Chapter 8
The ring he slid onto my finger was nothing fancier than a thin, plain, white gold band—and yet it held my attention for the entirety of our drive. His was black and silicone. Practical. Resilient. But mine was somehow delicate in nature, in spite of the fact that it held no diamonds.
I didn’t have it in me to be disappointed in its lack of sparkle, the weight of its significance far more important than any stone could ever be. We were married. I had a husband.
Riley Wells.
That was his name.
That was my name.
Wells.
Wells.
It was too much to fully comprehend all at once.
As I grazed the underside of the wedding band with my thumb, I replayed the memory of our last kiss. It felt so real. So honest. For a second, my tongue tangled with his, I forgot it was all just for show. Except—I had his ring. We were married. He was my husband.
This wasn’t pretend.
What it was, was out of this world.
I felt delirious.
I was so tired it hurt.
And yet I couldn’t stop staring at it.
My wedding ring.
It wasn’t until he killed the engine of his truck that I looked up.
I gazed out the windshield with a furrowed brow when I realized he hadn’t brought me back to the compound.
We were parked in a driveway beside a house.
Pistol stepped out of the driver’s seat without delay, and I watched as he opened the back passenger side door of his truck to let Reaper jump down.
Given the way she trotted straight for the yard, like she’d done it a thousand times, I understood Pistol brought me to his home.
“Wait…”
My word got swallowed up by the sound of him shutting me inside the cab. When he started for the back door of the house, I grabbed my bag of clothes and hurried after him.
“Wait,” I called, the sound of my heels on the asphalt my insistent echo.
He did not wait.
He did, however, leave the door open for me.
So much for carrying me over the threshold, I thought sarcastically.
Reaper hurried in after me before I shut us all inside.
“Pistol—”
It was all I could get out before he tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and announced, “Your shit will be here tomorrow. Boys’ll handle the move.”
My mouth fell open as I registered what he was implying.
He didn’t notice.
Extracting my ID from his pocket, he tossed that onto the counter, too. It slid toward my purse, which I barely acknowledged, hung up on what he was saying.
“Guest room’s at the front of the house. I’m gonna get some shut eye.”
“What? Wait. Stop!” I cried, feeling unapologetically out of sorts.
For what felt like the first time since we stepped foot out of that courtroom, he turned and looked at me. His green eyes were red rimmed, his eyelids heavy with the same exhaustion I swear I felt down to my bones.
“What do you mean, my shit will be here tomorrow? You expect me to live here?”
“Babe—where you been all mornin’?” he asked, as if he thought I was missing a screw.
I coughed out an exacerbated sigh, dropping my bag of clothes at my feet in order to free my hands to grab hold of my hips. I leaned toward him and declared, “I have a life! I have a job. I need to go home.”
“Viv has been read in by now. Your job’ll still be there in a few days.
As for the roof over your head, pretty sure that ring on your finger means this is your home.
Man I put in the ground will be missed. Shit hasn’t even begun to stir.
When it does, I want you close enough to keep tabs on. Now, I’m beat to shit. Goin’ to bed.”
“Pistol,” I called after his retreating figure.
He didn’t stop.
“Riley!” I hollered.
It was no use. He disappeared from view, Reaper following him as he went. When I heard the soft click of a door closing, all I could manage to do was stand there.
‘I want you close enough to keep tabs on.’
I stifled a groan as I replayed his words in my head. Slowly, the consequences of what I’d done were beginning to reveal themselves. I already had one man keeping tabs on me. When he found out he wasn’t alone, I was convinced all hell would break loose.
Then again, this one wasn’t worried about who spread my legs. He’d seen to that already. As I had no intention of opening my mouth and ratting him out, maybe him keeping tabs on me wouldn’t be so bad.
‘…pretty sure that ring on your finger means this is your home.’
Absentmindedly, I traced the underside of my wedding band with my thumb as I began to take in my surroundings.
I was standing only a few feet away from his back door, in a small dining room just opposite the kitchen.
He had a round wooden table in the space, complete with four mismatching chairs.
Piled in the center of the table was a mountain of unopened mail.
Looking at it made me weary, so I decided not to.
