Katrin made another black X on the calendar with her Sharpie. There were five of those Xs in a row, looking ominous. Normally, she marked off the days of her period this way. But this month, she was marking off how many days late her period was.
Five days.
No. No, no.
She couldn’t face this. Not right now, not with everything else she already had to worry about.
No need to panic yet. Maybe you’re just late.
That’s what she’d been telling herself for days, despite knowing that she’d always been regular.
That night in the desert. The broken condom....
What if she was actually pregnant with Pistol Wilson’s baby?
What would she do?
Abortion was out of the question. She believed firmly in the right to choose, but she also knew abortion wouldn’t be her personal choice. But she couldn’t imagine carrying a baby to term and then giving it up for adoption. One look at her child and she’d never be able to let go. She could raise the baby, but the idea of being a single parent was terrifying. She was alone in the world, had been dependent on her father’s money and now was only able to scrape up a few bucks here and there freelancing. If she had a kid, she could kiss nursing school goodbye for good. And what if her dad insisted on visiting rights? She shuddered.
The only other possibility was Pistol raising the baby with her, which was a laughable. He hadn’t even wanted a wife, let alone a kid.
“Of course I don’t want a baby.”
Her throat and chest went tight. I don’t have any options here except to not be pregnant.
But she was. No matter what foolish hope she wanted to cling to, she knew the truth.
She changed from her pajama pants and oversized T-shirt into a fresh blouse and brown pencil skirt. Put on a pair of brown leather kitten heels. Did he hair up in a twist. Took one last look in the mirror and sighed. All right.
Let’s do this.
She got in the junker. Listened to it sputter to life. She rattled down the road, past the few neighbors on this long, mostly-deserted street. At the pharmacy, she bought a pregnancy test kit. Tried not to blush as the cashier — a pimply teenage boy, rang her up.
She lingered for a while in town. Watched the people walking around downtown. Young men and women from the university. Parents and children. An elderly couple with ice cream cones.
Her heart ached.
Could that ever be her? Would she ever have the chance to grow old with somebody.
She wished she could say she couldn’t picture it happening with Pistol, but the truth was…
No, don’t even go there.
It’s time to go home, Katrin.
###
Pistol felt like shit. He’d had trouble sleeping last night. Part of it was that he’d kept waking up with his arms around Katrin and hers around him, thinking what a lucky bastard he was to have a woman like this in bed beside him. Not just in a physical sense — he’d meant what he’d said about Katrin being her mother’s daughter. Brave, intelligent, kind. But part of it was that whenever memories of his mother got dragged up, he slept like shit. He’s dreamed of being cold — of lying in bed shivering because the heat had been shut off. His mom had refused to pay the bill, using the money for drugs instead.
He’d dreamed of pain — of the crack of a belt over his hipbone. The leather lashing around his upper arm.
Bullshit.
I don’t think about that anymore. I shouldn’t have fucking stayed as long as I did. That was just asking for it.
Deion wasn’t at the auto shop. Pistol asked Emmett, one of the other workers, but Emmett said he didn’t know where Deion was. Pistol waited forty-five minutes, then texted.Where u at?
Fifteen minutes later, Deion texted back.I’m ok just playing hooky. See you at the club meeting tonight.
Pistol slipped his phone back in his pocket. This was strange. For the first time in memory, Pistol wasn’t looking forward to a club meeting. Things were only getting shadier with the club. Sure, Pistol was enjoying the extra profits. And the missions the Blackened Souls were being sent on weren’t particularly difficult or dangerous, but Pistol couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom.
He finished his shift at five fifteen, called goodbye to Emmett, and rode over to the clubhouse.
Kong was out. So were Deion and Ford. Mica and Bones and a few others were there though. They had a massive, half-destroyed plate of nachos — ground beef, congealed cheese sauce. Pistol flopped into a ratty armchair, helped himself to the nachos and pretended to watch whatever crap they’d found on Netflix. He fuckin’ wished Deion were here.
“’Bout time you spent some time here,” said a sullen voice.
Pistol looked around. Mica was glowering at him from the couch with the stuffing coming out of it.
“Aw, leave him alone,” Bones said. “He’s got an old lady now. He can’t be bothered with us.”
Pistol ate another nacho and tried to laugh. “Yeah, hey, I got actual responsibilities now.”
“You got responsibilities here too.” God damn. The kid was actually pissed at him. Self-righteous little shit.
“And I’ve been fulfilling them.”
Mica’s stony gaze didn’t budge. “We’ve needed you here.”
Ford turned to Mica. “Yeah, what are you ragging on Pistol for? You’re the one who’s crawled up Smith’s asshole.”
“I havenot.”
“Yeah, he sends you on all his big important missions, doesn’t he? What do you do in return? Blow his old wrinkly dick?”
