Wild Like the Wind by Kristen Ashley
And it sucked yet again that he was right.
“Can we have a little more time?” I asked.
“You can have anything you want, it’s in my power to give it to you, baby. You wanna keep it just us for twenty years, I’ll be down with that for you. But I got a feeling you wanna be on the back of my bike close to as much as I want you there and that cannot happen until we bring Chaos into our lives.”
My lips quirked in a not entirely amused grin at his wording and when he saw them do that, Hound’s did the same.
“Just a little more time,” I whispered.
He nodded and sealed that when he again dropped his head and touched his lips to mine.
And again, when he pulled away, he didn’t go far.
“That ceremony, Keekee,” he said softly. “My advice, make that all you. Don’t make your boys watch you let go of their father again. Whatever you gotta do to make it okay you hand over the last of what you been holdin’ onto of their dad that isn’t in permanent residence in your heart, do it on your own. When you give that cut to Dutch and those keys to Jag, do it as their mother, not their father’s widow. You do that last, they won’t want to take it from you, and it’s time they take hold of Black’s legacy. You understandin’ me?”
“You’re very wise, Shepherd Ironside,” I whispered.
“I’m a man who wears the same patch Black earned and if it was me under dirt and those boys had my blood in their veins, that’s what I’d want, Keekee. When you let go of me, I’d want to be alone with you. And when you gave me to our boys, I’d want it to be about them.”
God, I loved it that he understood.
God, God, I loved it that he understood everything.
I stared into his eyes and felt the first tear fall, gliding a cold trail of wet along my cheek.
Hound didn’t try to catch it.
Or the one that came after it.
Or the one that came after that.
Or any of the others that silently followed.
He stood with me in my garage next to my dead husband’s bike that had been sitting in the exact spot he’d put it in nearly eighteen years ago and watched me as he held me while I shed more sorrowful tears for the brother he loved, tears that mingled painfully with joyous ones for finding the brother Hound was who I loved.
Only when I sniffed did he move his hands to the sides of my head and swipe his thumbs over both my cheeks.
“You need me to go?” he asked gently.
God, God, I so totally loved it that he understood everything.
I nodded and said nothing.
“You text when you want me back.”
It wasn’t an order.
It was a request.
So I nodded again.
Hound then moved in, pressing his lips to my forehead, holding my face in both hands.
I closed my eyes and he kept his lips there for what seemed like days, weeks, years before he pulled away, I felt the pads of his fingers dig in, and then he walked away.
I opened my eyes and stared at the Chaos patch on the back of his cut.
I kept staring at it, seeing it in my mind’s eye even after he closed the back door to the garage behind him.
In that moment, I didn’t have to think about it, dream something up.
In that moment, I just knew.
So, in that moment, I followed Hound’s steps, steps I’d taken time and again over the years, steps my sons had taken, steps their father had taken, steps Hound would take, and I walked to my house to get everything ready.
It was melodramatic.
I didn’t care.
It was totally over the top.
I didn’t care about that either.
It was cold as shit in my garage.
I didn’t even feel it.
I sat in my spandex pants with the crisscross laces that showed skin all the way up the sides of my legs, the tank I’d dug down deep in a drawer to find that was cut way low and laced together loosely at the tits, high-heeled black boots with a lot of buckles on them that I hadn’t worn in years, my purple bandana wrapped around my crown, tied in the back, my hair flowing out from under it.
I also wore Black’s cut.
I was vamped out, lots of makeup around my eyes, on my cheeks, tons of red lipstick.
All around Black’s bike was a circle of candles I’d lit, the only illumination to the space.
I had a bottle in my hand, primo tequila, the good shit, and around its neck was a ring of red from my lips.
I was astride Black’s bike.
“We didn’t have a lot of time,” I said to the tank. “But the time we had, we tore it up, baby.”
I bent over, pressed my red lips to that tank and did it hard.
Then I dismounted. I found the top, capped the bottle of tequila and set it aside. I took off the cut and folded it, arms in, Chaos patch up, and set it on the saddle. I reached into the pocket and pulled out the red bandana I’d stuffed there, wound it in a cord, tied it at the ends and set it on top of the cut.
I took off my own bandana and did the cord thing, but I tied that to a grip on the bike.
I’d already put the keys in the ignition.
I blew out the candles and kicked them to the back of the garage, getting wax all over my boots and all over the floor of the garage.
But I didn’t care.
I then grabbed the bottle of tequila and walked outside, then into the house, up the stairs, right to my bed where I had clothes spread out.
I took off my tank.
I took off my boots.
I took off my spandex pants.
I folded them all carefully and shoved the clothes with the boots in a bag of stuff ready for taking to Goodwill, the bag of stuff I’d dug through all my things while I was preparing for the ceremony and filled full with the Chaos Keely of yesteryear.
