Wild Like the Wind

by Kristen Ashley

  Yep.

  Parked fencing me in.

  I waited until he’d swung a meaty thigh over his bike (Lord, I loved that man’s thighs—focus, Keely!) but I got in there before he made it roar.

  “A coupla minutes, you can find that in you, Hound,” I called.

  He was facing front, and at my call only turned his head to the side.

  But he didn’t turn on his bike toward me.

  When I made it to him, I found it fortuitous that I could look down at him.

  His long torso was proportioned well with his long legs so I didn’t get to look too far down on him.

  But at least I could look down at him.

  “First, the preliminaries, and no matter the colossal motherfucking dick you’ve proved yourself to be, it has to be said, I’m very sorry about Jean,” I declared to start.

  The blank left his face, and I felt him rocket right to fury, not at me bringing up Jean, at me calling him a colossal dick, but I did not give that first shit.

  “Second,” I kept going before he could even open his mouth, “it’s clear you misinterpreted what I was doing when I was at your scales tat. If you even have a smidge of respect left for me, you’ll allow me to explain that I was trying, like I had been for two fucking months, to guide you to a place where you’d get past feeling you were being disloyal to your brother, where you’d get to the point you were willing to face what the brotherhood might land on you if they knew we’d become what we’d become, and you’d fight to make it to the other side with me.”

  “Do not try to feed me this shit, woman,” he rumbled.

  That pissed me off (more).

  But I ignored him and kept talking like he had not.

  “In all we had, and there was a lot, one of the things I felt was beautiful, not the most beautiful, other stuff we had was far more beautiful, but I still thought it was beautiful, and that was that we both had him. We both loved him. He loved both of us. I’m sure you’ll twist this, and hey, it might be twisted. But I don’t give a shit. I loved that. I loved that you got what he was to me. I loved that wasn’t something I’d ever have to explain or hide. I loved that you loved him so much you had him inked into your body. I loved that he wasn’t between us, he was a part of us. Both of us. I loved that I got to have something new and beautiful with you at the same time I got to share him with you. And last, I loved you had that reaper and would understand how important it was to be smart and stay safe so you wouldn’t be torn away from the people who love you.”

  I also ignored how his expression had now changed.

  The fury was gone.

  Shock had replaced it.

  “Then you put him between us,” I went on. “Dragged his spirit right there not like the shield you’d been using, but like a weapon. That I didn’t love, Hound. That was fucked up. And how you put your hands on me made it worse.”

  His face started to soften and warm and he turned his torso my way so he was sitting on his bike still, but fully facing me.

  “Keely—”

  I talked over him.

  I had to.

  He’d had his chance.

  He wasn’t getting in there again.

  “For two months you didn’t pay one single bit of attention to one single fucking thing I did. Not one, Hound. Not that first one. If you did, you’d know I knew precisely whose cock I was sucking. Whose cock I was fucking. Whose cock I,” I leaned toward him, “invited up my ass because it was damned important to give that to you. To make sure you knew you had something of me he never got. To make sure you knew I was inviting you inside me every way I could take you. You missed that, Hound. You missed it, but you had enough hold on it to twist it into something ugly and foul and shove it in my face while you had your fist in my hair and you made us done. So just to confirm, I got your message and we’re done. So fucking done.”

  “Baby—” he tried to get in.

  I did not let him.

  “Now, you gave my boys that,” I flung my arm behind me, “and as ever, I appreciate it. What I would appreciate from this point on is if they need something like that and you’re gonna be in my space, you give me a heads up. I don’t wanna see you. I don’t wanna breathe your air. But you mean the world to my boys so I’m not gonna get that. So again, if you have any respect left for me, give me warning I gotta endure your presence. Yeah?”

  “Keekee—” he whispered, his expression now haggard, like he wore it at Jean’s graveside.

  God.

  Christ.

  “Fuck you,” I whispered back. “I’ll never forgive you for what you thought of me, what you did to us. Fuck you for not being the man I thought you were. Fuck you for not being the man I needed you to be.”

  That did not get me haggard.

  That got me wrecked.

  “Kee—”

  He cut himself off because I had to end it there before his reaction started working on me.

  So I turned and trooped up to the house, fighting real hard not to do it running.

  I slammed the door behind me and stomped right to the stairs, starting up them, yelling, “Enjoy the cookies. After that big decision got made, Momma needs a bubble bath.”

  And hearing Hound’s bike roar outside, I realized I really, really did.

  Motherfucking dick!

  “Ma,” Dutch growled in a way I turned halfway up to look down to see him at the foot, staring up, Jagger coming to stand by his side. “You sort your shit with Hound?”

  I stared back at him, my heart tripping over itself, fast, furious and full of fear.

  In the time my sons had been spending with him after Jean, had Hound shared?

  “What shit?” I asked.

  “You two bein’ broken up,” Jag said.

  Oh fuck.

  He’d shared.

  “What did Hound tell you?” I snapped.

  “Nothin’,” Dutch said. “Hound cleaning up his place, clearing out old furniture to get new and your car at his pad told us. Jag went up once, didn’t see your car, just wanted to see Hound’s new shit, and heard you in his apartment, laughing with him. When he left, that’s when he saw your car.”

