Wild Like the Wind (Chaos #5)(101)

“I’m not mad, sister, I’m proud. Because that’s my man.”

I giggled so I wouldn’t cry.

She squeezed my hand and giggled with me.

“Men!” Jagger shouted from the doorway. “Warning, the estrogen has been let loose in the kitchen. Enter at your own risk. I’ll get us a good supply of beer so we don’t have to expose ourselves too often.”

“Shut it, Jagger,” I threw over my shoulder at my son.

He shot me a grin but went right up to his aunt.

He then kissed the side of her head before he said, “He’s the shit, Aunt Bev. You have my approval.”

“Thanks, Jag, that seals the deal. I was holding back but I’ll start looking for wedding venues now,” she teased.

He saluted her walking away, heading to the fridge.

“Now,” she rubbed her hands together, “Keely’s Buttermilk Goodness Chicken Tenders. I told Tad I hoped that was what you were making. He’s gonna love ’em. Now I just gotta hope you made your potato salad too.”

I did.

It was Hound’s favorite.

“I wish you women wouldn’t call Ma’s chicken that. It makes me think I’ll turn into a girl if I eat it,” Jag put in, heading back out of the kitchen with four beers, even though Tad’s was just opened so they only maybe needed three.

“You might wanna check your junk, sweetheart, since you’ve had your share already,” I called to his back.

He walked out, shaking his head.

I turned to my girl.

She had that hot guy.

At long last, Brick had some woman who did him right.

High and Millie found their way back to each other.

Little Tabby Allen was all grown up and making babies with a man who loved her so much, he’d pick her over his Club.

Tack finally had a woman in his life that he wanted right there.

And I had Hound.

So Chew was back.

The likes of Chew couldn’t bring down this goodness.

No way.

No how.

It burned bright and it was going to burn him right up.

Men like Chew didn’t win.

Men like Hound and High and Tack and Hop and Dog and Brick …

They were winners.



“You wore a purple bandanna.”

“I didn’t wear a purple bandanna.”

“You totally wore a purple bandanna. Ma’s purple bandanna.”

“I didn’t wear a purple bandanna.”

“You wore your mother’s purple bandanna, son.”

We were at the dining room table. We’d pulled away the chairs we weren’t using and there was a lot of room but it still felt nice and intimate and I loved that it wasn’t just Dutch and Jag and me at Christmas or Thanksgiving, most of that long table empty. I loved that instead it was filled with people I adored and the detritus of a meal I’d made them that they’d devoured.

It was after dinner but before dessert. We were giving Jagger shit. It was annoying him but he’d always been a good sport, not one who could dish it out and not take it.

I loved that too.

“Aunt Bev, will you and Tad adopt me?” Jagger asked Beverly.

“Tad’s daughter is sixteen and she’s a knockout and you’re a dawg, so … no,” Beverly answered.

Jag looked to Tad. “Your daughter is a knockout?”

“Son,” Hound murmured warningly.

“Yeah, Jag, she’s also gonna remain untouched until she’s thirty-nine so your best bet is to put her outta your mind,” Tad answered.

“I hear you, man,” Jag replied on a knowing nod. “I hope I don’t have girls. With my superior genetics and taste, which means I’m gonna score me a hot babe, I’ll have to buy, like, ten guns.”

Hound caught my eyes across the table and shook his head, his lips twitching.

“Speaking of that,” Tad began, “Thursday good for you boys to go to the range?”

“Good for me,” Hound said.

“I’m in,” Dutch said.

“Totally,” Jagger said.

“Are women not invited to this outing?” Bev asked.

“Baby,” Tad said sweetly, and I felt gooey for Beverly just listening to how he said it. “Bonding over bullets is a brotherhood type of thing. And anyway, last time we went to the range, you got a case down your shirt.”

Spent shells burned like hell.

“Ouch,” I said in sympathy.

“Leave it to me to wear cleavage to the firing range,” Bev replied to me.

“It wasn’t the shirt I had a problem with,” Tad muttered.

Hound and Dutch chuckled.

Jag guffawed.

A knock came at the door.

All my happy, gooey goodness of food and family and friends and love in the air flew right out the window when my panicked eyes hit Hound.

All the people I knew who would show at my door were at this table.

Except people that belonged to Chaos.

Hound was scowling toward the door.

“Shit, fuck, shit,” Jagger mumbled.

“I’ll get it,” Dutch said, pushing back his chair.

“No, honey, no,” Bev put in, moving faster than my boy. “I’ll get it.”