I went to the bathroom and cleaned off my makeup, scrubbed away my lipstick.
I walked back into the bedroom and put on my ripped, faded jeans.
I put on my socks.
I put on my cowboy boots.
And I tugged on my long-sleeved tee with a different ragged slit down the front that didn’t go very far or gape so wide it needed laces.
I pulled my long hair out of the back and then lifted it up to put on my choker.
I slid in some earrings.
I put on my blanket coat.
Then I grabbed the bottle of tequila, my purse, went out, nabbed one of the candles and got in my car.
I drove to the cemetery.
In the dark, I walked the oft-traveled path to Black’s grave.
I set the candle on the base of his gravestone and lit it.
I set the bottle of tequila next to it.
And I looked down at my man.
“I’m on an errand. I’ll be back for a longer visit. So now I gotta say I’ll see you later, baby. Love you,” I whispered.
I blew him a kiss, shot him a smile, turned right around and walked back to my car.
I got in and drove to Target.
Perusing my selections, I bought two new to replace the old.
One in the stars and stripes and one in navy.
I selected these because, on different occasions, I’d seen Hound wear the same of both (most often, the navy).
At the register, I didn’t accept a bag.
I just shoved the new bandanas in my purse.
When I cut the ignition of my car in my garage, I looked to the bike beside me with the patch stitched to leather sitting on it and pulled out my phone.
In a group text to my boys, I said, Did my goodbye thing with your dad. The cut and bike are in the garage, ready whenever you’re ready. All I ask is that you come together to get them and you work together to get your father’s bike running. I love you.
By the time I got upstairs, I had two return texts.
Love you, Ma. Forever. Always. Dutch.
Bottom of my soul, Ma. Jagger.
They were pains in
But Black and me made such good boys.
I put the glass of wine I’d poured myself on the nightstand, took my coat off, threw it and my purse on my sheepskin chair, took my phone to my bed and climbed in.
I bent my head to it.
Come home, baby.
Hound was home in ten minutes.
Black’s bike and cut were gone by the time I got home from work the next day.
Can’t Rein That Shit In
Keely
I was on my bed with my laptop searching through vacation destinations, because I was on Spring Break with nothing to show for it but spending hours going through Jean’s stuff, donating most of it and getting rid of the shit in our basement by donating all of that, none of this all that fun, even if I did it with Hound and the boys.
So the minute summer break hit, Hound and I were going somewhere awesome.
Therefore, I was on my bed when Hound walked in wearing jeans that I found confusing because I loved them so much, I wanted to take them off him. His feet were bare. His torso was covered in a skintight wife beater that did fabulous things for his wide chest and awesome tats, showing enough your mouth watered thus making you want to witness it all. The top of his hair was pulled back in a little ponytail at the back of his head, something I also found confusing because it made him look cool and badass at the same time I wanted to yank it out and bury my fingers in his hair.
He was also carrying a laundry hamper full of folded clothes toward the closet.
I’d put a load in the dryer what was apparently a little over an hour before.
Watching this, I was pretty sure my mouth had dropped open but I was too in shock to notice if that was actually the case.
Hound had been living with me now for three weeks. He was all in. His and Jean’s apartments (mostly) were all cleared out. We didn’t have a lot of time in but we had some time. He made us breakfast every morning. I made us dinner every night. We slept together, woke up together, touched base during the day, and in that time, I’d had occasion to do a load or seven of laundry.
Hound had said nothing but he was a dude. Dudes didn’t thank you for things like having clean jeans. They just thought clean jeans miraculously made their way from the floor to a hanger for them to grab.
But as I had this thought it occurred to me that Hound’s jeans didn’t even hit the floor. They hit the hamper. As did his shorts, socks and tees.
He was categorically a dude.
He was also categorically a biker.
Ditto with a badass.
And last, a bachelor for thirty-nine years.
He’d said to me (and he was being nasty because he was pissed but I figured there was a modicum of truth to it) that he got rid of women when they started dragging on him. The truth part of that was that I knew in all his years he had never gotten serious with a woman at all, much less lived with one.
This was probably because in all those years, he’d been in love with me.
That would have been sad if he wasn’t right there with me, which was some serious happy.
But still.
Where did he learn, when the dryer was done, to fold and bring up laundry?
He walked out of the closet and looked to me. “Gonna get a beer and park it in front of the TV. You gonna come down?”
“You folded the laundry.”
He stopped on his return journey to the door and shifted to face me.
“Yeah,” he said. “Now you gonna come down or do you want me to bring you a beer up here and we’ll catch some tube in bed?”
“And you brought it up. Like, folded, in a hamper, to the closet.”
He looked to the closet then back to me.
“Yeah,” he said slowly.
“You also put your clothes in the dirty clothes hamper,” I went on.
“Where else would I put them?” he asked.
