Wild Like the Wind (Chaos #5)(99)

“Yes, ma’am,” Jag said, lips twitching and also again moving to the front door.

“You think Aunt Bev is as whacked out as you right now?” Dutch asked.

I turned to the skillet to flip chicken. “I think your Aunt Bev is right now quaking in her boots.”

“Keekee,” Hound murmured, drifting his fingers across my shirt at the small of my back in a way that sent a shiver up my spine. “We’ve got this. For Bev.”

I caught his eyes over my shoulder, saw he was serious and finally relaxed.

I nodded. “Thanks, babe.”

Dutch nabbed another tender.

I looked to the ceiling.

“Uh, they’re here,” Jagger said, weirdly tentatively.

I turned to the door to the kitchen to see Jagger moving in, Bev moving in behind him, and then my mouth dropped open when Tad moved in.

Tad was not what most minds would conjure up when you were told of a man named Tad.

Tad had to be six foot four (at least) and I wasn’t sure Tad’s shoulders could fit through the doorway to my kitchen, and it was a double-wide door. Tad also had a thick shock of black hair with little flecks of gray in it that was flowing back from his forehead in a way that had to be styled at the same time it looked natural. His tree trunk legs were encased in faded jeans. His broad chest was covered in a vintage AC/DC T-shirt. And his face was the chiseled magnificence that occupied every breathing woman’s wet dreams.

I now understood why Bev didn’t care he had a little cock.

He also had incredibly long fingers on beautiful hands that he could be taught to use in amazing ways, but regardless, I could just look at him and have an orgasm.

“You might wanna shut your mouth, baby,” Hound whispered in my ear.

I started.

Then I shut my mouth.

“Seems he is a Saskatchewan,” Hound kept whispering.

I elbowed him in the side.

“Tad, right?” Dutch asked, moving forward, hand up. “I’m Dutch, Aunt Bev’s nephew-not-by-blood.”

“Dutch, nice t’meet you.” His rolling, silky, deep voice slithered through the room.

I bit back a moan.

Okay, all he would need to do was talk dirty to me.

“Tad,” he introduced, taking Dutch’s hand. “Probably figured I’m Beverly’s fiancé.”

“Yeah, man, happy for Aunt Bev, happy for you,” Dutch murmured, shaking his hand.

They broke off and his eyes came to me. “You must be Keely. Beverly talks a lot about you.”

He walked my way, hand up, and I was so mesmerized by his jade-green eyes, I didn’t put the tongs down at first. In the end, I transferred them to my left hand and felt my right engulfed in the strength of his.

Oh yes, he could be taught to use those hands.

“Yes, uh … Keely,” I murmured. “Really great to meet you, Tad.”

He gave me a movie star smile.

I bit my lip.

He let me go to turn to Hound. “And you’re Hound.”

“Hound. Shepherd,” Hound said, taking his offered hand. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, friend.”

“Right,” Tad said on a less megawatt smile, but even less megawatt and not aimed at me, I appreciated it.

“Hey, girl.” Bev moved into me.

I gave her a hug and whispered in her ear, “Why didn’t you tell me he was gorgeous?”

She shifted back but didn’t let me go and gave me a confused look. “I thought I did.”

Maybe she did. Maybe the penis size information just shoved it out.

“We gotta talk,” she said low.

I looked in her eyes.

Then I declared to the room. “I’m done with my boys stealing chicken so you’re all kicked out. Tad, sorry, you too. Shep, honey, get Tad a beer or …” I verbally stumbled. “Sorry, Tad, do you drink beer?”

Another movie star smile. “I drink beer, Keely.”

“Great,” I replied, then looked to Hound. “Pop one open for our guest, babe. And wrangle these boys out before I flour and fry the next hand that reaches for a tender.”

Hound shot me a grin, got Tad a beer, the boys grabbed theirs and they took off.

I watched until they disappeared into the living room, leaning back from the stove to do it, and when they were out of earshot, I whirled on Bev.

“He likes AC/DC?”

She again looked perplexed. “Keely, girl, he’s not a dud. He likes rock ’n’ roll. He likes beer. It’s not like he curses every other word but he doesn’t have a stick up his butt. He’s got a bike. Actually, he has two.”

I gave her another slow blink.

I’d thought he was a wimp.

That might also have to do with the penis size information, but probably more had to do with the insurance salesman information.

Well, it just went to show you, no matter which way you rushed to judgment—bikers shoved into stereotypes, biker babes shoved into stereotypes, insurance salesmen shoved into stereotypes, etcetera—you just shouldn’t.

“Neither are Harleys,” she shared. “One’s a BMW, and I know it’s practically blasphemy to say this, but it’s seriously hot. The other is an off-road Ducati. Before me, he was gone a lot on the weekends he didn’t have his kids because he was off-roading. He’s a total adrenaline junkie.”