by Naomi West
“You on the other hand.” He gave her a shadow of his cocky grin. “I thought maybe you were so hot for me you got your daddy to arrange all this.”
She tried to glare at him, but ended up huffing out a nervous laugh. “You sure think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “No one’s ever given me reason not to.”
Bastard. “I’ll work on that.”
He splayed his hands. “Tough crowd.”
She paused. They were almost bantering. Like a … like a real couple.
He glanced at the stove. “Your omelet’s burning, by the way.”
“Shit.” She turned and tried to scrape it up, but it was unsalvageable. She braced her hands on the counter for a moment. Tried to breathe.
Finally, she threw the burned omelet in the trash and sought out some cereal. She poured them each a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats with milk and carried the bowls to the table. She sat, and after a moment he came and sat across from her. She stirred her cereal anxiously for a moment, then decided to try talking to him.
“I just wish I knew who he was. My dad. I kept thinking … all these weeks, I kept thinking maybe he really was doing this for my protection. Maybe he was a good guy who got involved with the wrong people. They threatened his family, so he decided to stash me away somewhere…” She eyed Pistol. “That’s not true, is it?”
Pistol met her gaze. “He may have gotten involved with the wrong crowd. But I think that was intentional.”
She nodded, trying to ignore the pain his words brought her. How could she have been so wrong about someone for so long?
Pistol leaned back, looking uncomfortable in the high-backed chair. “He wants to own the drug trade around here. He claims he’s gonna work with my club, triple our profits. But I don’t trust him.”
“Okay.” They were getting somewhere. “So he’s a … a what, a druglord? A kingpin? Shit, I thought this stuff was only on TV.”
“He’s a businessman,” Pistol said. “That’s how my brothers and I think of ourselves, anyway.”
Her jaw dropped slightly. “You’re not like him, though. Are you? Do you ... do you kill people?”
Pistol shook his head. “We’re not like him. We rough people up sometimes to get them off our territory. But your dad, he’s playing a bigger game than we ever did.”
She didn’t answer. She felt sick again.
Pistol took a bite of cereal. “You realize I’m taking a risk telling you all this? For all I know, you’re his spy.”
“I’m not!” she said indignantly, meeting his gaze. “I’m as confused as you are.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “Relax. I don’t really think you’re a spy. You’re too innocent.”
“I’m a lot less innocent than you think.” Her face immediately heated.
“Really?” He raised a brow. “It’s always the quiet ones, as they say.”
She felt like her face might burst into flames. But she was almost relieved to have the cocky guy from the bar back. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she muttered.
He looked away, shrugging again. But she could see him trying not to smirk.
###
This was officially the weirdest breakfast of Pistol’s life. Not the breakfast itself — the cereal was fine, if maybe a little too healthy for his taste. It was just…
Sitting across from Katrin.
Being married to her.
Listening to her talk about her father.
Now that she’d started letting lose, she couldn’t seem to stop.
“I just don’t get how he could come here and after one day, be in charge of the … the drug trade or whatever,” she said. “He must have been doing this back in Ohio too. I just don’t see how. I mean, here, it makes sense. We’re close to Mexico. But up there…”
Sweet, innocent girl. “When drugs come across the border, you think they all stay in Texas? No, sunshine, they get distributed. Your dad probably oversaw the moving of drugs up North, and used his shop as a front, just like he’s doing now. Only now he’s in a position where he can be more directly involved in the trade. He’s got more power, more resources, and more connections.”
She glared at him. “Are you saying I’m stupid for not realizing before?”
He softened his voice. “Your dad’s good at what he does. He’d have to be, to get as far as he’s gotten.”
“I hate him.Hate him.”
Pistol wanted to snap at her that this wasn’t the time to act like a petulant child, but he was struck by a pang of empathy. He’d hated his mother — or believed he had — on so many occasions. When she was passed out on the couch, track marks on her limp arm. When she was screaming at him, throwing him against walls. Taking him out to the shed and whaling on him until he was covered in bloody welts, back when he was too young to defend himself, too stupid to run. Yeah, he’d hated her. And it sucked, to hate someone you needed. Someone you would’ve done anything for, even though they didn’t fucking deserve it.
“I know.” He said quietly. “But we can’t waste all our energy hating him. We have to think about solutions.”
“Yeah? What’s your idea for a solution?”
“We wait it out, for a little while. Live here together, pretend everything’s normal.”
“It’s not.”
“No shit.”
He saw her flinch.
“Sorry. Sorry, I know. But it really is too soon to tell what the next move should be. Give me a chance to talk to my brothers. We’ll figure out what to do about your dad.”