“On the floor,” I answered.
“They don’t belong on the floor,” he returned. “They been worn, they belong in the dirty clothes bin.”
I did a slow blink.
Hound started to look aggravated.
But if I wasn’t mistaken, he also looked kind of hurt.
“So, here we are,” he said quietly.
“Where?” I asked cautiously, due to the possible hurt look.
“Black left his clothes on the floor.”
My back went up.
We were not going to go there. Not right then.
And I had to make it so it was not ever again.
“Yes, he did, until I broke him of that habit,” I shared then went on to what was important. “But this isn’t about Black. And I think it’s crucial at this juncture to state that there’s nothing about Black when it comes to you and me. Except for the love we share for him, that’s all the part he plays between you and me. If I’m talking to you, it’s about you, or you and me, and not about Black. Not ever about Black.”
He looked somewhat relieved.
But still irate.
He didn’t hesitate to explain the irate.
“So why you lookin’ at me like I’m a freak?” he demanded.
“I’m not looking at you like you’re a freak.”
“Woman, you’re lookin’ at me like I’m a freak.”
Since I didn’t know how to change a look I was sure I wasn’t giving him, I did my best to rearrange my face and shared, “You’re a biker.”
“Bikers clean their clothes, babe.”
“Your place was a sty when I first started it with you,” I reminded him.
“I wasn’t tagging hot chick pussy on a regular basis at my pad when you first started it with me.”
That was a good point.
“But the pussy I tagged wherever I tagged it, I tagged it wearin’ clean clothes, that is before I took ’em off,” he continued.
“It’s just . . . you were a confirmed bachelor . . . until me.”
“I was. I’m also a man who’s now livin’ with a woman and I might spend most my time with men and have my own dick, but most those men have women. I hear them talkin’ and bottom line, I’m just not stupid. So I’m not gonna move in with my woman and court her gettin’ up in my shit ’cause I leave my clothes on the floor or hear the dryer go and don’t unload that fucker.” He flung an arm toward the closet door. “But you’re puttin’ that shit away. I don’t know where your crap goes, and if it was up to me, I’d shove all my shit on a shelf or in a drawer and not bother with hangers.”
“So you absorbed being a good partner through your Chaos brothers?” I queried skeptically.
“Maybe, but more, I kinda like you and I definitely like tagging your pussy so I also might want this to last awhile. And you got somethin’ good, you put work into it to keep it that way. It’s no skin off my nose to fold some clothes and haul them up the stairs so that’s what I did. Though, not sure I’ll do it again, I get shit about doin’ it.”
Oh no.
We weren’t going there.
I hated folding laundry.
Hell, I hated doing laundry.
“I’m not giving you shit.”
He lifted both hands to his sides before he crossed his arms on his chest, making his tats dance, thus making them even more awesome, asking, “So what is this?”
“I was just surprised.” Before he could say more, I added, “In a good way.”
“If it’s in a good way,” he retorted, “don’t bust my chops.”
“I’m also not busting your chops.”
“Doesn’t seem that way from where I’m standing.”
Okay, I needed to get this under control, pronto.
“Shep, I was just surprised. It took Dutch and that other recruit three hours to clean your apartment. It doesn’t take me that long to clean this entire house.”
“That other recruit is called Chill,” he educated me.
“Chill,” I murmured.
“And just to say, we’re not in my apartment, which we’ve had this convers
“And thank you for that.”
He didn’t comment on that.
He went on with what he’d been saying. “Now we’re in your house.”
“Our house.”
“Your house, Keely.”
Oh boy.
“You live here, Hound,” I said quietly. “So it’s our house.”
He stared at me.
This lasted some time so I asked, “Do we need to have a conversation?”
“No,” he answered.
“Are you sure?” I pressed.
“If I wasn’t sure, my answer would have been ‘I don’t know,’” he returned. “That wasn’t my answer. My answer was no.”
“You jumped right to the conclusion I was thinking about Black when I made a comment about you bringing those clothes up,” I pointed out carefully.
“He was the last man you lived with,” he pointed out right back, though not carefully.
“A long time ago, honey,” I said.
“Doesn’t change the facts,” he retorted.
I was right.
Oh boy.
“So we do need to have a conversation,” I whispered.
“Keely—”
“I’m yours,” I declared.
“I know that,” he gritted.
“You’re mine,” I went on.
“I definitely know that,” he bit out.
“So you definitely know you’re mine but you only just know I’m yours?” I asked.
Taking his arms from his chest, he planted his hands on his hips and looked to the ceiling, muttering, “For fuck’s sake.”
This wasn’t going to happen, stuff like this coming between us, so I made the decision right then that we were going to change things so it wouldn’t happen.
And they were going to change in a big way, and that big way would be permanently.
“We’re moving,” I decreed.
His eyes came right back to me. “Say again?”