her for her exhaustion.
He felt much the same. The only thing keeping him conscious was the reality that the job he started wasn’t done and wouldn’t be until they said ‘I do.’
After a long ninety minutes, their names were finally called.
The ceremony was simple and straight forward, two desk clerks standing in as witnesses to what Pistol explained was a secret elopement.
One of the clerks, a plain looking woman with an unfortunate body type and poor taste in wardrobe, looked on dreamily—like a secret elopement between strangers was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen.
When it was all over, the judge declared, “You may now kiss your bride.”
His bride.
Even dressed in all white, with his ring on her finger, Pistol didn’t consider Lyla his bride until that very moment. Before the impact of what he did could penetrate, the plain woman cried, “Don’t be shy. Kiss her, already!”
Both he and Lyla looked over at her before they focused their attention on each other. Lyla tilted her head, a smirk pulling at her red lips, silently daring him to seal the deal.
He was no coward.
Without second guessing himself, he reached up and grabbed hold of the back of her neck, pulling her toward him.
He heard her soft gasp as she brought her hands up to catch herself against his chest, leaning her head back as he descended for a kiss.
As soon as their lips met, he felt an immense sensation of relief.
They did it.
It was over.
A tension he didn’t realize he was holding in his shoulders melted away, and without thinking, he swept his tongue across the seam of her lips, prying them open. She whimpered softly in response, the sound barely audible to his ears as she kissed him back in earnest.
She tasted good.
Like freedom.
Like victory.
He drank from her until the pathetic sound of applause sounded in the mostly vacant courtroom.
Coming back to himself, Pistol pulled away and looked down at the woman who stood clinging to his shirt—her lipstick now faded, and her blue eyes dazed and confused.
It was then when it struck him.
Lyla Gibbs was no longer Lyla Gibbs.
He made her Lyla Wells.
He was a married man.
As the truth settled, only one word came to mind.
Fuck.