Chapter 9
I woke the next morning with a dull ache pulsing in my head, and I groaned in discomfort.
The bed I slept in was marvelous, but the tears I cried half the night left me dehydrated and emotionally wrung dry.
The shit I ate didn’t help, either. I wanted to keep my eyes closed and go back to sleep, but the voices I heard in the hallway beckoned me to sit up.
“What the hell is in this thing?” grunted one of the men.
“Clothes and shit,” came another’s reply. “It’s heavy as fuck when you don’t unpack it.”
“Yeah. Got that. Why didn’t we unpack it?”
“Sounds like work to me.”
I glanced toward the door, understanding my things had arrived. I should have been relieved I wouldn’t have to spend another day in yesterday’s clothes, but the prospect of a shower didn’t bring as much comfort as I thought it would.
Sweeping a bit of hair behind my ears, I looked to the nightstand to check the time but was immediately distracted by what I found. Or, rather, what I didn’t find.
I sobbed my way through a third of a pint of gelato, hardly tasted half my bean and cheese burrito, and munched on a handful of Doritos before I laid down to sleep, knowing it was my best chance at escaping the thoughts running rampant in my mind.
I didn’t leave the room—not even to stow the gelato in the freezer—completely uncaring if it melted.
I didn’t pay for it, so what did it matter?
Except, nothing I purchased the night before was on the nightstand.
Shifting my gaze back toward the door, I noticed the lock wasn’t engaged.
Guess I should have known better than to think a Stallion couldn’t overcome a simple door lock in his own house. But that wasn’t what surprised me. What surprised me was how he cleaned up after me, but he didn’t wake me. He didn’t kick me out of his bed. Again.
I groaned for a second time, now out of frustration, and clapped my hands over my face. There was no sense in reading into any of Pistol’s actions. More than anything, he probably just didn’t want a mess of melted gelato waiting for him when he reclaimed his space.
So what if he cleaned up after me?
What he didn’t do was apologize.
I’d gone over it in my head repeatedly, an awful, ugly guilt gnawing at my insides in a way it never had before. When I lived in Gillette, I lived as wild and free as I wanted, and I would be lying if I said I regretted it. As far as I was concerned, every man was responsible for his own actions.
If he wanted me, and I wanted him, game on.
At least, that’s how it was for as long as I could stand it.
Until the only one I truly wanted didn’t want me back.
That changed everything.
It changed me.
I wasn’t that woman anymore.
I was no longer that young and dumb.
But in the three years I’d been back in Montana, I never once put myself in the other woman’s shoes. In the past, I envied the other woman. Every Stallion who fucked me had no intention of claiming me. I was hardly more than a plaything while she got to be his everything.
I wasn’t Pistol’s everything. Not even close. But I’d been a damn good sport, and it sucked more than I thought it could to walk in on him and Cherry.
It sucked being the other woman.
Aware I was going to have to leave the room eventually—and hopeful I might find a toothbrush amongst my things—I slid out of bed and gingerly made my way out into the living area.
I wasn’t two steps beyond the hallway when Rooster came lumbering toward me, his arms full of two boxes stacked on top of each other, forcing his chin up to clear his load.
I scurried out of his way, and as he noticed me, he winked and said, “Mornin’ sunshine,” before continuing to the guest room.
From what I could tell, most of my stuff was being deposited in what floor space was left in there. I watched as Buff came through the living room next, his arms also full—full of boxes I hadn’t packed but were, nonetheless, filled with my things.
“Hey, Lyla,” he greeted with a nod
I waved pathetically, wondering how it was possible all my things were put in boxes and carted to my new residence when I didn’t even know I was going to have a new residence twenty-four hours ago.
“No, not in here. That one goes in the garage,” I heard Pistol say.
Curious what of mine was destined for the garage, I followed the sound of his voice and found myself in the kitchen.
Like the other guys, Pistol was coming in through the back door with a load in his arms. His only made it as far as the dining room table.
He plopped the box down atop the mail I sorted then paused when he saw me.
It didn’t go unnoticed how he’d changed out of yesterday’s clothes.
He was wearing a pair of worn blue jeans and a white tee, both of which fit him a little too well.
