Wild Like the Wind (Page 44)

And ride free.

Enforcer

Keely

Present day . . .

I stood outside Hound’s door and checked my phone again.

Three texts from me.

On my way.

Downstairs, honey.

I’m here. Everything okay?

None of them answered.

I’d gone up, even knowing he’d be pissed at me, and knocked on his door.

No sound inside. No sense of movement.

I went to Jean’s door, knocked and got the same thing.

This did not give me a good feeling because his bike was outside and so was his truck, and at this time he might not be at his place, but he would be at Jean’s.

I thought about texting Boz, finding out if for some scary-ass reason Hound needed his car for Jean, and because I was at work didn’t bother me.

Or because whatever had happened with him last night, shit was not good between us.

I wasn’t an idiot. I knew he was reacting to me being at Black’s name on his body.

But he didn’t give me a chance to finish what I was doing.

He then didn’t give me a chance to explain.

And he got so freaky cold and remote, I panicked, froze, didn’t push it.

But he didn’t lose his mind, kick me out of his bed, shout at me.

He held me tucked close. He let me lace my fingers in his.

He might have been distant and weird that morning but he’d kissed me at my car and watched me drive away like normal.

So I told myself it would be okay. I told myself maybe he understood what I was doing with his tats. I told myself maybe he was getting there too. Where I’d been guiding him. Where I needed him to be to take on the brotherhood so I could have him, he could have me, we could have Chaos and it would all be what it should be.

He was pushing back. I knew he felt he was betraying Black. I knew he felt that digging down deep. I knew it was on his mind his brothers would lose theirs if they knew what was happening, what we both wanted, how far it’d gone and how fast, and how, in the end, it needed to be.

Hound and Keely.

That was what needed to be.

The end of Black and Keely was years ago.

It wasn’t just me who had to learn that, and once I did and where I intended to go, I knew I had a long row to hoe ahead of me.

So before that, we needed to be solid. We needed to be a unit. We needed to be a team.

And that was what I set about doing.

He wasn’t making it easy. But I’d been ready for that and I intended to do whatever I had to do to see it through.

Unlike Hound, I was not worried about my boys. Dutch, I knew, remembered his daddy and missed him even if he’d lost him young.

Still, the only father he truly ever had was Hound. He felt that. He’d understand. And if I had to guess, my guess would be that he’d not only not be shocked Hound and I got together, he’d be super fucking happy.

Jagger was, sadly (all my fault, but I didn’t feel too badly about it), a momma’s boy. He was still a badass-in-the-making, what with Graham’s blood and Hound’s and Chaos’s upbringing.

But he loved Hound as the only father he ever knew.

He might have issues with it at first, but he’d come around.

It was Chaos that would be the toughest nut to crack.

They owed me and they’d paid in the ways they thought meant something.

But this was the way I wanted.

This was the something that meant everything to me.

And not only for that they were going to give it to me.

But for Hound who’d given his very soul to that Club.

That was the most important reason they were going to give this to me.

Because they were going to give it to him.

Before I tried Boz and maybe opened the lid on something, making Boz curious as to why I’d ask or why Hound had borrowed his car, first I tried the doorknob.

I didn’t expect it would open. Now that he had the stuff I’d picked for him, Hound locked his door even when he came down to get me in my car.

But the minimal pressure I put on the door expecting it not to open, opened it.

I stared at it, cold invading my veins.

He’d never leave his door open, not if he wasn’t in there.

And if he was in there, he’d answer when I knocked.

If he was in there, he’d have come down and gotten me.

As terrible thoughts rushed through my brain, I didn’t think.

I pushed open the door and walked into the dark room.

I saw him immediately, on his sectional, facing the door, feet up on the coffee table I’d picked out for him, sitting casually in the dark.

Was he sitting?

Or was he something else?

I had to go with sitting.

So why was he sitting silent, alone in the dark and not even calling out when I knocked on his door?

“Hound?” I called carefully, a frog in my throat.

“Right,” his deep voice sounded, cracking through the room like a thunderclap. “Our talk.”

I stood still in his open door.

“You played with my dick,” he stated, matter of fact, like he was reading out instructions for something. “You got your orgasms. You rode that wild wind, Keely. You did that last real good every time you did that on me. Gratitude for that. Now we’re done.”

Oh God.

He totally, totally did not read what I’d been doing with his tat.

“Shep—”

“Call me that again, I’ll rip your throat out,” he growled.

I went solid as the marble of my dead husband’s gravestone.

“Now turn that ass around and get the fuck outta my space,” he ordered. “And if that’s not clear, Keely, that means now and don’t come back. You want your checks, use another brother. You’re done usin’ me.”

Oh yeah.

Fuck yeah.

He totally did not read what I’d been doing with his tat.

“Using you?” I forced out past a closed throat.

“To get your biker bang,” he explained.

“That’s not what it was,” I said quickly.

“Bullshit,” he clipped out, and before I could say more, the shadow of him leaned slightly forward and he kept biting. “Now I’ll say it only once more. Get the fuck out.”

“Hound—”

He took his feet, fast as a blink, and I put a boot back in preparation to flee when he roared, “Get the fuck out!”

It hit me then, panic coursing through my system, barbed, tearing away at the insides of me.

It was past six.

But it wasn’t past eight.

“Why aren’t you over at Jean’s?” I asked.

“Get out,” he growled, his tone, as impossible as it was to believe, deteriorating.

That panic started scoring away huge chunks of me.

“Why aren’t you over at Jean’s?” I repeated.

“There’s no winning this, bitch. You played your hand. You earned your loot. The pot’s dry. Time to cut and run.”

“I—”

“Woman, I do not have the patience for this.”

He might not.

But I couldn’t give up.

Not now.

Especially not now.

Why wasn’t he over at Jean’s?

“I think there’s a lot we need to talk about,” I told him.

“Time when you can talk me into dick so you can play with mine is done, Keely.”

“Really, Hound, honest to God, there are things to say. Starting with why you aren’t over at Jean’s.”

That was when he came at me.

And the manner in which he did, the feel roiling off him and thundering into me, I wanted to do what he said.