Chapter 21
It was Friday night, and the beginning of a long holiday weekend, which was all the reason any of them needed to cut loose.
With the Stallions on alert, protecting their streets around the clock, the clubhouse had been relatively chill.
Now, the music was loud, the booze was flowing, and the tension was broken. It was the reprieve they all needed.
Pistol, who was in no mood to lose himself to liquor, sat at a poker table with a couple of his brothers—beer in hand, dog at his feet, and his mind adrift.
Here, amongst the Stallions, was exactly where he wanted to be. The room was buzzing with activity. The poker table was full—the bar, too—ol’ ladies, hang-arounds, and club sheep the eye candy decorating the place.
The only thing missing was Lyla.
Lifting his beer to his lips, Pistol pulled a sip from the bottle, letting the thought settle.
Before he went to prison, the idea of claiming himself a permanent woman rarely crossed his mind.
He entertained a few monogamous relationships over the years, but nothing he could imagine hanging onto forever.
It wasn’t that he craved variety so much as he disliked the idea of being tied down.
Any woman he could stand long enough to call his own had always flipped the script on him after a while.
She’d claim to want the same things he did, then somewhere along the way, it wasn’t enough.
Ink. Rings. Kids. It was always the same—more was what they wanted. But he couldn’t be tamed or tricked into becoming someone he wasn’t.
With Lyla, it was different.
It wasn’t the right time.
It wasn’t the perfect circumstances.
It wasn’t love at first sight or some fairytale bullshit.
They were a contingency plan.
They were a knee jerk reaction.
They were a consequence of an ideal plan gone wrong.
And yet—it was a Friday night, he was exactly where he wanted to be, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
How she looked first thing in the morning, with her bedhead and skimpy pajamas, proving a woman could be adorable and sexy as hell at the same time.
How primed she always was after riding at his back; be it an hour or fifteen minutes, it was all the foreplay she needed.
And the way she screamed for him…
She was as wild as she was beautiful.
A dangerous combination.
But it wasn’t merely her body that had his thoughts in a vice grip.
He liked the way she fought with him.
Pretty little thing like her, with those blue eyes and pouty lips, could manipulate a man with a smile and a wink. But Lyla wasn’t like that.
She was feisty and bold.
She spoke her mind and called him on his shit.
Better yet, she knew when to back down and was mature enough to admit when she was wrong.
She was well on her way to making his house a home. And while his savings had taken a hit in order to make it a possibility, and the liberties she took with his money had pissed him off, he found he appreciated her tastes and respected her why.
She wasn’t aiming to change or tame him—she just gave a fuck.
When she was angry and armed with his credit card, she hadn’t gone on a shopping spree for designer bags and expensive clothing.
He was learning she wasn’t materialistic or shallow.
After living under the same roof going on three weeks, he was all but certain his wife wasn’t a gold digger so much as she was a woman who appreciated the comforts of home as much as she craved the freedom of the road and the company of family forged by blood and ink.
In short, she seemed too fucking good to be true.
And yet, she was his.
She was even learning German words.
The thought brought a smile to his face, and he was quick to bring his beer to his lips, intent on hiding his amusement.
He liked her.
No longer could he hide his desire behind the guise of curiosity.
He wanted her around. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because when given the choice between shooting the shit with his brothers or shooting the shit with his brothers with his woman perched on his thigh, he didn’t even need to think twice about it.
His angel smelled like the sweetest berries plucked in the height of summer.
He didn’t hate her possessive attitude, either. It wasn’t calculated or contrived.
He was still wrapping his head around it, but the ring on her finger meant something to his bride. Enough that she’d threaten any woman who dared make a move on him just as easily as she’d throw herself between him and a threat.
He didn’t plan for her, but he was beginning to believe Lyla was more than an impulsive consequence.
Fate. Karma. Destiny.
He wasn’t sure how much he believed in any of that stuff, but it was either that or his mother intervening on his behalf from the afterlife.
If there was such a place, he wouldn’t put it past her.
“I’m out,” said Smokey, recapturing Pistol’s attention as he stood from his seat. “Anyone else need somethin’ while I’m up?” He waved a finger, pointing at the bottle in Pistol’s hand as well as the one in Nomad’s.
