Wild Like the Wind by Kristen Ashley

“Hey, Ma,” Jagger called.

  I didn’t look at him.

  He’d see me in a second. He’d see my face and know I’d had no sleep. Know I’d been crying. Know pain was at the surface.

  With what I had planned, he’d mistake the reason why. Or not exactly. It was just that what he’d think was only part of the reason.

  But that was okay. It was how it needed to be. He’d never know and I’d never tell him. Hound certainly wouldn’t.

  It was done.

  Over.

  Now I knew why he didn’t push through the feelings of betrayal and concern of what his brothers would do to start things, really start things, to begin to build a future with me.

  Now I knew he thought I was so sad, so pathetic, so selfish I came to get my rocks off, using him.

  Using him.

  So yeah.

  It was done.

  Over.

  I could forgive him anything.

  Even the way he put his hands on me, the ugly words he’d hurled at me, knowing he’d lost Jean, knowing how you could lash out at the people who mattered when you were wounded, knowing all that, I could forgive.

  But him using Black against me, thinking I’d put Black between us, thinking I’d ever do what he thought I’d done to him, to Hound, hell, to anybody, but especially not him, I would not.

  Not ever.

  The start and end of Keely Black and Shepherd Ironside moved just a few feet down a hall but was otherwise entirely contained to a shitty apartment in a bad part of town.

  Where it should be.

  Right then, in my kitchen, I had to pull it together to do what I was doing.

  I knew when Jag saw it. I felt it in the air.

  “Ma?” he called.

  I turned.

  He took one look at my face and his blanched.

  “You’re gonna become Chaos, yeah?” I asked.

  His eyes were darting from his father’s cut to me, back and forth.

  God.

  I’d wondered the answer for years if God loved me or hated me, giving so much of their father to my boys.

  They didn’t look exactly like him.

  But they both had his voice. Identical. Sometimes, I didn’t know which was which or would even think in my wildest moments it was Graham who was calling from beyond the grave when one of them phoned me.

  They also both had his mannerisms, his walk, his long legs, his superior ass (I could think that, even as their mother), his broad shoulders.

  They both had his hair, dark and wavy. Not mine, dark and sleek.

  And they both got his jaw, strong and square.

  Jag had the wide of my eyes, both in setting in his face and in the actual feature.

  Dutch’s eyes were set deeper in his head, hooded by his brow, like his father’s.

  I had brown to my skin, which Dutch got.

  Graham had had olive in his skin, which Jag got.

  Dutch got his father’s nose, strong and narrow and perfectly proportioned.

  Jag got my nose, the masculine variety, straight along the bridge, slightly upturned at the end, flaring out at the nostrils.

  They were beautiful boys that had turned into good-looking kids who had grown into knockout men.

  Dutch was watchful, responsible, sober and quiet.

  Jag was fun-loving, teasing, reckless and loud.

  Graham had miraculously been able to be all of that.

  And because he was, I was free just to be like Jag.

  Until I was not.

  They loved and looked after their mother more than they should, especially at their ages. Even Jagger, who did it by making an excuse to come eat breakfast with me nearly every morning when he could hit a fast food joint and get some egg and sausage Croissan’wich.

  I’d been, of late, encouraging them to live their lives and not spend so much time worrying about me.

  It had been a lie to give me the time to be with Hound.

  That lie was now done but I wasn’t going to go back.

  They had to live their lives.

  Burn bright.

  Tear it up.

  “Everything okay, Ma?” Jag asked carefully.

  “Are you going to join your father’s Club?” I asked the same question in a different way.

  His eyes flicked to the cut and longing hit his handsome features for a moment.

  But even at just a moment, I felt that carve through my belly, rending pain like it was the first time, not one of innumerable, it sliced through me that my baby boy had never really known his father.

  He looked back into my eyes.

  “Yeah,” he told me.

  “When you were born, both of you, he was at my side. When you came out and they cut the cord, he didn’t let them hand you to me. He didn’t even let them put a blanket around you. He tore off his shirt and held you, flesh against flesh, at his chest. That was the first vision I had of either of you. Held against your father’s flesh, gunked up and bawling, tight and safe in his arms.”

  I watched my boy swallow.

  I did the same.

  Then I kept at him.

  “One of you gets his cut,” I announced. “One of you gets his bike. You decide between you who gets which. You know this but I’ll tell you, they aren’t equal. The patch means everything. Whoever gets that can’t wear it until they’ve earned it. But I’ll tell you something you don’t know. That bike was an extension of him. It was a symbol of the man he was. It was a symbol of the life he lived. He might have had women before me but he never put one single female ass on the back of that bike until he met me. He told me that. His brothers confirmed it. And I believe it down to my soul. So that bike is also a symbol of him and me. He loved it. He was proud of it. So what I’m saying is, neither of you will get the raw end of the deal. Now call your brother and make your decisions. But before either of you get either part of your dad, you come to me and tell me who’s getting what. I want to say good-bye to both before I let them go.”

  His face got sweet.

  Sweet and tender.

  My baby boy.

