Wild Like the Wind (Chaos #5)(96)

We’d obviously never had the conversation, but I didn’t have to have it with Hound to know where he fell on the scale of how deeply he hated Chew’s guts.

But even if that was in question, his reaction to me mentioning Chew would have told me the depths of his hatred rang the bell at the top with a very loud clang.

Hound straightened from his plate but did it turning his body toward me and putting his forearm and elbow on the table in a way that put him right in my space.

“Why’d you mention Chew?” he asked.

“Your phone call,” I answered.

“What about my phone call made you mention Chew?”

“You said the name Turnbull.”

Oh shit.

I could actually see the muscles in his neck, shoulders and chest getting tight, making him look like he was growing, expanding, filling the space physically and not just with his enraged vibe.

“Explain,” he gritted between his teeth.

“It was … I …” I began.

And then I remembered why he wouldn’t remember.

It was also dawning on me just how important this was.

I leaned into him, cupping my hand over the top of his fist on the table and holding on tight.

“Do you remember when Crank was pulling that shit, wanting to show the world a different face of Chaos, pretend out there, but especially to the cops, that Chaos wasn’t what he was making you?” I asked.

“No,” he bit off.

No, he wouldn’t. Because, like most of the boys, he didn’t buy into Crank’s bullshit. He just ignored it.

“Well, he did. He signed the Club up to do some stuff at the schools with kids. Road safety. Awareness of your surroundings. How to deal if a stranger approached. The people at the schools thought it was great when bikers volunteered. Thought the kids would listen to bikers. But when it came down to actually doing it, mostly it was the old ladies getting tricked out in biker bitch gear and heading over. Except Black, Dog, Tack and Hop were all in. And …” I squeezed his hand. “Chew.”

“And?” he practically barked.

I nodded and continued swiftly. “I figured out why Chew came when I noticed him flirting and playing with some of the moms, especially the single ones. And he got tight with one. I know he took her out because Black and I saw them together at The Blue Bonnet. She had a little girl. Kind of a handful. Lots of attitude. Her name was—”

“Camilla.”

At the way he said that name, and the fact he knew it, I shut up.

Hound’s hand was gone from mine and his chair was scraping against the floor as he threw it back while rising from it, tagging his phone from the table.

I tipped my head back as he bent to me, pressed his lips to mine hard and pulled away saying, “Gotta go.”

“Chew’s back, isn’t he?” I worried. “And it’s not good.”

He grabbed me at the back of my head and got in my face.

“You do not worry,” he growled. “Now I gotta go.” He touched his mouth to mine and then muttered, “Love you.”

And with that, putting thumb to his phone and then his phone to his ear, he snatched his cut off the back of the chair closest to the door where he’d put it the night before, and he was gone.

“Okay,” I said, staring at the door. I took a deep breath and finished, “Shit.”



That evening, I was in my closet, making room and finding places to put Hound’s clothes, when he walked in.

His eyes went direct from me, to me hanging a pair of his jeans on a section of closet that was two bars, high and low.

There were several of these sections around. But the bar atop where I was putting his jeans held my stuff (as did all the other ones). The bar under it had ten pairs of faded jeans, a black, long-sleeved shirt with bib panel that was so hot I wanted to ask Hound to try it on for me, and four plaid flannel shirts all in the dizzying arrays of grays mixed with black, or black mixed with grays.

His attention came back to me.

“This is your section of the closet,” I shared, pointing at it. I moved to the space beside it, indicating a set of drawers, primarily the third one down. “Underwear, socks and wife beaters. The one under that, your tees.”

His now-expressive face changed but I quickly lifted a hand, palm out his way.

“Before you fuck me on the floor of the closet to thank me for putting your clothes away and what that means, first, bring the rest of them. Second, if you’re blowing off the apartment, there’s no reason to blow money paying rent there, so we’ll get the boys over here to get rid of the shit in the basement and move your new shit down there. That can be your biker sanctuary. Third, we will be talking about Jean, and soon, baby, because you’re worrying me. And last, Tad and Bev are coming over for dinner on Sunday night so one of us needs to text the boys to get their asses here.”

He didn’t move.

“I’m done,” I informed him. “So now you can fuck me.”

He studied me closely.

Very closely.

So closely, I got a little freaked.

But I understood why he did it when he began speaking.

“The man behind kidnapping Millie is a guy called Benito Valenzuela,” he declared.

I pulled in breath.

It was happening already.