As he lifted his drink to his lips, Nomad replied, “It’ll be gone when you get back.”
“Heard,” replied Smokey. He then raised an eyebrow at Pistol who shook him off with a slight twist of his neck. It was all the answer he needed before he was headed for the bar.
Pistol watched him go, which was how he caught sight of Cherry as she began to saunter her way toward the table. He didn’t claim to know the woman well, but he didn’t have to be clairvoyant to surmise she was coming to the table out of sheer boredom.
“Who’s winnin’?” she asked upon her approach.
“You see me sittin’ here,” teased Nomad with a lazy smile. “Do you even have to ask?”
She laughed, the sound low and throaty, as she came to a stop behind Pistol’s chair. She then brazenly slid her hands over his shoulders and down the front of his kutte. “Sounds like maybe someone needs a little lady luck.”
“Can’t imagine why you think that’s you,” Pistol replied with a shrug.
Cherry was not deterred. Rather than take a hint, she leaned in closer, bringing her lips to his ear as she spoke. “What can I say? I’m feelin’ lucky, and I’m more than happy to share.”
Her breath against his skin and her sultry tone was getting her nowhere. As she continued to drape herself over him, feeling her way down his chest and toward his belt, Pistol frowned in irritation, catching hold of one of her wrists.
“You know good and damn well I got a woman. Sportin’ a ring that says you don’t stand a chance.”
“Please,” she scoffed, pressing in even closer, reaching for his crotch with her free hand. Her lips now pressed directly against his ear she whispered, “We both know that ring doesn’t mean anything. You and I have unfinished business—and last I checked, Lyla’s not your ol’ lady.”
Pistol’s grip tightened around her wrist, his hold so fierce he swore he heard her barely contained whimper. He then turned his head, putting them nose to nose as he all but growled, “I won’t say it again. Don’t try me, bitch. And keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.”
“What the fuck?”
At the sound of his angel’s voice, Pistol snapped his attention across the table and found Lyla staring at them in disbelief.
Before he could fully register what it was she saw from her vantage point, he felt Cherry squeeze her fingers around his package as she giggled, like nothing he said penetrated at all.
Unlike the first time she walked in and found the two of them together, Lyla’s eyes didn’t flash with anger before she laid into him. In a split second, too fast for him to react, he saw it as the light inside of those blue irises went dark.
“Lyla,” Pistol began as he stood, forcing Cherry to unravel herself from around him.
He didn’t get the chance to say another word before she murmured, “Fuck you,” then turned and hurried through the doors of the clubhouse.
Cherry’s laughter was the next thing Pistol heard. He reacted on instinct, his fingers clutched around the front of her neck before he realized what he was doing. He’d never laid a violent hand on a woman, but she needed to be silenced.
“Pistol,” she whimpered. All humor and mischief drained from her expression as quickly as the light in his angel’s eyes.
“What did I say? What did I fuckin’ say?” he growled.
He tightened his grip in order to scare her.
“You’re done,” he warned. He then shoved her hard enough for her to lose her footing.
He heard her stumble to the ground but didn’t bother watching, his desire for retaliation superseded by his awareness that Lyla had it all wrong.
Their history distorted the scene she thought she saw, and he needed to go after her.
He only made it halfway around the table, Reaper following closely behind, before a hand in the center of his chest stopped him in his tracks.
“Think it’s best you give her a head start.”
Pistol shifted his gaze in Nomad’s direction, scowling as he met his friend’s eyes.
“You know where she sleeps. Let her cool down. Let’s you and I have a word.”
Nomad didn’t wait for Pistol to agree before he started across the room, plucking his beer from Smokey’s grasp as he passed.
Pistol hesitated, glancing toward the double doors through which Lyla fled.
He’d seen her angry often enough. He knew her fire.
Hell, she could piss him off and turn him on at the same time with her attitude—but just now, he didn’t like what he saw.
She was hurt.
Fuck, but it messed him up to see her like that.
“Ri,” called Nomad. “Don’t be a dumbass.”