“Pistol?” She suddenly looked so vulnerable. So scared.
“Yeah?”
“What if I don’t want you to hurt him?”
Shit.
She swallowed visibly. “He’s … he’s still my dad. And he’s the only family I’ve got left.”
“Katrin, listen to me.” He almost wanted to reach across the table and take her hand. She was staring at him with those wide, hazel eyes, ready to run or fight, he couldn’t tell. “I’ll do what I can, okay?”
“Why should I trust you?” Her voice was fierce, but cracked just a little.
“What?”
“Why should I trust you? Maybe you and your brothers, they’re the real criminals. And you’re just trying to make my father sound like the dangerous one.”
Pistol stared at her for a long moment. Until the heat left her gaze, and fear replaced it. “Ride together, die together.”
“Huh?”
“Ride together, die together. That’s our motto. My brothers and I, we’re family. We’d die for one another.” He paused. “You’re … you’re my family now too. I promise, I’ll do what I can to protect you.”
She didn’t look convinced. But her gaze softened.
She ate her cereal in silence.
Chapter Thirteen
They set some ground rules. They’d sleep in the bed together, but they wouldn’t have sex. They were each responsible for their own meals during the day, but they’d alternate who cooked dinner each night. Except Tuesdays and Thursdays — those evenings, Pistol would spend with the Souls. Katrin wasn’t going to get saddled with all the cleaning and laundry either. Pistol agreed.
The first day was agony. Agony because Katrin wanted to trust him. Wanted to believe that ride together die together bullshit now applied to her. Because there were moments she could almost imagine that being married to him wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Then she’d get a glimpse of his tattoos and wonder how many were decoration and how many signified the number of people he’d killed or the number of women he’d fucked and her imagination would run wild all over again.
Agony too, because Katrin wanted to touch him. Every time they brushed by each other in the kitchen, every time they passed each other on the stairs, every time she freaking laid eyes on him, sparks shot through her. And she could see the way he looked at her too — practically consuming her with his gaze in a way that made her feel both anxious and horny as hell. How mu
ch longer could they live together like this before the tension killed them both?
It was easier the next day when Pistol went to work. Then Katrin could breathe. Then she felt like she could actually explore the house without creeping around, trying not to catch his attention. There was a laundry room in the basement. A big backyard with no neighbors around. She sat there for a while, listening to the birds and trying to imagine her life from here on in. Yesterday, she’d thought it would be terrifying. Now, she realized it was going to be boring. Without school, without a job, she’d have nothing but days of staring at this backyard.
So she needed to take action. Pistol had said wait it out, but that wasn’t enough. They had to create a life that worked for both of them.
She went inside and got on her computer. She emailed the university to ask if there was any coursework she could do online. If her loans would apply to online classes. She also looked up work from home job. If she could start bringing in an income, she could start saving, and eventually she’d be able to strike off on her own. One of the sites asked for her bank account information. She entered it, but it came up invalid.
That was weird.
She tried it again. Same deal.
With a sinking stomach, she called her bank. And was informed that her account had been closed two days ago. “Then where’s my money?” she demanded.
“Your father withdrew it. His name was already on the account, and as long as he provided the necessary documentation…”
Katrin hung up.
Her dad had taken away her bank account. What else had he done, or did he plan to do, in order to keep her under his thumb? She stood up, furious. She hadn’t even learned whether he planned to give her the Ford back. That was her car — her mother had bought it for her on her sixteenth birthday. Without it, she was trapped here. Cut off, friendless, jobless.
Alone.
She sat down at her laptop again. Took a couple of deep breaths, then googled the Blackened Souls. The Wikipedia article wasn’t very helpful. Just said the Souls were a motorcycle club in Texas and Oklahoma, suspected of some outlaw activity. No word on who they’d killed or whether they removed their enemies’ eyes with razor blades, or scalped them, or raped women just for fun, or what.
There was one article about a shootout where the suspected parties were a band of Blackened Souls and a rival gang, but the article was spare on details.
Who is he?
Is everyone in my life a liar? A criminal?
Can I trust anyone?
Was it something about her that attracted these people? Some kind of karma? Some defect of personality. All her life, she’d wanted to be good. To do good things. And look where it had gotten her. If she was going to survive the coming weeks, she might have to prepare to get her hands dirty. Prepare to deceive others the way she’d been deceived.
Maybe she could help Pistol take back his territory from her father. Maybe they could both fight this thing together, and at the end of it, they’d go their separate ways. Pistol back to his brothers, and Katrin into a new life whereshe called the shots.
But Katrin didn’t have a clue where to start.
###
“It’s not that bad,” Pistol said.
