Wild Like the Wind (Page 78)

I kept staring at it, seeing it in my mind’s eye even after he closed the back door to the garage behind him.

In that moment, I didn’t have to think about it, dream something up.

In that moment, I just knew.

So, in that moment, I followed Hound’s steps, steps I’d taken time and again over the years, steps my sons had taken, steps their father had taken, steps Hound would take, and I walked to my house to get everything ready.

It was melodramatic.

I didn’t care.

It was totally over the top.

I didn’t care about that either.

It was cold as shit in my garage.

I didn’t even feel it.

I sat in my spandex pants with the crisscross laces that showed skin all the way up the sides of my legs, the tank I’d dug down deep in a drawer to find that was cut way low and laced together loosely at the tits, high-heeled black boots with a lot of buckles on them that I hadn’t worn in years, my purple bandana wrapped around my crown, tied in the back, my hair flowing out from under it.

I also wore Black’s cut.

I was vamped out, lots of makeup around my eyes, on my cheeks, tons of red lipstick.

All around Black’s bike was a circle of candles I’d lit, the only illumination to the space.

I had a bottle in my hand, primo tequila, the good shit, and around its neck was a ring of red from my lips.

I was astride Black’s bike.

“We didn’t have a lot of time,” I said to the tank. “But the time we had, we tore it up, baby.”

I bent over, pressed my red lips to that tank and did it hard.

Then I dismounted. I found the top, capped the bottle of tequila and set it aside. I took off the cut and folded it, arms in, Chaos patch up, and set it on the saddle. I reached into the pocket and pulled out the red bandana I’d stuffed there, wound it in a cord, tied it at the ends and set it on top of the cut.

I took off my own bandana and did the cord thing, but I tied that to a grip on the bike.

I’d already put the keys in the ignition.

I blew out the candles and kicked them to the back of the garage, getting wax all over my boots and all over the floor of the garage.

But I didn’t care.

I then grabbed the bottle of tequila and walked outside, then into the house, up the stairs, right to my bed where I had clothes spread out.

I took off my tank.

I took off my boots.

I took off my spandex pants.

I folded them all carefully and shoved the clothes with the boots in a bag of stuff ready for taking to Goodwill, the bag of stuff I’d dug through all my things while I was preparing for the ceremony and filled full with the Chaos Keely of yesteryear.

I went to the bathroom and cleaned off my makeup, scrubbed away my lipstick.

I walked back into the bedroom and put on my ripped, faded jeans.

I put on my socks.

I put on my cowboy boots.

And I tugged on my long-sleeved tee with a different ragged slit down the front that didn’t go very far or gape so wide it needed laces.

I pulled my long hair out of the back and then lifted it up to put on my choker.

I slid in some earrings.

I put on my blanket coat.

Then I grabbed the bottle of tequila, my purse, went out, nabbed one of the candles and got in my car.

I drove to the cemetery.

In the dark, I walked the oft-traveled path to Black’s grave.

I set the candle on the base of his gravestone and lit it.

I set the bottle of tequila next to it.

And I looked down at my man.

“I’m on an errand. I’ll be back for a longer visit. So now I gotta say I’ll see you later, baby. Love you,” I whispered.

I blew him a kiss, shot him a smile, turned right around and walked back to my car.

I got in and drove to Target.

Perusing my selections, I bought two new to replace the old.

One in the stars and stripes and one in navy.

I selected these because, on different occasions, I’d seen Hound wear the same of both (most often, the navy).

At the register, I didn’t accept a bag.

I just shoved the new bandanas in my purse.

When I cut the ignition of my car in my garage, I looked to the bike beside me with the patch stitched to leather sitting on it and pulled out my phone.

In a group text to my boys, I said, Did my goodbye thing with your dad. The cut and bike are in the garage, ready whenever you’re ready. All I ask is that you come together to get them and you work together to get your father’s bike running. I love you.

By the time I got upstairs, I had two return texts.

Love you, Ma. Forever. Always. Dutch.

Bottom of my soul, Ma. Jagger.

They were pains in the ass.

But Black and me made such good boys.

I put the glass of wine I’d poured myself on the nightstand, took my coat off, threw it and my purse on my sheepskin chair, took my phone to my bed and climbed in.

I bent my head to it.

Come home, baby.

Hound was home in ten minutes.

Black’s bike and cut were gone by the time I got home from work the next day.

Can’t Rein That Shit In

Keely

I was on my bed with my laptop searching through vacation destinations, because I was on Spring Break with nothing to show for it but spending hours going through Jean’s stuff, donating most of it and getting rid of the shit in our basement by donating all of that, none of this all that fun, even if I did it with Hound and the boys.

So the minute summer break hit, Hound and I were going somewhere awesome.

Therefore, I was on my bed when Hound walked in wearing jeans that I found confusing because I loved them so much, I wanted to take them off him. His feet were bare. His torso was covered in a skintight wife beater that did fabulous things for his wide chest and awesome tats, showing enough your mouth watered thus making you want to witness it all. The top of his hair was pulled back in a little ponytail at the back of his head, something I also found confusing because it made him look cool and badass at the same time I wanted to yank it out and bury my fingers in his hair.

He was also carrying a laundry hamper full of folded clothes toward the closet.

I’d put a load in the dryer what was apparently a little over an hour before.

Watching this, I was pretty sure my mouth had dropped open but I was too in shock to notice if that was actually the case.

Hound had been living with me now for three weeks. He was all in. His and Jean’s apartments (mostly) were all cleared out. We didn’t have a lot of time in but we had some time. He made us breakfast every morning. I made us dinner every night. We slept together, woke up together, touched base during the day, and in that time, I’d had occasion to do a load or seven of laundry.

Hound had said nothing but he was a dude. Dudes didn’t thank you for things like having clean jeans. They just thought clean jeans miraculously made their way from the floor to a hanger for them to grab.

But as I had this thought it occurred to me that Hound’s jeans didn’t even hit the floor. They hit the hamper. As did his shorts, socks and tees.

He was categorically a dude.

He was also categorically a biker.

Ditto with a badass.

And last, a bachelor for thirty-nine years.

He’d said to me (and he was being nasty because he was pissed but I figured there was a modicum of truth to it) that he got rid of women when they started dragging on him. The truth part of that was that I knew in all his years he had never gotten serious with a woman at all, much less lived with one.

This was probably because in all those years, he’d been in love with me.