by Naomi West
She said goodbye to her father in a hollow voice. He turned his cheek to her as though expecting a kiss. She didn’t lean over and give him one. Instead she quickly let herself out of the car and hurried toward the front door of the two-story ranch house.
The house was beautiful — white and gleaming, with rust-red shutters and a tidy front porch. But Katrin barely noticed. She was distracted by the motorcycle in the driveway, and then by the bike’s owner, who was standing on the front porch, looking large, imposing, and grim.
She tried to avoid looking at him as she walked up the steps.
“I didn’t go in yet,” he said, stopping her in her tracks.
She gave him a quick glance, then looked down at the ground again.
When he spoke, it was with an almost charming nervousness — he wasn’t at all the cocky bastard who’d hit on her at the bar. “I, uh … I know I’m supposed to … the guy’s supposed to carry the girl over the threshold.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting suit pants. “You probably don’t want me to carry you. But I thought we ought to go in together.”
She nodded. That was almost … gentlemanly. She refused to look behind her, but she knew her father’s car was still there, knew her dad was watching her. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Let’s do it.” She tried not to notice Pistol’s massive biceps. The tilt of his hips as he leaned against the porch rail. The way his chest muscles seemed the strain the too small suit. She wanted to rip it off him — every article of clothing. Wanted to lie on the bed while he showed himself to her, while he turned at her command and displayed his broad chest, his muscular shoulders, his tight ass…
Jesus, nerves were making her restless. Horny. She needed to calm down. Pistol turned and pushed the key into the lock, then opened the door and motioned for her to go in first. She saw him pick up a duffel bag and a whiskey bottle from beside the welcome mat before he followed her in.
Nice. A drinker. What sort of bastard had her dad married her off to?
Pistol shut the door behind him, and instantly, Katrin was afraid. Afraid, because now he could do anything to her. And while he hadn’t shown himself to be a bad guy so far, there was no telling what sort of act he might have put on. She hadn’t felt safe with her father, but she felt even less safe with this massive, tattooed stranger.
But to her surprise, he didn’t say a word. He looked around the house. Examined the provided furniture — it all looked drab to her. Drab and formal. There was a small office on the first floor, and some of Katrin’s things had been delivered there. She nearly laughed at the ridiculousness — just when she’d finished unpacking at her dad’s house, he’d had it all boxed up again and sent here.
She went to the living room and found Pistol standing there, staring at the wall.
“Do you…?” she started. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to ask. Something stupid maybe, like What do you want to do for dinner? or Do you need any help unpacking?
Apparently, all he had was the duffel bag. And the whiskey.
Mostly she wanted to make conversation just so she could get a sense of where they stood. This man was so different from the lively smooth talker she’d met at the bar last month. And while the memory of their wedding kiss still burned on her lips, while the mere sight of him made her panties damp, she knew she had to be cautious. Pistol could be incredibly dangerous.
But if he’s going to hit me, going to rape me, going to … to kill me … I’d rather know that now.
Before she could find a way to finish her question, Pistol took the whiskey bottle and stalked off through the kitchen. She heard the back door open, then shut. A few moments later, she crept into the kitchen and peered out the window. Pistol was sitting on the back porch, drinking straight from the bottle. She turned and pressed her back to the wall. Slid down it and sat on the floor with her train spread out around her and her arms wrapped around her knees.
She wasn’t going to cry. She was done crying. And she wasn’t going to let Pistol do anything to her. She might not have a gun of her own, but there was a knife block on the counter. Some of the decorations the house had come with looked big and heavy enough to be used as weapons. She’d do whatever she had to in order to keep herself safe.
She glanced around the kitchen. White wallpaper with light blue diamonds. Lacy, baby blue curtains. An elegant, round glass table with high-backed chairs. There was even a centerpiece on the table — a tall, thin vase of fake lilies.
She stood up and walked around, opening various cabinets. Everything she could possibly need was here. Mugs, plates, drinking glasses, wine glasses, beer glasses … a food processor, a juicer, all sorts of baking tins…
Dad really expects Pistol and me to live here together, like husband and wife.
The fridge was fully stocked. Eggs. Orange juice. Veggies. In the freezer, various meats.
She slipped a knife out of the knife block and continued her tour of the house. A dining room with a small chandelier and an antique buffet. A den with a huge, flat screen TV.
She wandered upstairs. There was a small bedroom, with pale yellow walls. It would make a good nursery, she realized. Her father had been cheerfully hinting over the past couple of weeks that she shouldn’t wait too long to start a family with her new husband. She’d been too appalled to respond. Her father actually thought she’d have some stranger’s baby? Nothing was too crazy for her to believe anymore.
