Walk Through Fire (Chaos, #4)(13)

You could make instant friends with a look or instant enemies with the same.

But usually, it was friends. Although fights could (and did, regularly) break out, they never got (too) out of hand.

This was because everyone loved Wild Bill, so it was rare they disrespected him by doing something problematic that could mean the cops would show up.

In fact, in all the years since he’d been hosting the rally, which by now had to be at least thirty, the cops had only shown twice (that I knew of and even not going anymore, come early October, I paid attention to the news just in case).

The Trench was just a big, crazy party and it used to be every night for three nights Logan would guide me in and stick close to my side as we had the time of our lives until the undulations spat us out. Then we’d go back to Chaos, sit around the fire, shoot the breeze, drink, neck, and end up in our tent, where we’d f*ck.

It had been awesome.

And being there again after all those years, it occurred to me just how narrow my life had become.

There was a day I was up for anything and with Logan at my side, safe to do it.

So I did.

Now I didn’t.

I wandered away from the Chaos camp and edged the Trench, thinking I was glad that Logan hadn’t been with them. I didn’t want to make an approach with the guys around.

It wouldn’t be awkward, making that approach to Chaos. It would be dangerous. Not to my body, to my mental health.

I knew the guys who’d been around back then would know and feel the same way about me that Reb did. I figured the younger ones had heard the history, perhaps without names, but a whisper would tell them who I was and they wouldn’t be any more welcoming.

So it was find him elsewhere.

Which was good.

I scanned for Logan as I moved, skirting the edges of the Trench, careful not to get sucked in. As many good memories as I had in there, I couldn’t go in. Not without being three sheets, not without someone to take my back, and not in the clothes I was wearing.

I didn’t own biker chick attire anymore. I didn’t live in jeans and cutoffs and tees and tanks and halters. Dripping with silver. Wrapping kickass beaded headbands around my forehead or covering my hair in a bandana and being able to get away with it. Wearing a tee of Logan’s and belting it to make it a dress that was precariously close to showing ass cheek and not giving a damn.

I’d been all in. I’d embraced the biker life like I’d been born to it. I’d done it so thoroughly, at first my parents and Dottie were terrified, utterly, completely, so much they’d eventually broken down and shared it.

Then the weeks had passed into months and they got to know Logan.

Honestly it hadn’t taken him much time to win them around.

He loved me. Was besotted with me. Treated me like porcelain. And he showed all that.

But it was more.

He was respectful. He didn’t curse around them, smoke or drink (too much), or maul me when they were near. He called Dad “sir” and Mom “Mrs. Cross” until she sat him down and begged him not to do it because, “You’re a part of our family now, Logan. It’s time to call me ‘Mom.’?”

In the beginning, they’d hated me with Logan.

In the end, they’d been devastated when I’d sent him away.

They didn’t understand. They’d both talked to me about it then, asking why I’d ever let go of a man who loved me that completely and wanted the things they wanted for me, a safe home, marriage, and a big family.

They didn’t know.

Only Dottie knew.

Still, to this day, no one knew but Dottie.

And if I could find him, now Logan would know.

I just hoped I didn’t have to brave the Trench to find him.

I moved around the Trench, watching the revelers, taking in their attire, and thinking about how I wore different clothes back then. I was in jeans, boots, a sweater, and a leather jacket but my whole ensemble didn’t cost me fifty bucks because I’d scored kickass threads from some vintage shop or bought my tee at a concert or from a roaming vendor at a rally.

My ensemble cost over a thousand dollars (not including jewelry), and I might be among bikers, but they’d know it.

So I kept to myself, scanning faces, peering into the outskirts of the Trench, weaving around bodies and bonfires and tents and bikes.

I was nervous, most definitely. But I’d had two and a half weeks of practicing what I was going to say. Not only that, but also practicing how I was going to get Logan to listen to me.

I had the words down pat.

So I had that part covered.

What wasn’t covered was the fact that I had no idea what his reaction would be (or what my reaction would be to his reaction, though, I’d run a few of those around in my head as well, about seven thousand of them).

I just hoped that when it was done, when I’d explained, some of the scars would heal. At least enough that I could move on. Know he understood and finally—way too late but not never—close the book on that chapter of my life, give Logan that closure, and let us both go forward without that wound damaging our souls.

On a mission, I kept looking and did it for hours. Sometimes finding a safe spot to stop and watch just in case being on the move was why I was missing him. I even hung close to Wild Bill’s kitchen, thinking Logan might come to get a brat or a paper basket of late-night, drunken-eating gravy fries (Wild Bill’s specialty).