Own the Wind (Chaos, #1)(72)

“I’ll pump gas, change your oil, get groceries, take care of the garbage, and dump my clothes in the hamper. Mind, I also do most of the cookin’,” he reminded me. “That’s what you got. You nag or bust my balls, I can dump my clothes wherever the f*ck I want at my place or the Compound, and I won’t have a woman gettin’ up in my face about it.”

Was he serious?

“Are you threatening me with leaving?” I asked.

“I’m sayin’, quit while you’re ahead,” he returned.

“So you’re threatening me with leaving,” I surmised.

“I’m sayin’, you want me here, you are in the know about the kind of man you picked. I laid it out. It’s the way it is. If you don’t like the way it is, I can make alternate arrangements.”

“Therefore threatening to leave,” I finished for him.

“You either want me like I am, babe, or yeah, I can find a place where I don’t have hassle.”

“Which, just for your information, Shy, would mean me having a home without the additional hassle of cleaning up after two people and doing two people’s laundry.”

“Yeah, sugar, you’d also go to bed alone with no one to eat your *,” he retorted.

Since that nearly made my head explode, I decided, because he wouldn’t clean it up if brain and skull fragments were splattered all over the living room, I should extricate myself from the conversation pronto.

This I did, grabbing the handles of the hamper, storming off, slamming the bedroom door behind me, making a lot of noise when I put away the clothes then locking myself in the bathroom with my phone.

Of course, I hefted my behind up on the vanity, called Ty-Ty and shared with her, at length, about Shy and my fight.

This conversation didn’t go much better.

“Tabby, honey,” she started, using a cautious tone that made me brace, “your father has not vacuumed a floor in the years we’ve been together. To be honest, I haven’t even asked. Kane Allen is not a man who vacuums floors.”

“Well, I’m not you and Shy’s not Dad and I didn’t ask him to vacuum floors. We were negotiating and he cut me off before things were balanced and that’s uncool,” I fired back.

“No, you are not me, but Shy is Tack but younger, and I know this isn’t what you want to hear but he’s also not wrong. You’ve lived your whole life with your dad and his brothers, honey, so you also know it.”

This sucked but it was true.

“Love you, Tabby,” she went on quietly. “And I’ll listen to anything you want to share with me. I’ll also have a mind to not oversharing with you. What I will say is, there are a variety of ways your father makes putting up with all his extreme, uh… man-ness worth it. You need to hang in there and see if Shy makes it worth it.”

I got her though I kinda blocked out some of the parts I got.

She was right, of course. Shy already made it worth it, of course. But I was too stubborn to admit defeat (yet), of course.

I rang off with Ty-Ty, called Natalie (again), got no answer (again), and avoided Shy by hanging out in the bedroom until bedtime.

Or, I should say, I avoided Shy until Shy was done with me avoiding him.

I knew he was done, because he made this clear by walking in the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth. His hands at my hips, he turned me, lifted me, planted my behind on the vanity, pulled the toothbrush out of my hand, and tossed it into the sink.

Then he leaned into me, hands on the counter on either side of me, and ordered, “Stop bein’ pissed. You know you don’t give a f*ck if I vacuum the f*ckin’ floors.”

Truthfully, I didn’t. Rush used to vacuum until I made him stop because he sucked at it. It wasn’t like I didn’t know this was his ploy. It was just that it wasn’t worth the headache of calling him on it when I could just vacuum and be done with it. And I discovered it wasn’t worth the headache because I’d spent years getting a headache calling him on it before I got smart, gave up, and just did it myself.

At that moment, however, I had a mouth full of toothpaste foam and face to save.

Priorities, I twisted, spit the foam in the sink, reached and grabbed the hand towel, wiped my mouth and tossed the towel on the counter.

Then I glared at him and shared, “Just so you know, there’s really only one kind of biker. He might share his feelings, he might not. He might f*ck around on his woman, he might not. He might carouse a wee bit more than is healthy, he might not. But down deep, a biker is a biker and I know you’re a biker.”

“All right, and…?” he prompted when I shut up and didn’t keep going so I kept going.

“There’s only one kind of biker, Shy, but there are three kinds of old ladies. One lets her man walk all over her. One turns into a bitch like Mom or Mitzi. And one is like Tyra, who gives but also expects to get her take. I’m like Tyra. I’m not Tyra, but you should know, I’ve considered the options and chosen that biker-babe life plan. You don’t wanna vacuum, I’m not gonna make you. But don’t cut me off by making * remarks because you’ve decided the conversation is over. Respect me or, truthfully, I love you, you know it, you mean the world to me, but that will dig deep, fester, and there will come a time when I don’t mind your clothes are on the floor at the Compound.”