Deion cocked a brow. “Not that bad, huh?”
“Yeah, she’s … I mean, she’s been forced to marry a guy she doesn’t know. It’s weird for her, obviously.”
Deion turned down the radio as he passed. Went back to work on a tire rotation. “Did you two … you know.”
Pistol shrugged. “A gentleman never tells.”
“Fuck you, you always tell.” Deion grinned. “So I’m guessing you didn’t make it with her.”
Pistol didn’t answer.
“She an ice princess?”
“No!” Pistol surprised himself with how quickly and angrily he answered. “I just told you, she was forced to marry me. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t feel like fucking.”
“All right, man, sorry.”
They each worked in silence. Part of Pistol just fucking wanted to tell Deion the truth. That he was confused. That he didn’t know what to do to help Katrin feel safe, to get them both out of this mess. That there was no way in hell he was gonna have a baby — Leonard powers could threaten to blow his dick off for all he cared; he wasn’t gonna knock up some girl who didn’t even want to be with him. That all he wanted was for him and Deion to jump on their bikes right now. Take that ride up to Three Sisters. And never fucking come back.
“Did you ever want to get married?” he asked Deion. Christ, listen to him. Like a thirteen-year-old girl at a sleepover.
“I dunno, man. Probably not. I don’t want anything to tie me down.”
“Yeah.” Pistol rubbed a scuff off the bumper of a Taurus. “Me neither.”
His mom had married young — eighteen. His dad had been twenty-five. His dad had once told Pistol he hadn’t been prepared for the responsibility of marriage. Not at all.“It’s not just about you anymore. You’ve got this other person who’s needs are just as important — sometimesmore important — than yours.”
Pistol’d always gotten the impression his dad had been a decent husband. Certainly he’d been a decent father. He just hadn’t known what to do about Pistol’s mom’s drug addiction. No one had. And he’d chosen to go out and play poker with his buddies rather than stay at home and protect Pistol from his mom’s tirades.
Deion cleared his throat. “Kong’s gotta get you out of there, man. We all gotta find a way to cut ties with Smith’s men. Smith called Kong last night, you know.”
“What?”
“Yep. Told Kong he needed to borrow a couple of our guys for a pickup.”
“And Kong said yes?”
Deion didn’t answer.
“Christ. Smith really is leading us all by the dicks, isn’t he?”
“We’ll find a way. Kong’s as tough as they come.”
Pistol wasn’t sure he believed that anymore. “Yeah. Let’s hope sooner rather than later.”
Chapter Fourteen
There was nothing romantic about married life.
Nothing.
Pistol left his socks on the floor. He kicked the covers to the floor each night, leaving Katrin shivering on her half of the bed. When it was his night to cook, he brought home takeout — either from the crappy Chinese place on 4th Street, or burritos from the Mexican joint notorious for its food poisoning potential. She, on the other hand, tried to keep the house tidy and cook healthy but low-labor meals — without actually doing too much work. If she did too much work, it would send the message to Pistol that it was okay for him to abandon his own duties, because she’d pick up the slack. But it was difficult to watch the dishes pile in the sink, to watch the floor of their bedroom become progressively littered in dirty clothes, to watch Pistol slurp down multiple bowls of her homemade chili when she’d picked an unidentified hair out of her takeout burrito the previous night.
And the thing was, she wasn’t sure whether Pistol was actually a slob, or whether he did this stuff to get on her nerves. Maybe he resented her. Maybe he was steadfastly avoiding anything that might be termed a workable partnership. She knew she sometimes caught herself glaring at him, hoping he’d notice, hoping he’d say something. Katrin had never raised her voice to anyone in her life, but sometimes, around Pistol, she found herself itching for an argument.
Katrin settled into an uneasy routine. Days while Pistol was at work, she’d get online and obsessively look up information on the U.S.-Mexico drug trade. She was never sure whether the information she got was accurate or what she planned to do with what she learned, but she wanted to know all she could. She found Reddit threads designed for people who suspected a loved one might be involved in illicit activity. Hotlines you could call. But she never called the numbers or posted in the forums. She never felt any closer to understanding why or how her dad had gotten involved in this shit.
He was a good man. He used to love me. I know he did.
Eventually she knew she had to give up trying to understand and focus on utilizing what few resources she had. She set up a new email address and linked it to a PayPal account, then started doing freelance medical transcription and copyediting. It gave her something to pass the time, and ensured she wasn’t completely financially dependent on her father or Pistol.
Pistol, who was going out for rides every few nights. Not saying where he was going or when he was coming home. Pistol, who could suddenly afford new gadgets and toys for his bike.
