Wild Wind: A Chaos Novella (Chaos #6.6)(88)

She brought it to her and opened it, palm up.

Jag didn’t pull away or make any attempt to hide what he knew someone else had shared with her.

He’d grown up with this. His family was huge, and his friends were his family. Therefore, it was practically impossible to have anything to yourself.

Not that he’d hide what was in his palm.

A new-ish tat.

The infinity symbol.

One continuous stroke that said The girl across the way as well as The guy across the way.

He had another new tattoo, it was even smaller, and it was in a place that she couldn’t right then see.

A small A. had been added at the beginning of the tat on his chest.

His mom pressed the pad of her thumb to the side of the still-healing mark.

She then lifted her gaze to him and said softly, “I’m so glad I raised a son who would buy his girl a kickass truck.”

“Ma,” he whispered, reading her vibe.

She glanced over her shoulder at Dutch then back to Jag. “And I’m even more glad I raised two sons with exceptionally good taste.”

He already knew his mom dug Arch.

But this…

Jagger swallowed.

Keely let him go abruptly and turned back to where she’d been standing at the counter.

Jag looked to Dutch whose long body was still sprawled at the table, but the feel of him was no longer “Hanging at Ma’s.”

It was “Keeping an Eye on Ma.”

Feeling Jag’s attention, Dutch shifted his to his brother.

They shared a look they’d shared often over the years, and this look happened anytime they felt they needed to keep their eye on their ma.

“When we moved, I found this,” their mother told the counter, and both men’s focus returned to her. “I honestly didn’t remember it existed until we moved. He’d made them so often, he didn’t need it anymore. It was in a cookbook I hadn’t opened in ages.”

She turned and was holding a piece of yellow-ruled paper.

“I’ve been holding on to it for the right time. Now is the right time. I made a copy, you get that,” she said that last part to Dutch. Then to Jag, “You get the original.”

“What is it?” Jagger asked.

“Your father’s recipe for peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes.”

Jagger reached out a hand because suddenly, he was reeling.

“Jag?”

On his tongue, he tasted butter and syrup and peanuts and chocolate.

And in his mind’s eye, misty and unclear, sitting at the table he was sitting at, a dark-haired man was smiling at him.

What was not misty and unclear was what was in that smile.

And what was in it was everything.

“Jag!”

He came back into his mother’s kitchen and saw Keely close, Dutch too, and Dutch had his fingers wrapped tight around the back of Jagger’s neck.

But he gave his attention to his ma.

“Dad made those for us,” he said.

“Every Sunday,” she replied quietly.

Every Sunday.

Dutch took his hand from his brother.

“And now, you can make them for your women, and when they arrive, for your babies,” she went on. “And I can promise you, your father would love that.”

They heard a crinkle noise and both men looked down to the paper Keely was still holding.

There were stains and some of the ink had run.

But in bold blue strokes, Graham Black had listed ingredients and measurements and minimal instructions to guide his way in making the Sunday morning pancakes he made his family.

And at the bottom there were some squiggly marks that looked like big blobs with some points.

“You were trying to draw hearts,” Keely said. “To tell your dad how much you loved his pancakes. That’s probably why he kept it when he didn’t need it anymore. Those hearts.”

Both men looked up, but her gaze was on Jagger.

“Me?” he asked, feeling his heart pound.

“Yeah,” she said then she turned to Dutch. “That’s why he gets it, honey. It’s him and his dad on that piece of paper. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, Ma,” Dutch replied. “Totally.”

Jag was staring down at the paper with his father’s writing and Jag’s “hearts.”

No one said anything for long beats.

Their mom moved them along.

“So, do you boys wanna make pancakes?” she asked.

“Yeah, Ma.”

Both Black Brothers said it in unison that time.

“Yeah,” Keely whispered.

Her eyes were bright.

Her hands came up and she cupped both their jaws.

Her smile was wobbly.

Then she let them go and ordered, “Dutch, honey, get the griddle. Jagger, baby, grab a bowl. Let’s get cracking.”

She shifted away.

The Black Brothers looked at each other.

Then, as they’d done time and again over the years, they moved to do as their mother told them.

And not long after, the three remaining Black OGs sat at the kitchen table and ate pancakes.

But the one who was missing still was there.

Like he always was.

And he always would be.





Some time later…