She moved on to the master suite. A spacious beige bedroom with generic paintings on the walls. A massive attached bathroom. Large glass-and-wood shower stall. Sparkling white granite countertops. His-and-hers sinks.
She turned away.I can’t do this. This is insane.Some of her boxes had been brought up here. She needed to get organized. She set the knife on the nearby windowsill, letting the curtains hide it. Then she painstakingly got herself out of a gown it had taken two helpers to get her into. She hung it in the empty closet and searched her boxes until she found a pair of cotton pajama pants and a T-shirt. She dressed, then went to the bathroom to wash off her makeup. She stared at herself for a moment. At the wet mascara remnants under her eyes. Her pale, washed-out face.
What would you do, Mom?
Would you run? Would you give him a chance?
Her mother didn’t answer.
Katrin returned to the bedroom.
She started unpacking, just for something to do. She kept an ear out, half dreading the sound of Pistol’s footsteps, half wishing he’d come in so they could talk about this.
Clothes. Books. Orientation packets from the nursing school. Classes started tomorrow, but she wouldn’t be there. She tried to find shelves or hanger space for everything, but some of the stuff she just consolidated into one box and shoved it in the closet.
She couldn’t find the photo album. What had her father done with that? She searched for it frantically, but it was in none of the boxes. Tomorrow, she told herself.Tomorrow I’ll go downstairs and check the boxes in the office.
Eventually she was too exhausted to unpack anymore. The stress and anxiety caught up with her, and she knew she had to go to bed.
She retrieved the knife from the window and placed it between the mattress and the box springs. Turned out the light, crawled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.
The house was silent.
How was she supposed to sleep, knowing Pistol was outside? That he might come in at any minute, and might expect to…
She couldn’t think about that. She had to try to sleep.
She closed her eyes and immediately found herself thinking about the kiss. Pistol’s rough lips, the scrape of his stubble, the slight taste of whiskey and cigarettes in his mouth. The moment he’d started to kiss her back, and the way her whole body had responded to him…
She slipped a hand under the covers and ran it tentatively between her legs while replaying the kiss in her head.
She stroked herself, making gentle circles around her clit through her panties. Her breat
hing roughened. She imagined the kiss going further — imagined Pistol pulling her against him, running his hands down her back to cup her ass. Kneading her closer, his tongue plundering her mouth…
She let out a little gasp and opened her eyes.
Footsteps on the stairs.
She lay still, trying to calm her breathing. Moved her hand to the edge of the mattress and let it dangle over, so she’d be able to pull out the knife if necessary. Through half-closed eyes, she watched Pistol’s shadowy figure teeter in the doorway. Her throat was tight with fear.
He watched her for a moment — or maybe he was just staring into space, who knew — then crossed the room unsteadily. He stank of alcohol and cigarettes. She heard him undressing. Then silence.
What was he doing?
The bed creaked. The mattress dipped slowly as he lowered himself onto it. She held the covers close to herself as he crawled under them beside her. His breathing was harsh. She only hoped it drowned out hers.
But hers got shallower and louder as her terror grew. She squeezed her eyes shut.Stay strong. Stay strong.
“I’m not gonna touch you.”
His low, rough voice startled her into silence. She swallowed. Didn’t answer.
“I promise. I won’t do anything to you. I’m not like that.”
What did a promise mean from a criminal?
He didn’t say anything else. But he also didn’t touch her. After a while, his breathing slowed and evened out. Was he really asleep?
She stayed up well into the night, waiting.
Chapter Twelve
Pistol’s stomach was growling when he woke. For a second he felt confused, disoriented. He’d been dreaming. He realized. He just didn’t remember about what. He pulled himself upright, and immediately regretted it. He had a killer headache. He closed his eyes for a few seconds until the worst of it passed, then blinked around the room.
Shit. That was right. He was in Leonard Smith’s marital fun house. He glanced at the space beside him. Empty. And that side of the bed wasmade. Christ and the fuckin’ Apostles. He sighed, rubbing his temples. He didn’t remember much about last night, but it was slowly coming back to him. He recalled leaving the empty whiskey bottle on the front porch, and staggering inside. Up the stairs … into the master suite.
And then he’d lain down beside her.
I didn’t touch her, did I?
No, no. He wouldn’t have done that.
He remembered the warmth of her body. Her rapid breathing, telling him she was still awake. That she was scared. Of him.
That used to feel like a victory, that ability to make people afraid. With words or guns or sometimes just his presence. Now it made him feel scummy.
He got up slowly, padded into the bathroom and pissed for about five minutes straight. Then he got in the shower and turned the water on hot as he could stand. Like he was trying to burn away the memories of the past month. The shower stall was big. Lots of shelves. On the outside, the house had looked almost old-fashioned. But on the inside, everything was stark and modern. Pistol hated it. He wanted a place that felt like it had been a home for a long, long time. A place with history, character.