It was nearly impossible to ignore his sculpted arms and the ink displayed there, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of staring.
Putting aside what he looked like in his clothes, I noted further evidence that he was in and out of his room with me in his bed, and I slept through all of it.
“Hey,” he greeted unenthusiastically. He then signaled with his chin toward the counter before he added, “Breakfast is in the bag. We’re almost done.”
It was all he said before he turned and started for the driveway.
I peeked out the window and saw four trucks and an SUV parked outside. As he said, it appeared they were just about done. I turned to look at the clock on the stove, frowning when I saw it wasn’t even eight-thirty.
The paper sack on the counter that held my breakfast had a grease stain in the corner.
On a normal day, the promise of melted cheese, butter, or bacon on a biscuit or a bagel would have been appealing; but after my emotional feast the night before, I wasn’t quick to reach for it.
What I really wanted was my toothbrush and some coffee.
In that order.
I was still standing in the kitchen when Pistol returned.
He had two boxes this time, the top one still open, the contents of which appeared to have been gathered from what once was my kitchen.
My blender and a cheese grater were sticking out of what I was afraid was a horribly packed box.
He discarded it on the counter, beside the mysterious breakfast item, then paused long enough to give me his full attention.
“Viv knows what’s up. She’s cleared your schedule for the next couple of days. Unpack what you want. What you don’t can go in the garage. We’ll get rid of it later.” I watched as his eyes shifted to the blender he saw before he looked at me and muttered, “My blender’s better. Knives, too.”
On the tip of my tongue was a snarky remark about how his things were better not because they were newer but because they’d been untouched for years—but I kept my mouth shut.
He didn’t seem to notice.
“Got shit to do. I’ll leave you to it.”
Seeing as he was perfectly fine having a one-way conversation, I said nothing in response. Besides, I didn’t so much care if he was leaving. It would be better if he was gone when I got in the shower. He’d lost the privilege of seeing me naked.
When he didn’t move to leave, I quirked an eyebrow at him in silent inquiry.
Pistol sighed, shifting his weight on his feet as he raked his fingers through his blond curls. “Look—we’ll get used to each other. This doesn’t have to be a hardship.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, somehow aware that was as close to an apology I was ever going to get, but it sure as hell was not going to cut it.
“Oh, yeah, cause it’s always been my dream to marry a man who would stoop so low as to go fuck another woman on our wedding night,” I replied mockingly.
His face got stoney in an instant.
Under very different circumstances, that look might have turned me on.
Fuck, but he was handsome.
A handsome asshole.
“I didn’t fuck her,” was his reply.
“Don’t feed me that bullshit,” I argued, folding my arms across my chest. “Like I don’t know your playbook.
” I lowered my voice, poorly mimicking his as I recited, “You’ll take my dick, then you’ll swallow my cum.
I’ll eat your pussy and return the favor.
I like what I taste, I’ll take more—that sound about right? ”
I swear, his lip twitched in an irritated snarl before he shook his head and turned his back on me. “Fuck this. I don’t have time to argue with you.”
He mumbled his statement like he didn’t mean for me to hear it.
Still bruised from the night before, I couldn’t help but to hurl the last words.
“This was your idea, Riley. Not mine!”
He didn’t acknowledge me but kept on walking. I almost flipped him off; but when Fury entered the room and I realized I wasn’t yet alone, I restrained the urge.
“Hey,” he said warmly. “We’re clearin’ out.”
I nodded, not quite sure what to say, and a little surprised I kind of felt like crying again.
Fury was no shorter than six-foot-three, with intimidatingly broad shoulders, arms that broadcasted his commitment to the gym, and a bearded face that was equally fierce as it was handsome.
They didn’t call him Fury for nothing, and yet his gentle manner in that moment felt like more than I could stand.
“I get this is a lot. All of it. You need somethin’, anything, you holler. And don’t be surprised if the ol’ lady drops by later to help out with these boxes.”
Tension I didn’t realize I was holding in my shoulders dissipated, relief hitting me for the first time since I woke up. Not merely at the prospect of Sofia stopping by, but the reminder that while I might have been Pistol’s stranger bride, I was no stranger to the club.