Rather than look over at his friend, Pistol dropped his focus down at Reaper. Much as he wanted to go after his woman, he couldn’t ignore the nagging truth that Nomad knew him better than anyone. It never served him well to ignore the wisdom of the man who’d talked him off a cliff more than once.
Pistol clenched his jaw, turned on his heel, and walked to the end of the bar, where Nomad stood, leaning casually against his elbow. Pistol didn’t bother pulling out a bar stool but faced his brother, his arms folded across his chest.
“This much I know. You and Lyla hopped on a bullet train goin’ a hundred miles an hour headed I don’t know where. Three weeks. That’s how long you’ve known her. That’s how long it took for her to get that look in her eye—that look that tells me wherever you’re headed is on you.”
Nomad paused to take a pull from his beer bottle. Knowing the silence wasn’t an invitation to insert his opinion, Pistol kept his mouth shut and his ears open. The two men stared at one another a moment longer before Nomad continued.
“Don’t got an ol’ lady and never had a wife, doesn’t mean I’m obtuse. What I just saw? Nothin’ more than a little misunderstandin’. But the way she walked out tells me two things: she’s in deep, but whatever the two of you got goin’ on is not built on trust.”
Pistol opened his mouth to speak but knew instantly he couldn’t argue against Nomad’s point. He sealed his lips closed and ground his teeth in impatient irritation, waiting for the man to continue.
Nomad dipped his chin in a slow nod. “Right. So, tell me—you in just as deep?”
“Thought you said you’re not obtuse,” muttered Pistol.
His retort made Nomad’s face light up with a grin as he chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Heard, brother. My advice?”
Pistol shrugged. “I’m standin’ here, aren’t I?”
“Doubt there’s any slowin’ that train down.
Way things are these days, too much shit is goin’ on—not to mention that ring on your finger and the law that’s got you two tied up.
But that doesn’t mean you can’t take a beat.
Don’t worry so much about what’s goin’ on outside the train car and take the time to worry about the woman who jumped in with you.
“You’ve got the club at your back with all this King shit, but your relationship with Lyla’s on you. She might be your wife, but you barely know each other. If you’re gonna keep her then chase her.”
“That’s what I was doin’, until your ass stopped me.”
“Bullshit,” he scoffed, lifting his beer to his lips. He paused before he took a pull and said, “Five minutes ago this was about Cherry. Now I’m bettin’ you’re smart enough to know better.”
Pistol watched as the man took a long pull from his bottle, all the while knowing he was right. He waited until his brother swallowed before he griped, “You’re a pain in the ass.”
Nomad smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Rather than wrap words around his appreciation, Pistol reached over and patted his friend on the arm before he turned and took his leave. He knew he didn’t need to say it. After all they’d been through, Pistol was sure Nomad didn’t care what he said so much as what he did next.
And what he planned to do next was go after his woman.
On his way out the door, he glanced toward the poker tables and saw Cherry still on her backside, both her hands pressed against her throat, tears streaming down her cheeks. Not the least bit moved by pity, he pointed directly at her and declared, “You don’t want to be here when I get back.”
Not five minutes later, he was walking through the door of his house, Lyla’s name on his lips.
He didn’t bother waiting for her to respond to his call, but journeyed through the darkness to the bedroom, expecting to find her there.
He stopped short in the hallway when he realized while the bedroom door stood wide open, it was the spare room that was closed.
“Lyla?” he called a second time. When he reached for the door handle, he found she locked him out. “Lyla?” he called again.
For the third time, he was meet with silence.
It was in that moment when the full weight of the truth settled in his gut.
This was about more than Cherry.
He and Lyla argued plenty—but never once had she locked herself in the guest room.
She would sooner kick him out of his own bed.
But it wasn’t his bed anymore. Crazy as it was, in the short time they’d known each other, his bed had become their bed.
She didn’t belong in the guest room. She wasn’t his guest.
“Lyla? Baby, open the door.”
“It’s late. I’m sleeping. Go away.”
It was a lie. She wasn’t sleeping, and they both knew it. Nevertheless, he understood this wasn’t something he could fix by picking a fight. This time, he was going to have to convince her the only woman he wanted was his wife.
He just needed to figure out how.