Chapter 11
By late-morning, I’d managed to unpack most of my kitchen boxes, leaving behind only what I didn’t think I needed anymore. I tried not to overthink the fact that I was moving into a house with a man who was not my brother. I handled the situation with a more pragmatic approach.
Aesthetically, his stuff and my stuff went together like odds and ends.
I started a growing list in my head of things I thought could make the space look more homey and less thrown together.
Not that I ever spent much time in homey houses growing up.
The house I was forced to live in for most of my childhood wasn’t much better than a disgusting hellhole.
Even before I ran off and made the clubhouse home in Gillette, living with Carmy wasn’t exactly picturesque.
While things were certainly better with just the two of us, we were still young and trying to make ends meet back then.
Yet, even though I could never afford to live in the cozy home that existed in my imagination, that didn’t mean I hadn’t seen it in my dreams a million times.
Not that I was hanging my hopes on this being my dream house—but I didn’t see what choice I had other than to make the best of my situation. For now, at least.
I had no idea what kind of financial position Pistol was in or how high his credit limit was, but I deduced enough.
He didn’t lose his house while he was locked up, and he didn’t make a fuss over the price of my dress or the shoes I insisted he buy.
His credit card still in my possession, I had every intention of giving the place the feminine touch it lacked.
It was mid-afternoon and I was sitting in the middle of the living room floor, sorting through boxes of my best thrift-shop décor finds, when a knock sounded at the back door.
I reclined onto my elbows as I peered down the stretch of house to catch a glimpse of who it was.
Before I could even think to stand up, Vivienne was walking into the kitchen, her arms laden with grocery bags.
“Whatever you’re doin’, take a break. You’ve got company,” she demanded with a wry grin.
“Hey, babe,” greeted Sofia as she followed behind Viv. In one hand she had a sack of groceries. In the other was a six pack of beer. She raised it as she went on to say, “Come crack one open with us. We brought lunch. Hope you’re hungry.”
I was on my feet, walking barefoot toward the kitchen when Hazel strolled in.
She and I weren’t exactly friends, and I was surprised to see her, but I didn’t speak on it.
I didn’t know how much I needed the company until it arrived.
An insane number of things had happened in such a short period of time.
Processing it all was overwhelming. So much so, I didn’t have the wherewithal to phone a friend.
Max was the last to make her entrance. When she saw me, she offered a hesitant smile then held up a set of keys. My keys. She spun them around her finger than tossed them at me.
“Don’t worry. I took good care of her,” she said when I caught them.
I didn’t get a chance to let her know I wasn’t worried. Before I could respond, she was right there in front of me, pulling me into a hug.
“You okay?” she murmured as she squeezed.
I returned her embrace, letting out a sigh of relief.
For the second time that day, I was reminded I wasn’t alone.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“It’s okay if you’re not. It’s why we’re here,” interjected Viv.
Max and I pulled away from each other, both of us shifting our attention fully on her mother.
“Brought enough to stock your fridge for the next few days. Milk, cheese, bread—the essentials. For lunch, I thought I’d throw together some BLTs. But I got some bags of bird food if that’s what you’re into,” she said, holding up a sack of premade salad.
Hazel scoffed before reaching across the counter and snatching the salad out of Viv’s grasp. “Some of us weren’t born a size two.”
Viv laughed, entirely unfazed by Hazel’s attitude. Sofia ignored it, cracking open a beer and handing it to me as she told Viv, “I’d love a BLT. What about you, darlin’?”
“I’ll take one, too, thanks,” I replied, accepting the bottle.
“Can we get back to the part about you being okay?” asked Max as she folded her arms across her chest.
I hardly recognized this anxious version of her.
Actually, that wasn’t true.
Sunday night, she was jittery as hell, and this seemed a little like that, but I couldn’t quite figure out why. She left the diner and, less than an hour later, my whole world changed—but she wasn’t to blame.
“I second that, honestly. You’ve been through a lot,” said Sofia as she reached for another beer. She was quick to uncap it before she thrust it at Max. “Worry isn’t your color, babe.”
Max breathed a laugh as she accepted the drink. The soft sound was confirmation she caught Sofia’s drift, but that didn’t stop her from shifting her focus back on me, her anticipation clear as day in her pretty hazel eyes.
“Let’s see—in the last forty-eight hours, I watched Pistol beat a man to death, then was locked in his room at the clubhouse for hours on end before he finally let me out only after I agreed to marry him.
For reasons that seem as obvious as they are stupid, I went through with it only for him to turn around to go hook-up with Cherry, like he completely forgot he had a wife.
A wife, I might add, he’s fucked before.
“Now, I have a new name, a new address, and it’s all so incredibly insane, I couldn’t tell you one way or another how I feel. But I’m not dead. So—yeah. I guess you could say I’m fine.”
All eyes were on me as the room fell silent. I raised my glass in silent cheers then took a long pull from the bottle.