Beside me, to my right, was a stairwell that appeared to lead down into a basement. I peeked over the partial wall but didn’t bother to go down there, instead choosing to venture further into the house.
His house.
Our house?
I tried the word on for size, but it didn’t seem to fit.
Everything was so foreign.
His kitchen was small but nice. Nicer than mine, that was for sure. He had stainless steel appliances, a gas stove, and white granite countertops which were a striking contrast to the dark blue of his cabinetry. It was clean but in an unused sort of way—like nothing had been touched in years.
After his time behind bars, I wondered if the place felt as foreign to him as it did to me.
Making my way to the counter, I reached for my purse. I pulled out my phone only to find it was dead. With a sigh, I abandoned it and the rest of my things and continued toward the front of the house.
There were two windows in the main room, letting in the afternoon sun.
The light reflecting off the white walls made the space look bright, albeit bland.
The only thing he had hung was a big screen TV.
It was mounted across from a sofa; a sofa which was hidden beneath an old bed sheet.
In fact, everything was covered. The coffee table. His entertainment center.
His home lacked a woman’s touch, but it was more than that.
Seeing as I was with him his first night back, I knew he didn’t spend Friday evening at home. Last night he was busy getting rid of a body. From the looks of things, he hadn’t settled in at all since he got out of prison.
I spent the wee hours of the morning convincing myself I didn’t need to know why he went after that Copper King.
Neither had I bothered to dig into the reasons why he was locked up in the first place.
Now that I was legally bound to him, I was beginning to question if my ignorance was bliss or sheer stupidity.
I knew better than to assume I’d get answers from him anytime soon.
Safe to say, he wasn’t exactly chatty.
I fought a yawn as I reached up and raked my fingers through my hair. In truth, I was too tired to think straight, and not stupid enough to make a run for it. The smartest thing I could do was to follow his lead and sleep.
I wandered toward the hallway, through which I’d seen him disappear.
There were three doors in the short corridor.
The one on the far right was closed. The one in the middle was cracked open.
I peeked inside and found a bathroom. Like the living room, it was pretty sparse—though, there were signs of life around the sink.
Toothbrush and toothpaste. A comb. A razor. Deodorant.
I tried not to think about how long it had been since I used any such items and turned to walk toward the last door. What I found inside was so pathetic, if I wasn’t so worn out, I might have cried.
Pistol’s guest room was hardly more than a mattress atop a box spring situated on the floor.
There was a fitted sheet over the mattress with a comforter thrown haphazardly across it, but nothing else.
No pillows. No top sheet. Just a poor excuse for a bed.
Chances were high the last person who stretched out across that thing was drunk.
I decided the couch would suit me fine.
I returned to his living room and peeked underneath the sheet to find a worn, leather couch.
It wasn’t what I would have picked if given the choice, but it looked clean, and there was a throw pillow for me to use.
I sat before removing my shoes, then curled up atop the cushions and held the pillow beneath my cheek.
I closed my eyes and immediately felt the pull of slumber.
Before I fell into a deep sleep, one thought drifted fleetingly through my mind.
I was somebody’s wife.
I felt his strong grip around the back of my neck, the heat of his body enveloping me as his lips locked with mine. The whiskers of his mustache tickled me as we kissed, and I leaned into him—wanting more. Before I was ready, he ended our exchange. I opened my mouth to protest, but…
I gasped, suddenly awake, somehow startled by the depth of my longing.
For a second, I didn’t know where I was.
I pushed myself upright, propping myself on my hands, and looked around the room.
Dusk had fallen, and the last of sun’s light was dim and brooding, blanketing the bland space in a moodiness that felt oddly appropriate.
Remembering where I was and why, I glanced down at my hand only to find the ring was still there.
I hadn’t dreamt it.
I searched within myself for regret, but it wasn’t there.
I wasn’t afraid, either.
Slowly, I brought my feet to the ground, keeping my gaze focused on my adorned finger.
As the weightiness of sleep melted away, my previous exhaustion a little less cumbersome, I tried to wrap my head around the last twenty-four hours.
It felt hardly possible my life could undergo so much change so quickly, and yet there I was—a married woman.