  “You don’t have to let them go, Ma.”

  “Yes, I do,” I replied quickly, before I decided something that was very wrong, that he was right. “Your father would want you to have them. So you’re going to have them.”

  Jag nodded, not taking his gaze from me.

  “Who would he give which?”

  If he’d lived, he’d give Dutch his cut, Jag his bike.

  If he’d known he would die when he did, he’d give Dutch his bike, because Dutch got more of him, and he’d give Jag is cut, because he did not.

  But he wasn’t there.

  So they were going to make that decision.

  “I’m not saying. You boys are deciding. And that’s all I’m gonna say about it. Now sit down, I gotta get to work so I need to feed you.”

  “’Kay, Ma,” he said gently, letting it go immediately because he knew I needed that, but still watching me.

  I turned back to the stove.

  What was Hound doing right then without Jean to take care of?

  I felt the tears well in my eyes at the same time I felt like getting in my car and going to Hound’s and kicking the shit out of him, even if I had to do it verbally.

  Two months, he kept her from me.

  I got a weekend.

  And now she was gone.

  That was an entirely selfish thought.

  But to get through breakfast with my son on the second day that had dawned without Jean Gruenberg existing on this earth and with the second man I’d loved in my life lost to me, I was clinging to it.

  With everything I had.

  I got the news from Bev.

  She’d gotten it from Tyra, who had no idea it had happened and who Bev had told me had her work cut out getting Tack to rip it out of Hound.

  But Tack got it.

  So the next morning, I walked up to the gravesite wearing a simple black dress, my black wool overcoat, as mode
st as I could get black boots (mine had spike heels and were crazy-sexy, but I didn’t have time to shop), my hair pulled back in a ponytail at my nape, minimal makeup, no jewelry.

  I’d looked up how Jean would want to be laid to rest on a website and dressed accordingly.

  And that was how I approached the semi-sparse mourners surrounding an unfinished wood casket that might have alarmed me if I hadn’t read that website.

  Hound had done her right.

  Hound was giving her the Jewish burial she would have wanted.

  I wondered if they talked about it but I doubted they did.

  He wouldn’t be able to think of the end of her.

  Until he had no choice.

  I also wondered what would become of her mezuzah that she cherished so much.

  And I hoped Hound asked her rabbi if it was okay to move it to Hound’s lintel.

  Because that’s where she’d want it.

  It wasn’t shocking to me that the few sitting in the scant seats did not seem to have much reaction to what made the congregation for Jean Gruenberg the “semi” part of semi-sparse.

  This being the wall of bikers wearing Chaos cuts that were standing at Hound’s (who was standing at the head of the casket) back.

  Those others knew Hound was hers.

  The only people standing close to him, right at his back, were my boys.

  They both looked to me as I approached. Jag gave me a small sad smile. Dutch watched me closely.

  I gave them both my own small sad smile then turned my attention to Hound.

  He only glanced at me when I arrived.

  I drank him in.

  “If it wasn’t you, it’d be him,” I’d teased Black long ago after the first time I’d seen Hound, then a recruit.

  “Shut your mouth,” Black had said back, amusement laced in his rich voice, not having a problem with what came out of my mouth, knowing he had me.

  “He’s a looker,” I’d said.

  “He’s a dawg,” Black had said.

  “So were you,” I reminded him.

  He’d clamped a hand on my ass, open to him to do that since I was lying on him on a couch in the Compound. “Until you.”

  This was very true.

  I tried not to be smug but it was hard.

  Black had grinned up at me.

  “He’s still something,” I’d muttered, turning my head again, looking over Hound’s tall, brawny length, disheveled dark-blond hair and his intense stare with those unusual lapis blue eyes that were aimed at the pool table.

  “Woman,” Black called, and I looked down at him. “He’s a good guy. Before we voted him in, coulda stuck a knife in his vein and seen his blood ran Chaos.” His hand at my ass squeezed and it was his gorgeous face that had turned smug. “He’s also smart like his brother. So don’t worry. He’ll get himself a hella good old lady.”

  Black had been wrong.

  But I’d tried.

  I tore my gaze from the haggard but hard face Hound wore and moved to stand with Chaos. I came to a stop next to one of the brothers, who came after Black, who was standing at the end of the line whose name I wasn’t sure about, but I thought it was Roscoe.

  Boz reached across him and pulled me in until I was standing between him and High, who I was happy to see had his arm around Millie’s shoulders.

  Back in the day, she and I had been tight.

  Then I, like everyone else, had felt the betrayal when she’d got shot of High.

  Now, through Bev, my Chaos grapevine, I knew why she’d done that, and it was the right reason even if it was unbelievably heartbreaking.

  I gave her a trembling smile.

  For a second, she looked relieved.

  Then she returned it.

  Boz took my hand.

  I tried really hard not to start crying.

  Fortunately, I succeeded.

  I saw Dog, Brick and Arlo there, and that surprised me. Bev had told me they’d moved to the western slope to expand business operations.

  But it shouldn’t surprise me.

  Hound had lost family.

  And they were Hound’s family.

