Wild Like the Wind (Chaos #5)(84)

It was all under control.

And I was still a wreck.

“They’re almost here,” I told him.

“Chill,” he told me.

“What if it goes bad? What if they, like, realize you’re spending the night? Or what me spending the night with you means? That you’re banging their momma? What if they get weirded out by that and that turns protective or mean and—”

“Chill,” he interrupted.

“It’s weird!” I cried. “They’ve never had to face something like that.”

“We both know neither of your boys are virgins,” he stated.

“Ugh,” I grunted.

“And unless they’re under the impression they’re the second and third coming, they’ve put it together their momma got her cherry popped a long time ago,” Hound went on.

I was right then regretting running my mouth.

Hound moved to me, yanked the spent garlic out of my fingers, tossed it on the counter, hooked my neck with his arm and yanked me into his body.

“They might dig me but they love you, baby, down to their bones,” he said softly. “They want you to be happy. They been waiting a fuckuva long time to see that happen for you. This is gonna go great. So … chill.”

I put my arms around him even as I declared, “You know, it’s really, really annoying how totally, totally awesome you are.”

Hound gave me a look.

Then he threw his head back and busted out laughing.

I smiled up at him, loving that look on him best of all.

The back door opened.

Oh shit.

Hound’s laughter turned to chuckles as I twisted my neck still in Hound’s hold to look at the door.

The boys were both through and staring at us.

“Yo,” Hound greeted.

Dutch’s body jolted.

Oh man.

Jagger blinked.

Shit!

“Yo,” Dutch said.

“Thank fuck, the smell of pork chop grease. Been queasy all day, just what I need,” Jagger declared, moving toward the stove.

“Did you roast garlic, Ma?” Dutch asked me, going to the fridge.

“Of course,” I whispered, not quite understanding what was happening.

“Hound, got beer?” Dutch asked.

“Could use a fresh one,” Hound told him, bending to run his lips along my cheekbone before he let me go and moved away.

“Jagger, you want a beer?” Dutch asked.

“Please, God, if you say beer one more time, I’m punching you in the mouth,” Jagger groaned from the stove.

Hound had made it to him, so he clamped a big hand on the back of Jag’s neck, swaying him back and forth.

“Still hangin’?” he asked.

Jagger twisted his neck to look at Hound. “Is it entirely necessary to take a shot of tequila after each and every brother takes his shot of tequila?”

“Can’t be Chaos if you can’t hold your liquor, son,” Hound replied.

Right.

What was happening?

“Uh …” I mumbled.

“Ma,” Dutch called. Having moved across the space, he was handing Hound who was disengaging from Jagger his fresh one.

I turned my gaze to him.

“You want beer or you got wine?” he asked, twisting off his own beer top.

“Wine,” I peeped.

“Need it topped off?” Dutch offered.

I shook my head slowly.

What I needed to do was glug it from the bottle.

After I took a shot of tequila.

“Grab those beans, Jag, throw ’em in the water,” Hound ordered then looked to me. “Babe, that thing probably mashes potatoes a lot easier if you turn it on.”

Both my sons emitted low chuckles.

I just stared dazedly at my man.

“Right,” Hound muttered. “I’ll turn it on.”

He moved into me, reached around me and the KitchenAid started whirring.

“What’s happening?” I asked quietly before he moved fully away.

He lifted his brows.

“Ma, serious, Hound does his shot with Jag, hornin’ in there to do it first, then he takes off on his bike like the devil is chasin’ him. Next thing we know, you’re callin’ a family dinner when we all haven’t sat down to dinner since Christmas. We figured it out,” Dutch proclaimed. “You guys pulled your heads outta your asses. Now it’s pork chop time.”

“You had her pork chops?” Jag asked Hound.

“Not fried ones,” Hound answered.

“Man, you are gonna lose your mind,” Jagger told him.

“Jag, Ma got a pistachio cake from LeLane’s,” Dutch shared with his brother.

“God, I hope like fuck the pork chops work on my hangover so I can eat half a’ that thing,” Jag murmured.

“Since I’m eatin’ the other half, what are Ma and Hound gonna eat?” Dutch demanded to know.

“Neither of you men are eatin’ half a’ shit,” Hound proclaimed, tossing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me away from the counter. “Jag, get a drink. Dutch, man the potatoes. Your mother needs to sit down before she teeters over, so it’s up to us to serve up. Get on it.”

Before Hound could push me in the chair he pulled out, Jagger was there, slinging his arm around the shoulders Hound’s arm just vacated.