Chapter 8 #3
Buff was behind the bar, where he often was, while Smokey and Crow sat opposite him, their beers half empty in front of them.
Rooster and Nomad were shooting the shit on a couple of couches in the middle of the room—Rooster’s ol’ lady, Hazel, perched across his lap.
Nighthawk, Cobra, Fury, and Spurs were at one of the poker tables. But I didn’t spot Pistol.
It wasn’t until I took a second pass of the room that I noticed the awkward glances aimed my way.
At first, I thought maybe I’d caught a few people off guard.
My dress didn’t exactly scream blushing bride, but I knew better than to think our marriage was a secret.
Then again, I was still trying to grapple with the reality of it all—still trying to make the ring on my finger feel like mine rather than some foreign object—so it would stand to reason the Stallions would need more than a millisecond to get used to the idea, too.
Except, the closer I looked, the clearer it became it wasn’t what I was wearing that was the issue. It was the snide expression on Hazel’s face that caused the muscles of my stomach to tighten anxiously; but it was Sofia who made my stomach flip uncomfortably.
Sofia caught my attention as she hurried toward me, her pretty brown eyes round with concern.
Fury’s ol’ lady was half Italian, reflected in her long dark hair, her olive skin, and her fiery spirt.
She was also half Irish, which she attributed to her gentle nature.
She was as beautiful as she was feisty, but she was also a sweetheart.
Only, something told me I didn’t want to hear what she had to say.
“Hey, Lyla. How are you? I hear you’ve had quite the day.”
Any other night, and I’d think she was merely being kind.
Tonight, I could tell she was trying to distract me.
Stall me.
I ignored her question and flat out asked, “I know he’s here. Where is he?”
She pressed her lips into a tight, forced smile, but the quick glance she shot across the room was answer enough.
He was on the far side of the clubhouse, leaned up against one of the pool tables. He was also oddly alone and not playing pool.
The ache in my stomach shifted from one of anxiety to one of trepidation as I searched the room one more time. When I saw no sign of her red hair, I came unglued from the spot where I stood and walked deliberately across the room.
I found her on her knees, her eyes staring up at her mark, her mouth fully occupied.
All at once, I wasn’t hungry.
I wasn’t anxious.
I wasn’t even sad.
I was so far beyond all of that—I was seeing red.
“Seriously? Seriously?!” I yelled.
Pistol, whose eyelids hung lazy as he watched her swallow his dick, nonchalantly lifted his gaze to find mine. He didn’t even flinch at the sight of me.
Worse—Cherry moaned, egging me on, and I lost my shit.
Without thinking, I reached for a fistful of her hair and yanked as hard as I possibly could. She squealed in surprise and lost her balance, toppling over on her backside.
“Hey!” was all she managed to say.
“What the hell?” muttered Pistol.
My eyebrows shot so far up my forehead, I knew for sure they disappeared under my bangs.
“Don’t fucking what the hell me,” I cried, before turning to address Cherry.
“You keep your filthy mouth off my husband. I swear, you touch him again, and I’ll beat your skanky ass. And you,” I whirled around to find Pistol staring at me in curiosity. I hardly noticed, too fired up to give a damn what he thought.
“You are a complete jackass!” I screeched the last word as I pushed at his chest with both my hands. He didn’t budge, but it made me feel better anyway. So, I did it again.
“You married me—married me—today. To. Day! If you wanted your dick sucked, all you had to do was ask your wife, asshole! Cause, in case you forgot, I’m fuckin’ good at it. I’m damn sure better than her, and you know it.”
“Lyla—” he began to say as he closed his jeans.
“Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck. You.”
Before he could get out another word, I reached around for his back pocket, found his wallet, and yanked it free.
“What are you doin’?” he asked, his voice aggravatingly even and unbothered.
When I found the credit card I saw him swiping all morning, I slid it out and then threw his wallet back at him.
“I’m hungry, honey, and dinner’s on you.
Welcome to marriage, jackass. What’s it been, seven hours?
Funny, suddenly feels like seven years.” I waved the credit card in the air flippantly and continued, “What’s yours is mine, right?
Too bad for you, this pussy’s all dried up.
Good luck getting between these legs—but if you touch her again, I’ll divorce your ass.
And I think we both know what that means. ”
It was an empty threat. I wouldn’t go to the cops or the Kings—but he didn’t know that.
I was fuming as I stormed toward the exit, my anger so intense I forgot anyone else was in the room.
When he didn’t call after me, I tried to ignore how much it stung.
I had half a mind to leave the truck where I left it, saddling him with the trouble of figuring out how to get it and his hog back home. But after I dug through my purse for my keys and came up empty, I surrendered, closed myself behind the wheel, and screeched my way off the compound.
I yelled as I sped down the road, as infuriated with him as I was with myself.
How could I be so stupid?
How could I, for even a second, trick myself into thinking I was in an actual marriage?
It took me ten minutes to reach the nearest Albertson’s. When I pulled into the parking lot, I’d calmed down enough not to make a fool of myself but not enough to make wise decisions.
Apparently, my idiocy was trending.
I grabbed a handheld basket and began tossing things into it in the midst of my rage. It wasn’t until I got to self-checkout that I became fully aware of my intentions to eat my feelings for dinner.
I scanned a purple bag of Doritos, a bag of white cheddar popcorn, a frozen bean and cheese burrito, and a pint of double dark chocolate Talenti gelato. It wasn’t exactly a proper grocery run, but I didn’t have it in me to think beyond the night.
Remarkably—mercifully—I didn’t have a hard time finding my way back to his house. And to my great relief, I noticed he wasn’t home as I pulled into the driveway.
Still totally wrapped up in my feelings, I banged my way through the kitchen—heating up my burrito, hunting for a plate, searching for silverware. When I thought I had everything I needed, I took my food straight to his room, shut the door, and locked it for good measure.
He could have the couch.
Or the guest room.
Whatever.
I situated myself on the bed, propping myself up against his pillow, and the scent of him triggered a knot in my throat.
Fresh rain and moss.
Damn him for smelling so good.
Seriously. Damn. Him!
I swallowed uncomfortably then immediately reached for the gelato. As I shoveled my first spoonful into my mouth, I replayed the scene at the clubhouse. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. He married me to keep me quiet, not because he wanted me.
Except, he had wanted me that first night.
Over and over, he wanted me.
I scooped another bite of gelato and inserted the spoon in my mouth, annoyed how he went to Cherry for a blowjob when he knew what I was capable of; when he knew he had a wife.
The chocolatey goodness of my second bite was still melting across my tongue when it struck me like a slap across the face.
I knew I was good at giving head because I had a reputation.
In Gillette, I had a reputation.
In Gillette…I was Cherry.
As realization dawned, I tried to swallow the melted gelato, but the knot in my throat was back. Before I could force it down, a sob erupted from my mouth instead.
The dam keeping every emotion I’d harbored for the last twenty-four hours at bay burst wide open, and suddenly I couldn’t stop crying.
The uncertainty. The fear. The acceptance.
The loneliness. The humiliation and the betrayal—all of it was there, heavy on my heart, like I couldn’t carry one more thing.
And yet, the truth was there, mocking me.
Whether it was fair or not, I felt I had the right to be angry at Pistol. But he only did what so many men before him had done.
What so many men before him had done with me.
Fuck.
Karma was such a bitch.