“Fuck off; not my fault if I like making money.” Mica’s chin was thrust out, his eyes cold. “You’re the one who’s too blinded by your girl’s titties to make a—”
“I won’t be talked to like that by some snot-nosed punk.”
“Looks like all the pussy’s gone to your head, old man!”
“I’m doing what I have to in order to keep us all alive,” Pistol snarled. “You want to challenge my decisions, go ahead. Let’s do this. Man to man.” He assumed a fighter’s stance.
“Hey, man, no,” Ford said, but it was a halfhearted protest. All the Blackened Souls were desperate enough for a release of tension that they simply gathered around to watch as Mica and Pistol circled each other.
So much like me, Pistol thought, taking in the anger in Mica’s eyes. Lashing out at the whole damn world.
He knew infighting wasn’t going to solve anything. He knew this wasn’t how the brotherhood was supposed to work. He knew it would make him the bigger man to stand down, to refuse to fight a kid. But in that moment, he hated Mica. Hated him for being so much like a younger version of Pistol. Mica was that ghost Pistol couldn’t kill, the boy who’d left his mother to destroy herself, to die alone on her kitchen floor, next to a trashcan full of needles. The kid who’d run away to San Antonio instead of staying and working through the tough shit and learning to be a man. Right now, Pistol wanted to punch Mica’s nose right through the back of his head.
Mica took the first swing. It was a little clumsy, but not nearly as clumsy as Pistol would have expected. The kid had had some practice. The blow glanced off Pistol’s jaw, and Pistol retaliated, landing a solid punch to Mica’s gut.
The kid doubled over, but was right back up again, swinging now with a blind fury. Pistol punched him on the left cheek, sending him reeling.
There were no cheers from the bystanders. The room was eerily silent except for Ford, offering another halfhearted, “Christ, you idiots, that’s enough.”
But Mica was panting, rapid with fury. He lunged at Pistol, and Pistol kicked his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling. He kicked the kid in the stomach. Over and over again.
That’s where you belong, boy. Crawling on the ground. On your belly like a dog. You’ve never been worth anything. Never done anything good for anybody.
Mica spit blood. His lip was split, and his nose was bleeding. When had that happened? Pistol stared down at Mica, chest heaving.
Stop. Stop it. This is your brother.
He thought about Katrin’s words.“You’re brave. You’re strong. You matter, Pistol.”
No one had ever been that willing to believe the best in him. Even Kong. Kong had believed Pistol could be trained to be useful. He’d believed Pistol could be loyal. But the potential he’d seen in Pistol was the potential to contribute to a gang of part-time criminals.
Only Katrin seemed to believe that there was a good man hidden somewhere beneath all the scars.
Mica let out a low groan. Tried to sit up.
Slowly, Pistol leaned down and extended a hand.
Mica spit at him.
“What, exactly is going on here?” A low voice growled.
Pistol turned to see Kong standing in the doorway.
Mica collapsed on his stomach, like he didn’t have the energy to go on. Which left Pistol to explain.
“We had to sort something out. We’re cool now.”
“Fuck you,” Mica muttered from the floor.
“He doesn’t look cool.” Kong nodded at Mica. “What the fuck, Pistol? He’s a mess.”
Pistol had no excuse. He’d lost time. Lost control. Had been seventeen again, or else had been fighting a seventeen-year-old ghost. He wasn’t sure.
“Sorry,” Pistol muttered.
“Is that how you treat a brother?”
Rage flared in Pistol.You sanctimonious prick. After all the times you’ve sat up and begged when Smith snapped his fingers…“What about you?” Pistol shot back. “Maybe if you were actually in charge here, we wouldn’t all be on edge.”
Kong’s dark eyes narrowed. “Are you blaming me for your lack of control?”
“No. I’m blaming you for not being able to take your mouth off Smith’s dick long enough to be our goddamn President.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up about fifteen notches. Pistol could feel Ford flinch. Mica had gone completely still at Pistol’s feet.
Kong stepped toward him, eyes blazing. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me,” Pistol replied through his teeth.
“I hope to God I didn’t.”
“I told him.” Mica’s voice was hoarse. “I told him, he thinks he’s too good for us now. Takes his cut of the money and spends it on his piece of ass.”
Pistol nearly kicked him again.
“Quiet!” Kong barked at Mica.
“It’s true.”
Pistol whirled. “And you,” he shouted at Mica. “You’re just as bad. You see a chance to play with some new toys, so you buried your nose between Smith’s asscheeks like a damn dog.”
“Enough,” Kong roared. “Pistol, if you can’t control yourself, then leave.”
“I was just going.” He checked Kong hard with his shoulder as he passed. “Just make sure you don’t choke on Smith’s balls,” he snapped as he went.
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the house rattled.