Own the Wind (Chaos #1)(2)

The second his eyes hit that flag, he felt his life take shape.

Nothing, not anything in his life until that time, except the first time he took off on a bike, had spoken to him like that flag. He didn’t get why and he didn’t spend time trying. It just spoke to him. So strong, it pulled him straight into the parking lot and set his boots to walking into the store.

Within months, he was a recruit for Chaos.

Now, he was a brother.

Outside his apartment, he parked his bike and moved from it to his truck. If she was in a state, Tabitha Allen wouldn’t be able to hold on to him on a bike. If she was feeling sassy, which was usually the case, she’d put up a fight he couldn’t win with her on a bike. So he hauled his ass into his beat up, old, white Ford truck, started it up and took off in the direction of the address on the text Hop sent.

As he drove, that fire in his gut intensified.

She was in college now, supposedly studying to be a nurse. Cherry, the Office Manager at the garage who also happened to be Tack’s old lady and Tabby’s stepmother, bragged about her grades and how good she was doing in school. Shy had no clue how Tab could pull off good grades when she was out f**king around all the time. He couldn’t say one of the brothers got a Tabby Callout every night but it was far from infrequent.

The girl liked to party.

This wasn’t surprising. She was nineteen. When he was nineteen, he’d liked to party too. Fuck, he was twenty-four and he still liked to party in a way he knew he’d never quit.

But he wasn’t Tabby Allen.

He was a biker who worked in a garage and auto supply store, oftentimes raised hell and kicked ass when needed.

She was studying to be a freaking nurse with her dad footing that bill, so she needed to calm her ass down.

This didn’t even get into the fact that it wasn’t a new thing she liked to party and take a walk on the wild side. Three years ago, on his first Tabby Callout, she’d been sixteen and her twenty-three-year-old boyfriend had roughed her up because she wouldn’t put out. That was the situation where Cherry nearly got her head caved in with a baseball bat, and it happened right in front of Shy. It was a miracle of quick reflexes that didn’t end in disaster. Shy liked Cherry, everyone did, the woman was the shit; funny, pretty, sexy, smart, strong, and good for Tack in every way she could be.

If you could pick the perfect old lady, Tyra “Cherry” Allen would be it. She had sass but with class, dressed great, didn’t let Tack roll all over her but did it in a way she didn’t bust his balls. She was hilarious. She was sweet. She was a member of a biker family while still holding on to the woman she always was. And, honest to Christ, he’d never seen a man laugh and smile as often as Kane Allen. He had a good life, and it wasn’t lost on a single member of the Club that Cherry made it that way.

So, during Tabby’s first callout, it would have sucked if Cherry was made a vegetable or worse because of Tab’s shit. Not to mention, if Shy had to explain why he was at Cherry’s back, watching her head get caved in with a bat, instead of taking the lead and protecting her from that eventuality, Tack was so into his old lady it was highly likely Shy would no longer be breathing.

How the f**k Tabby hadn’t learned her lesson after that mess, he had no clue, and as he drove it came crystal that she needed to get one.

And he was so pissed, he decided he was going to be the one to give it to her.

Tonight.

Shy pulled up outside the house and he wasn’t surprised at what he saw.

He knew that scene, lived it until he found the brotherhood.

In high school and out of it, the other kids had attached him to the “stoner” crowd, the “hoods,” even though his affiliation with them was loose. He didn’t connect with anyone in high school or after it, not in any real way, but that didn’t mean he didn’t find an escape. A place to drink beer and find a bitch so he could get laid. So he’d been in many houses just like this with cars and bikes outside just like the ones he saw now.

He still lived that scene but it was better.

It was family.

He saw a couple of bikes parked outside the fully lit and heaving house, and they pissed him off even more than he was already pissed. The bikes were older, the kids inside didn’t have enough money for better, but still, they didn’t take care of them.

If you had a Harley, you took care of it. You treated it like a woman, lots of attention, lots of TLC. No excuses. If you didn’t do that, you didn’t deserve to own it.

There were also a couple of new souped-up muscle cars, which meant whoever owned them put every nickel into keeping up the cool.

But there were more junkers and classic cars, the latter in the middle of restoration, all of it loving. Whoever owned them was taking their time, doing it right, saving up and taking care of their baby before they moved onto the next project in line to make their Mustang, Nova, Charger, GTO, or whatever cherry.

Those cars meant that not everyone in that house was a loser.

At least that was something.

Shy angled out of the truck and moved toward the house. Once in, he shifted through the bodies, ignoring looks from the girls and chin lifts from the guys. He was on a mission and wanted it done.

It didn’t take long to find her. She was in the living room sitting on a couch, a cup of beer in her hand, her head turned away from him, her pretty profile transformed with laughter.