Like the clubhouse. He’d go over there for a while today. Give Katrin some space. As long as Leonard Smith wasn’t stalking him, keeping track of how much time he actually spent in this house with his new “wife.”
When the water started running cold, he got out of the shower and searched around for towels. The bathroom closet was full of them — color coordinated, soft, expensive, and neatly folded.
Aw, thanks Leonard.
He dried off, then left the towel on the floor and walked back into the bedroom. His suit from the day before was crumpled in one corner. He went to his duffel bag and pulled out a T-shirt and jeans, pausing for a few seconds to actually look at the room — he’d barely noticed it last night. Beige walls, blue curtains. Bedspread and pillows a sort of shiny slate gray with gold trim. The bed was in an alcove, and had a swirly, gold metal frame. The whole place felt completely foreign.
He had to get out of here.
He rummaged around in the duffel for some boxers, and was startled by a creak behind him. He straightened and whirled to find Katrin in the doorway. She threw a hand over her eyes.
“Oh God.” She backed out of the room. “Sorry. Sorry…”
“That bad, huh?” he couldn’t resist cracking.
“I’ll come back when you’re finished.”
He heard her hurry across the hall and down the stairs.
Okay, so it wasn’t a great sign that his wife’s reaction to his naked body was to cover her eyes and run away. Maybe it was the tattoos? He grinned to himself, looking down at his inked body.
His smile faded. He hadn’t imagined that charge between them at the bar, had he? The heat that coulda given a Texas summer a run for its money. Or yesterday, thatkiss. The fierceness in her when she’d kissed him, like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kill him or fuck him. He ran a hand absently over his mouth.
Yeah. Definitely had to get out of here.
###
Katrin was making breakfast. Aggressively. Chopping peppers and onions for an omelet with a strength and speed she hadn’t known she possessed. She heard Pistol come downstairs, and worked faster. Cracked two eggs into the tiny skillet. She was makingone omelet. If Pistol thought she was going to fix breakfast for both of them like a good little wife, he had another think coming.
But he walked right past her. Went to the fridge and pulled out the carton of orange juice.
She was still trying to get the image of his naked ass out of her mind. Okay, so she wasn’t trying that hard to get it out of her mind. If anything, she was purposely replaying it on a loop. Pure muscle, that ass. And those long, furrowed thighs, the depressions when he’d flexed his shoulders…
And then he’d turned, and she’d covered her eyes, but not before she’d glimpsed his dick.
The guy was hung.
Pistol opened the carton and began drinking from it.
“Hey!” she said, turning. “Don’t do that.”
He raised his eyebrows. Brought the carton down and smacked his lips. “Why not?”
“It’s gross.”
He shrugged. “I’m uncivilized. Get used to it.”
All right. So he was purposely trying to piss her off. Go figure.
He stuck the carton back in the fridge. Found coffee in the cabinet and started making a pot, while she pretended to be completely uninterested in what he was doing.
“I promise. I won’t do anything to you. I’m not like that.”
And he hadn’t. Probably because he’d been passed out drink. But still. It was getting easier to be around him without panicking. She wasn’t about to let her guard down. But she didn’t want to live in complete fear of him, either.
“Tomorrow, I have errands to run,” she said brusquely, using a spatula to scrape egg from the side of the skillet. She didn’t really have errands. But she’d find some. And then she remembered she didn’t have a car anymore.Shit. “And you… Do you have a job?” She could see him bristle.
“Matter of fact, I do. Work at J&J Auto. Be there eight to six tomorrow.”
“So we won’t see much of each other.” Was it her imagination, or did he look stung by the relief in her voice?
“Listen,” he said, leaning against the counter. Katrin looked up. Her gaze immediately went to his crotch, before she managed to pull it back up. “Are we gonna keep avoiding each other, or are we gonna talk about this?”
Katrin chewed her lip. “What is there to talk about?”
“Look, I ain’t happy about this situation either.”
Part of her felt a little hurt. What the hell was wrong with her? And part of her was furious. “You’renot happy?Igot married off to a criminal. My dad picked out my goddamn wedding dress. I have no idea what you’redoing here, whether you’re—”
“I’m here becauseyourdad made me marry
you.” His voice rose. “You said you and your dad were close. Close, huh? You just didn’t notice that he was a complete fucking psychop—”
“Were you in on it?” She demanded. “Did you … plot with my father?”
“Hell no!” He sounded insulted. “He pointed a gun at me, beat the shit out of my best friend, shot one of my brothers, and told me how this was all gonna go down. Not exactly my choice.”
She flinched. Her dad hadshot one of the Blackened Souls?
They were both breathing hard again. Katrin had a bizarre urge to kiss him. Then the energy left her and the tension seemed to drain out of him too.