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

“Now it’s done,” he growled.

He heard her whisper from halfway across the yard.

“Hound,” was all she said.

“Heal,” was all he said to finish.

Then he turned on his boot and walked away.



One month later …

Keely slamming the phone into its cradle repeatedly set all five men at her kitchen table to alert, and all eyes, including Hound’s, went from their poker hands to her.

“Yo,” Arlo called, and at the word she stopped with the receiver in the cradle, her hand still on it, and stared angrily at the phone.

“All okay, honey bunch?” Pete asked gently.

She took her hand off the phone and whirled.

“So, my parents weren’t all fired up I was dating a guy in a motorcycle gang,” she began.

Hound felt his jaw get tight at the word “gang.” He knew she was saying that shit because her parents thought that shit. He knew she knew better. They were a Club. An outsider might not see much difference. But there was a mountain of it.

“Therefore, needless to say, they weren’t fired up about me marrying him and getting knocked up by him … twice,” she went on. “So it’s not like I’m not in the know that they weren’t Graham’s biggest fans.”

At that, Hound fought a flinch.

They didn’t call Black “Black” because it was his last name, which it was.

They called him Black because the man was so far from the darkness, it was fucking hilarious that was his last name.

He was goodness.

He was light.

He was brotherhood.

If there was a disagreement between the brothers, Black waded in and had everyone laughing.

If one of the brother’s kids walked into the Compound, faster than snot Black would have them up on his shoulders, horsing around.

They all had their place in the Club, and Black’s place had been the glue that held them together in shaky times or in times when those shakes were like earthquakes.

But it was also because he was their light. The beacon of the brother they all wanted the Club to be. He was about Chaos. He was about Keely. He was about his boys. And nothing on this earth mattered beyond that. Not money. Not respect. Not a thing.

He was not Graham.

It was a solid name and Hound had heard Keely calling him that, but usually in a teasing way. The rest of the time, if she wasn’t using a sweet nothing, it was always Black.

She’d dropped the Black since he died, and Hound knew it was another way she wanted to drop the brotherhood.

“So now, essentially,” she kept going, “they pretty much feel like I made my bed, I made my boys’ beds, and we need to lie in them.”

Fucking assholes, Hound thought.

“Whatcha need?” Brick asked softly, and her pissed-off eyes went to him.

“I need my parents to give a shit that my husband got his throat slit,” she spat.

Hound, nor any brother, could beat back the flinch at that.

She stomped out.

The men around the table all looked at each other.

“They were always motherfuckers,” Dog muttered under his breath. “Remember their wedding. They had sticks rammed so far up their asses it’s a wonder they didn’t come out their mouths.”

Hound remembered that too.

“She’s better off without them,” Arlo put in. “She’s got Chaos, she doesn’t need their shit.”

He knew that was true. Every man at that table knew that was true.

The problem was, Keely didn’t know that was true.

He waited until after he won all his brothers’ money, they got pissed and it got late so they were all taking off.

He hung back.

She was at the door.

So was he.

He waited again, this time until she impatiently caught his gaze.

She wanted him gone.

“Whether you want us or not, you got a family who wants you. You can’t do anything to make that change. Nothing, Keely. We’re yours. Forever.”

With that, he didn’t let her say a word.

Hound gave her what she wanted.

He walked away.



Several months later …

Hound stood at the end of the walk with his arms crossed on his chest, his leather cut on his shoulders beating back the October chill, and watched as Keely headed back down the walk with Dutch and Jagger.

Dutch had demanded that his Halloween costume be mini-biker, and as much as Keely pushed back, he’d have none of it.

And where Dutch went, Jagger followed.

So they were both in jeans, little-man biker boots, white Tshirts, little leather vests that Bev made for them, with bandanas tied around their foreheads.

Dutch’s was red. It was Black’s bandana, he wore it all the time. Now Dutch had it all the time.

Hilariously, Jagger’s was purple. It was Keely’s. She used to wear it all the time too, tied around her neck, wrapped around the top of her skull and tied at the back with her hair flowing out under it. Even wound around her wrist.

Dutch told Jag that real bikers didn’t wear purple, but Jag dug in and purple it was.

Keely made it to Hound and stopped.

“You’re scaring all the neighbors,” she accused.

“Good,” he replied.

Dutch laughed.