Own the Wind (Chaos, #1)(11)
Written By: Kristen Ashley
Shy lifted his beer and took a drag.
He swallowed and found it didn’t help the burn.
Dog, unfortunately, kept fucking talking. “They’re gonna wait until she graduates to get married. She’s bein’ funny about it. Dude wants her to move in, she says after the wedding. Don’t know why she just don’t shack up with the guy. Try before you buy, see if that shit’ll work. But she’s not down with that so… whatever.”
Tabby being theirs, his brothers could talk about this shit all night.
But Shy had had enough.
He pushed his stool back, slid off it, and muttered, “Gotta go.”
“Where you goin’?” Bat asked.
He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Anywhere just as long as he got there on his bike.
“Shit to do,” he muttered and moved around the bar, eyes to his feet, mind centered on keeping his jaw relaxed, his hands unclenched.
He walked out the door, swung on his bike, and rolled out.
He didn’t hit Chaos again for three weeks.
Six months later…
Shy was moving across the forecourt toward the Compound in order to grab a shower and head out. His hands were filthy from grease. The car he’d been working on for the last three months was finally done.
Time to celebrate.
He moved into the Compound and felt the heaviness in the air immediately. Boys were moving out, faces alert, even alarmed, the vibe bad.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked Roscoe, who was shifting, like all the brothers, toward the door.
“Car accident,” Roscoe answered, stopping and catching his eye. “Tab’s fiancé.”
The force of that information knocked Shy so hard it was a wonder he didn’t fall to a knee.
The wedding was three weeks away.
“What?” he whispered.
Roscoe shook his head. “Just got the news. She’s at Denver Health. He’s, brother, this shit is fuckin’ crazy, but the guy was DOA. Didn’t even make it to the hospital. Gone. Tack says Tab’s lost it. We’re movin’ out, takin her back, Tack’s back, seein’ if we can do anything.” His head tipped to the side. “Comin’?”
Didn’t even make it to the hospital.
Tab’s lost it.
“Anyone watchin’ the kids?” he forced out.
“Sheila’s headin’ up there.”
“I’ll go help her out,” Shy offered, turning, digging his greasy hand into his jeans for his keys.
“Help out Sheila with the kids?” Roscoe asked his back.
Shy didn’t answer. It was jacked, fucking lame, but it was doing something. Something away from Tabby.
She wouldn’t want to see him now.
She never wanted to see him.
But he had to do something.
He wasn’t her family.
But she was his.
Three days later…
Shy sat in his dark living room in his apartment, the first time he’d been there for months.
He was thinking and he was remembering.
Remembering for the first time in a long time that day when the news came.
Remembering that day when his life, at age fucking twelve, shifted and went from good, no great, to absolute shit.
Remembering the day years later when he found Chaos and he thought, finally, fucking finally, his life would no longer be shit and he was right.
And thinking that, six hours ago, probably wearing black, probably looking lifeless, just like she’d looked yesterday when he saw her walking out of the office with Cherry, Cherry’s arm around her holding her close, her head bobbing like she was agreeing to what Cherry was saying when he knew just by looking at her she didn’t hear a thing, Tabby stood in a cemetery and laid her man into the ground.
Her man was twenty-seven years old.
Shy lifted the bottle of vodka to his lips and took a deep pull.
He didn’t drop it before he took another one.
“I Dreamed a Dream”
Three and a half months later…
His cell rang and Parker “Shy” Cage opened his eyes.
He was on his back in his bed in his room at the Chaos Motorcycle Club’s Compound. The lights were still on and he was buried under a small pile of women. One was tucked up against his side, her leg thrown over his thighs, her arm over his middle. The other was upside down, tucked to his other side, her knee in his stomach, her arm over his calves.
Both were naked.
“Shit,” he muttered, twisting with difficulty under his fence of limbs. He reached out to his phone.
He checked the display, his brows drew together at the “unknown caller” he saw on the screen as he touched his thumb to it to take the call.
“Yo,” he said into the phone.
“Shy?” a woman asked, she sounded weird, far away, quiet.
“You got me,” he answered.
He shot to sitting in bed, limbs flying and they weren’t his.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” her voice caught like she was trying to stop crying or, maybe, hyperventilating, then she whispered, “So, so sorry but I’m in a jam. I think I might even be kinda… um, in trouble.”
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