  They probably rode all night to get here for this.

  Bev was there too, far away from Boz. Arlo’s arm was slung around her shoulders.

  She gave me a look.

  I pressed my lips together, sucking them in.

  Hers were trembling before she did the same but they curled up a bit, a grimace of a smile.

  Bev and I both looked at the casket as someone started talking.

  We stood as family for Hound.

  But I stood also for Jean.

  And I kept standing as they laid her to rest.

  After it was over, everyone moved to Hound.

  Except me.

  I knew some would question it, but those ties were cut.

  I definitely came there for him.

  But that was the last he was getting from me.

  It took a lot to do it.

  But Jean would have wanted it that way.

  Now it was over.

  So after I went to my boys (as close as I was going to get to Hound) and kissed both their cheeks, I walked away.

  I felt eyes following me, and when I got in my car, I looked back and knew which ones.

  They were not Hound’s.

  They were Dutch’s, which didn’t surprise me. He always had an eye on his momma.

  They were also Tack’s.

  And they were his beautiful, redheaded wife’s. Tyra.

  I lifted my chin to them standing there, Tack’s arm around his old lady, her body twisted, front to his side, both her arms around his middle.

  Tack’s first wife had been a cunt. I’d hated her.

  But Tack got his name because he was sharp as a tack. He’d not make the same mistake twice.

  From the look of them, I knew that still ran true.

  Then I looked to the space where Jean’s casket was before they put it in the ground.

  “Good-bye, sweet lady,” I whispered to my window. “Thanks for taking care of him for so long.”

  With that, I started my car and drove away.

  Fuck You

  Keely

  I didn’t see it coming.

  It was unlike my boys to play it like that.

  But after it was done, I’d realize why.

  It started in my kitchen. It was the Sunday afternoon after Jean had died and Hound and I had ended.

  I was baking cookies because I was dedicated to the act of dulling the pain of all that had happened through sugar instead of tequila because my life might be over (again), but my life wasn’t over. My boys didn’t need some alcoholic momma swishing in and making a fool of herself during their wedding ceremonies (whenever that happened—for Dutch I hoped it was at least ten years so he’d have some fun for once—for Jag I hoped some woman settled him down in about five).

  They came in the back door together.

  It was their home and I’d not given them any indication, since they’d both essentially moved out of it and were living together, that they couldn’t come and go as they pleased.

  But it was me (not Hound or the boys of Chaos, definitely not) that had ingrained politeness in them. So they had the sense this was their home (because it was) but it was mostly now only mine, so they didn’t spring themselves on me and texted or phoned to say they were coming by.

  This was usually a heads up prior to me making a meal that I should make more to feed them.

  But I knew their game. They were checking on their momma, making sure she wasn’t lonely, giving her some company.

  It was just, if they were going to do that, they were going to get themselves some of her cooking.

  For a second I thought that maybe my biological connection with them sent them vibes that I was making cookies, and both my boys loved my cookies, and that had sent them on a trajectory straight to my kitchen, like a homing beacon.

  But with one look at the serious on their f
aces, I knew this was not it.

  “What’s up, boys?” I asked.

  “Hey, Ma,” Jagger said.

  “Ma,” Dutch said.

  My eldest came to me first. Putting a hand to my waist, he also bent down and put his lips to my cheek.

  I was tall. Black was tall. It was impossible that my boys would not be tall.

  So they were both tall.

  Dutch was taller, taller even than his daddy. He was six-two.

  Jag was his father’s height, six foot.

  Dutch was wearing his prospect cut. It didn’t have his name on it or the Chaos insignia patch on the back. Just Prospect at his chest with the arced word Chaos in their Wild West font on the back. His faded jeans hung on him like a girl’s wet dream. His black thermal needed to be dumped since it’d been washed so often, it was no longer black. But still, it fit his wide chest like someone had tailored it to match his proportions like armor.

  Dutch had always had serious girlfriends. He didn’t take a girl out unless he was interested enough that, if she didn’t blow it on the first date, he knew he wanted to take her out again.

  It was only his first that had broken his heart. Whatever Hound had told him, he’d avoided that in the future with his next two girlfriends and he’d been the heartbreaker.

  But he’d done it as sweet as he could.

  It still had cut him up.

  I’d liked both of his last girlfriends (not that first one, she was beautiful, knew it, so was up her own ass). But for whatever reason Dutch decided they weren’t the one, he put an end to it.

  I was glad. He was way too young to get serious with a girl. He’d chosen the course of Chaos, but he still had time to put in to find the man he was going to be.

  The weird thing was I sensed he knew this. I sensed he wouldn’t settle down until he could give the woman he chose the man he intended to be.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t want company along the way.

  Jagger was wearing a long-sleeve, gray tee that would, if animate due to its close proximity to his skin, have had to have been in love with him. His jeans were probably selected because they attracted attention to the parts of his lower body that would set a female to drooling. He wore this stuff like his brother, with a casual confidence that was so their father. But there was a hint of cocky to Jag.

  He knew he was hot.

  Dutch probably knew it too. He was just quieter in that knowledge.