“Thanks, Fury.”
He dipped his head in farewell, and soon, I was all alone.
When the silence settled, I looked around me, the boxes filled with my belongings a severe reality check. This wasn’t a fairytale. Neither was it a nightmare. It was all very, very real.
‘…we’ll get used to each other. This doesn’t have to be a hardship.’
After what happened at the clubhouse, it seemed ridiculous to think I signed up for anything resembling a real marriage—but I was there.
In Pistol’s house. Our house. The man hadn’t missed a beat.
Who knew what time he started that morning.
And in spite of our argument, he left with the expectation I’d spend my time unpacking.
Feeling equal parts mad, defeated, and spiteful, I decided I was going to do precisely as he instructed and make myself at home. He might have been a jackass, but I wasn’t going to let him treat me like a sheep.
My first order of business was to find my toothbrush.
It took me thirty minutes of sorting through the boxes in the guest room to find my bathroom things. As soon as I unearthed the gold mine, I brushed my teeth, which improved my mood leaps and bounds, and then proceeded to make space for my belongings in what would now be our shared bathroom.
I thought long and hard about replacing his shower curtain with my own. Yet, annoying as it was to admit, I liked his better. It was off-white with large, patterned navy, green, and tan Aztec print. It matched his beige bathmats which were, admittedly, clean.
Not for the first time, I wondered if his tidiness was a reflection of his living habits or his most recent extended absence from Missoula.
After I unpacked what I intended to keep and started a box of what I would be willing to part with, I decided it was time for a shower.
I stood under the hot spray of water for a long time, wanting desperately to wash away bits and pieces of the last day and a half—bits and pieces I couldn’t scrub from my brain no matter how hard I tried.
Pieces I unwittingly uncovered and wished I didn’t.
Man, I need coffee.
With a mission to propel me forward, I finished in the shower and went to get dressed.
Remembering they didn’t unpack my dresser before moving it, it took no effort for me to find what I needed.
Seeing as there was no one I was trying to impress, I opted for a pair of old, cut-off jean shorts, a sports bra, and a loose tank top.
I left my damp hair to dry however it wanted, then returned to the kitchen in my bare feet.
Pistol didn’t have a coffee machine. While I hadn’t seen one in my rage hunt through the kitchen the previous night, a more careful search this morning confirmed it.
Oddly enough, all the man had was a tea kettle.
I’d dig into that later. For now, it was imperative I find my Keurig, and so I did.
I made a home for it by his toaster, filled it with water, then went on another search for my stash of K-cups.
I still didn’t know who I had to thank for clearing out my apartment, but most of the boxes I opened were relatively organized.
Mostly. I found my coffee—the four servings I had left, anyway—and used one of Pistol’s mugs to brew myself a cup.
As I listened to the machine do its thing, I tried to remember what other food stuffs I had left in my pantry.
I felt certain I wouldn’t find anything inspiring.
I had planned to go to the grocery store on Monday.
I got married instead.
Fortunately, I was able to find my container of sugar to add a spoonful to my cup. I didn’t bother checking the fridge for milk, knowing I wouldn’t find any. This would have to do for now. I’d make a list and do a grocery run the first chance I got.
My coffee was halfway to my lips when I remembered my Mustang was still on the compound.
Just to make sure it wasn’t dropped off with the rest of my things, I went to the kitchen window and peeked out into the driveway.
My car wasn’t there—something to add to this list of reasons why I wasn’t my husband’s biggest fan.
Turning my back to the window, I caught sight of my now cold breakfast offering. Seeing the brown paper bag didn’t rouse my appetite so much as it turned my stomach.
‘I didn’t fuck her.’
The recent memory should have played more like an echo in my mind, but it didn’t. It posed a question I never thought to ask myself before last night. A question I didn’t want to answer.
How many times had a man come down my throat only to tell his woman he hadn’t fucked me?
I shrugged away the thought and downed a gulp of coffee, letting the bitterness of my milk-less cup bring me to the here and now. The here being a kitchen cluttered with boxes I needed to unpack. The now being my new reality as Mrs. Wells.
Somehow, all of my actions—all of them—led me here.
In need of the distraction, I got to work.