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “You know about Jean. You were at the funeral. You didn’t even walk up to him, say that first word. What the fuck’s up with you dumping him right when he lost that old lady?” Dutch asked.

  Oh my God.

  My boys were taking Hound’s side.

  Before I could answer, Jagger threw his own question in. “And did you know her? Like, before. When she was alive?”

  “Shortly,” I pushed out.

  That visibly did not make either of my sons happy.

  “I get you kept shit under wraps with Hound, though you coulda told us and not snuck around like a goddamned teenager,” Dutch clipped. “But it woulda been nice to have met a woman that meant what that old lady did to Hound.”

  Um, excuse me?

  It wasn’t me who kept Jean from my boys.

  “And speakin’ a’ that,” Jagger butted in again before I could make a peep, “you’re our mother and he’s been our stepdad without sleepin’ with our mom for, oh . . . I don’t know, fuckin’ ever,” he bit out his last. “Maybe call a family meal with Hound where he should have been for about the last decade, at our table, and say, ‘Okay, boys, your momma and your Hound have finally got their heads outta their asses and we’re doin’ this. Now pass the mashed potatoes.’”

  That was kinda funny.

  I was not laughing.

  “This isn’t any of either of your business,” I told them truthfully.

  “And that’s full of shit,” Dutch shot back. “Because you’re ours and he’s ours and we’ve been a fuckin’ family since Dad died, and we got a shot at makin’ that real and somehow it got dicked up and that’s impossible because he loves you like Tack loves Cherry, like Hop loves Lanie, and you know what that kinda thing means. Now we arrange this so you two will be forced to get
your heads outta your asses, again, and you’re having a bubble bath and Hound’s . . . whatever the fuck he’s doin’.”

  So they’d arranged this.

  They obviously needed help making the decision and knew only Hound could offer that guidance. But they didn’t need me.

  They just made it so Hound and I could have the confrontation we’d just had.

  Regrettably, they thought it would go another way.

  It didn’t. And they were my sons but I didn’t owe them an explanation.

  I also didn’t need them piling this on me.

  “Again, this isn’t your business,” I declared, and when both opened their mouths to speak, I kept at them. “It isn’t. Hound and I are done and how that happened is not yours to have. I know you love him. I know you love me. I get what you’re saying. What you need to get is, a breakup is a breakup for a reason, there’s always pain involved, sometimes more, sometimes less. This time, it’s more. A lot more. So think on that and back,” I lost it a little, leaning down toward them before I finished, “off.”

  They looked stubborn.

  They also looked contrite.

  God, I so knew neither of them would have a problem with Hound and me.

  It didn’t matter.

  It was over.

  The contrite won out.

  “You ever need to talk,” Dutch said quietly.

  “I love you, boy, but I’m your mother. I’m not talking to you about my love life,” I replied, trying to do it gentle, but for God’s sake.

  I needed a bubble bath!

  “We just don’t get it. He’s been so into you for so long, we thought, when you finally noticed that you’d . . .” Jagger trailed off.

  Oh I did.

  “Can we stop talking about this?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Ma,” Dutch answered quickly.

  “But—” Jag started.

  Dutch kicked the side of Jag’s boot with the side of his.

  Jag shut up.

  “Ziplocs. Take as many cookies as you want,” I told them. “And lock up when you leave.”

  “Right, Ma,” Dutch said.

  “Right,” Jag muttered.

  I looked over my two handsome sons.

  “Love you boys,” I said, and that came out gentle.

  “Love you too,” Dutch said.

  “Yeah, Ma, love you too,” Jag muttered.

  I let my gaze rest on them for another second.

  Then I dashed up the steps to run my bubble bath.

  It wasn’t until I was in it that it hit me that Jagger was getting Black’s bike, Dutch getting his father’s cut.

  Just like Graham would want.

  Hound had wrangled that.

  On that thought, the first tear fell.

  Damn it.

  So after that thought, I slapped my face in the water in front of me and kept it there until I had to pull it out to breathe.

  I Lost Count

  Keely

  That night, I stared at the dark outside the window in my kitchen, eating a cookie, my phone to my ear.

  The boys had left me six cookies.

  I should probably have been grateful they’d left me that.

  It was coming on to late. I’d had my bath and gone gung ho. I gave my legs a clean, close shave since I hadn’t shaved once since the day of Jean’s funeral seeing as I was no longer fucking Hound, so I felt I didn’t need to see to that little chore.

  I also gave myself a facial because I would never, ever attempt to catch another man’s attention, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to have the best skin I could until the day I died.

  And I’d done the hot oil pack on my hair that made it gleam even more than it naturally gleamed (God loved me and I knew this because he gave me Black for the time I had him, he gave me my beautiful boys, and he gave me long legs, a great ass, a metabolism most women would kill for and fabulously shining hair).

  I was now in undies and my red robe that hit me several inches above my knees, had three-quarter sleeves that were wide and feminine, almost bell but not quite, and was made of this soft cotton-knit material that was supposed to keep you warm or cool, whatever way you needed it.