Hazel was the one to speak first.
“He made you his wife, not his ol’ lady. There’s a difference. Don’t expect him to be loyal to you. You barely know each other. My advice—”
“Haze, don’t be a bitter bitch,” interrupted Viv.
“I’m not a bitch. I’m a realist,” she shot back, unperturbed.
“Yeah, well, how about for now you just be a friend.”
It was a command disguised as a suggestion accompanied by a raised eyebrow from the mother hen herself. It also worked. Not only did it shut Hazel up, but it also made me feel a little better. Still, it couldn’t be denied Hazel had a point.
Viv put a plate of bacon in the microwave and started it before turning to address me. Her expression softened, but I recognized the look on her face. She was going to do what she always did and give it to me straight.
“I’m not going to stand here and defend what he did. If I were you, I’d be pissed the hell off. If that’s where you’re at, you’ve got every right. I guess, I wonder—are you pissed because you still want him? Or is it just the principal of the matter?”
All eyes on me, the truth made me feel more vulnerable than I wanted to admit.
“I—I just thought this arrangement would be…different,” I confessed with a shrug.
“I get that. I do. And I’m bettin’ the two of you could benefit from gettin’ on the same page. It’ll probably take a little time. But I’ve known Pistol for many, many years. And if there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that he always does the right thing in the end.”
“She’s right,” piped in Max. She reached for my elbow, giving me a gentle squeeze as she beckoned my attention.
“He’s a guy, and guys are stupid. But he’s a good one.
I swear he is. And I’m sorry the last couple of days have been total shit, but he just got back, you know?
He’s adjusting to all this too, and it’s obvious he’s handling it like a dummy, but it’s like mom said.
He’ll do what’s right in the end. I’m sure of it.
“Besides, he’s into you. I saw the way he looked at you at the diner, and again at the clubhouse before you two disappeared.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. I did so with all the skepticism I could muster as I muttered, “So into me that he decided he wanted Cherry instead of me last night?”
“What he did to you? Jackass move,” Sofia interjected.
“But you called him on his shit, as you should have. Now you’re here, and that tells me two things.
He weighed his options, then put a ring on your finger and moved you into his house.
And in spite of what he did, we walked in and found you unpackin’. ”
“Okay, so we’re both stupid,” I replied with a flippant shrug. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“No—what I mean is, Pistol’s a Wild Stallion. You know as well as the rest of us—a man who rides with a club, when he’s faced with a problem, he gets rid of it one of two ways. He chooses himself or he chooses mercy. With you, he chose mercy.
“I know it probably doesn’t feel like it, but it’s no small thing that you’re here, in his house. Might not be perfect, but it’s not nothin’. And while the two of you figure out what the hell life is supposed to look like from here on in, you’ve got us in your corner.”
“Here, here,” said Viv as the microwave beeped. “And don’t you forget it.”
“Anyway, since it looks like you’re stayin’, after lunch, we’ll help you unpack. I did my best to help the guys get it all done in some semblance of order, but I’m no miracle worker.”
That explained a few things.
The smell of bacon reminded me I hadn’t yet eaten, and my stomach growled.
Rather than go on about Pistol, I decided to help finish making lunch.
As Viv washed and sliced tomatoes, I made toast. Soon, we were all at the table, each with a plate of food in front of us, like it was a normal afternoon.
Far from normal as it was, I didn’t fight it.
It was almost five when everyone left. Seeing as I used to live in a one-bedroom apartment, it didn’t take long to unpack everything with the extra hands. After a while, as everything began to find its place, it started settling in that Sofia had a point. In one way or another, they all did.
In spite of what he did, I wasn’t going anywhere, and I had the empty boxes to prove it.
‘…we’ll get used to each other. This doesn’t have to be a hardship.’
It wasn’t exactly a promise, and it was far from an apology, but it had been an intense few days. For both of us. He chose mercy with me, and I spent most of the afternoon debating whether or not I wanted to show him the same courtesy.
For better or for worse, we were in this.
Forgiveness was too strong a word for me to commit to, but dinner I could do. Knowing he’d be home eventually, I pulled the chicken Viv bought out of the fridge. I baked it as a peace offering and tossed together one of the remaining bags of bird food to go with it.
At six, I plated dinner for two.
At six-thirty, I was pushing my salad around my plate with a fork, staring at the back door.
At seven-thirty, I scraped what was on my plate into the trash and pulled out my bag of Doritos.
I consumed one chip after another, trying to quell the return of my rage as I imagined Pistol at the clubhouse with Cherry.
It didn’t matter how little we knew each other.
I didn’t care that he wasn’t mine and I wasn’t his in all the ways that mattered.
Maybe I didn’t deserve better—but that didn’t mean this didn’t sting like hell.
At eight, I set aside the chips and went for his credit card.
So much for a peace offering.
It was time for some retail therapy.