  And it did.

  I was also on the phone with Bev.

  “So it’s probably official,” I told her through my cookie munching. “I expect a phone call any minute telling me Jagger is a Chaos recruit. Or one from Dutch since the boys will get Jag smashed out of his brain to the point he’ll puke his guts out for the next week.”

  “Happy for you, Keely,” Beverly replied softly.

  Her tone brought me up straight.

  She and Boz never had kids.

  This was because Boz had repeatedly cheated on her while they were dating. Though, as far as I knew, he never did that shit while they were married.

  Except once.

  The reason she left him.

  And after she did and tried to reconcile, he never took her back.

  I did know Boz was one of those bikers who was of the mind that priorities in life came in a certain order: Club, brotherhood, freedom, bike, country, and if he wasn’t an atheist, God. If he had enough of him left over on a certain day to give a shit, last came his woman.

  In other words, he thought he could do exactly what he wanted and anyone in his life had to put up with that.

  Bev had been all in for that, mostly. She loved him. She was not a nag. She got the life. In fact, she loved the life. She loved the Club. She was about freedom, country, God, having a good time, being among people where she could be herself, and she dug Boz on his bike.

  What she wasn’t a big fan of was Boz sleeping with women who were not her.

  She put up with it before she had his ring (this might have started her problem, though I wondered if he’d have ended things with her if she’d tried to put a stop to it before she’d accepted his ring).

  She put her foot down when she got it.

  This caused their first marital fight. One of many. That seemingly (to a woman) natural but important request when she gave him the freedom to be everything else he needed, she didn’t get why he couldn’t give her. But he railed against it, mostly with fighting with her, sometimes with getting caught necking or groping women, not her.

  Though, until the end, as far as I knew, he’d never taken it all the way, that made no never mind to me. I was not of that mentality. Necking was a form of cheating, groping, definitely.

  Fortunately, Black had agreed with me.

  It was me for him and him for me, totally.

  That didn’t help, Bev having to watch Black and me (while Black was alive). And how totally devoted High was to Millie. And the fact that it seemed Tack could barely stand the sight of his first wife, Naomi, but he’d never strayed.

  The other brothers, back then, felt the same way Boz did, which solidified Boz’s position (to Boz).

  Through Bev, I’d heard that had turned somewhat around with everything Tack had turned around in the Club.

  Now Tack, Hop, Dog, and the new brothers, Joker and Shy, not to mention now Millie was back, so High as well, were all devoted to their old ladies like High had been with Millie way back in the day.

  Like Black was with me.

  In other words, during their marriage, more fights surfaced when Beverly refused to give Boz a baby if he refused to give her his fidelity.

  In the end, he’d refused.

  And in the end, I thought she was upset that she’d held out, and even now apart didn’t have a part of him like I had so much of Black through my sons, but just simply the fact she didn’t have her own family.

  She loved my boys. Unlike my own sister, and Graham’s (a long, ugly story), she was a great auntie to them and always had been.

  She also still loved the Club, keeping her finger on the pulse and having earned the respect of the brothers who she could, in her way.

  She was definitely happy for me, for Jag, that he’d taken up his father’s legacy.

 
; I knew by her voice it still stung she had no son to take on that legacy.

  “You need to break up with that guy,” I announced suddenly.

  “Keely—” she began.

  “You totally need to break up with that guy,” I repeated.

  “Boz is never getting back with me,” she replied.

  “So?” I asked. “He lost out. Hold out for what you want.”

  “There aren’t many of them out there.”

  “Who cares? Hold out for one.”

  “You know, I still live mostly paycheck to paycheck.”

  The abrupt sharpness of her tone had my back coming up again.

  “Beverly—”

  “He’s an insurance salesman. A good one. He makes good money. His clients love him. He’s very likable on the whole, actually. He could sell the London Bridge back to the people who bought the wrong one, even pointing out it was the wrong one, that’s how good of a salesman he is. And he thinks he scored with me.”

  “He did,” I shared, because Boz might be a little goofy, but Bev was like a biker babe cheerleader, all exuberance and sweetness and liveliness and affability, totally “Go Team!” with the bright-eyed, girl-next-door looks that matched.

  “I’m just so fucking tired of it all,” she stated.

  And the way she stated that sounded like she wasn’t tired, she was exhausted.

  “Tired of what?” I asked quietly.

  “Everything. Paying the bills. Dealing with the roof leaking. Buying all the groceries. Putting them away. Having to unload the dishwasher. Even me being the only one putting dishes in the damned thing.”

  “The boys would deal with your roof,” I offered, knowing it was lame.

  But they would.

  “You know,” she began in a tone that made me, already vigilant in our conversation, start to brace, “you and me, we gave everything to that Club. They didn’t ask for it. It was us who gave them everything. And it’s been a long time that I’ve been wondering if we haven’t wasted the best years of our lives in loyalty to a bunch of men who, for your part, gave back out of guilt, and for my part, didn’t even want it.”

  “Bev,” I whispered.

  She was still my friend because unlike everyone else, early on, she’d pulled off the kid gloves with me.

  But I’d never heard her say anything like that.