Own the Wind

Chapter Three

It Was Family

The bell at my door rang. I jumped and foil wrappers went flying.

I saw blue screen on my TV and stared at it fuzzily for a second before I grabbed my remote, hit Off, and the screen went blank. My eyes went to the DVD player and I saw it was just coming on nine in the morning.

The bell sounded again, and I turned my head to look at the door.

“Who could that be?” I muttered, straightening from the couch amid a fall of silver, gold, red, and green.

It wasn’t quite nine, and I grew up Chaos. This meant I knew that my people didn’t often see that hour and definitely not after a hog roast. Not even if they got a wild hair with being worried about me and popped by, which happened more than occasionally lately.

I moved to the door, rolled up on my toes, and looked out the peephole.

Then I stopped breathing.

Shy was out there, his head tipped down looking at his boots, but even with head tipped down, face mostly obscured, he still looked hot.

Crap!

Now what did I do?

As I stared out the peephole, his head came up, his brows drawn, and he looked at the door. I was a little surprised he didn’t look pissed or impatient. Instead, he looked a little perplexed and a little concerned.

He lifted his hand and no bell this time, he knocked. Loud.

Oh God.

What did I do?

Before my mind figured it out, my feet took me running toward my hall, then they shifted me and sent me back to the door while my mouth shouted, “Coming!”

Okay, I didn’t know what to do but my feet and mouth did, and apparently that was acting like a dork.

I hit the door, unlocked the locks, threw it open, and standing there was all the hotness that was Parker “Shy” Cage.

My belly flipped.

Crap.

“What are you doin’—?” I started but didn’t finish.

I didn’t finish because his hand snaked out, hooked me at the back of my head, and yanked me forward into a forced face plant to his chest. The instant I was there, his other arm wrapped around my waist, he shuffled us in and kicked the door closed with his boot.

Then I felt his lips hit my hair and I went completely still.

I did this because my dad put his lips to my hair when he was holding me close and talking to me.

I liked it. I always liked it.

But this, with Shy, I loved it.

“Cherry said you felt shit, sugar. You feelin’ better?” he asked into my hair.

“Um… yeah,” I mumbled into his chest, seeing as this was my only choice since my face was smushed there.

His lips left my hair but he didn’t back away when he remarked, “Uh, Tab, just sayin’. You feel shit, eatin’ a mountain of three-month-old Christmas candy might not be the way to go.”

Obviously he spied my fall of candy wrappers.

He was also being funny but I didn’t laugh, though I did smile into his chest.

His hand at the back of my head slipped down to my neck. I pulled my face out of his tee and looked up at him.

Yes, concern, hotness… no, more accurately extreme hotness. That was it.

“You aren’t pissed at me?”

Yep. That was what came right out of my mouth.

His brows drew together. “Pissed at you?”

He seemed perplexed and I wondered, if he was confused about why he should be pissed, if I should enlighten him.

As was often the case with me, my mouth decided before my brain did and it started blathering.

“For not, um… when you were so cool with me that night, me not calling to say thanks for being so cool, which was uncool.”

His face relaxed, his startling green eyes grew warm and he replied quietly, “Baby, bein’ your safe harbor doesn’t come with me gettin’ pissed when you gotta do what you gotta do when you gotta do it. It also doesn’t come with me expecting you to explain why you did what you had to do. Bein’ your safe harbor means lettin’ you do what you gotta do when you gotta do it and not gettin’ pissed.”

That was a good answer.

And cool.

And sweet.

Crap.

He gave me a squeeze, let me go, then moved around me, sauntering with his long, lanky, loose-limbed, biker badass grace toward my couch, saying, “You’re feelin’ better, I’ll make you breakfast.”

I wasn’t listening, and this was mostly because I was engaged in watching him moving, bending, and scooping up Christmas candy wrappers, balling them into his fist. As I was occupied with this, I also was wondering how he could be all long, lanky, loose-limbed, biker badass while cleaning up Christmas candy wrappers. Further, as I always did around Shy even when I was holding my grudge, I was thinking he was all kinds of handsome. Thick, dark, overlong hair. Strong jaw that was so cut, it jutted out a bit at the hinges. Those green eyes. The Chaos tats on the insides of his forearms. The small silver medallions hanging from thin, black leather cords around his neck. The flat, black leather straps around his wrists that had thick, silver bands punched with insignias. The chunky silver rings on his fingers.

Amazing.

He turned to me, “Tab, honey, you want breakfast?”

I came to with a start and looked up at him. “Breakfast?’

“Yeah, breakfast. You’re feelin’ better, I’ll make you some.”

“I don’t have any food in the house,” I told him, and his brows went up.

“You don’t have any food in the house?”

“Well,” I did a quick mental inventory, figured he wouldn’t want tuna or ranch-style beans for breakfast then suggested, “We could have Pop-Tarts.”

His lips twitched and he shook his head. “Not sure Pop-Tarts are good sittin’ on mountain of Christmas candy. I’ll take you out.”

My belly flipped again.

He’d take me out?

For breakfast?

“Pardon?” I asked.

He tossed the ball of foil on my coffee table, it bounced off the other side, went rolling across the floor, and stopped a few feet in front of the TV.

“I’ll take you out for breakfast,” he mostly repeated.

My eyes left the ball of foil and shot to him.

“Uh…” I started then found, for once, my mouth couldn’t go on.

“Tab, babe.” He came at me. “Get a move on. Once you get dressed, we’ll go.” He made it to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to the mouth of the hall.

He stopped us there and I looked up at him, still frozen.

“Get,” he ordered softly. “Breakfast.”

Then he put a hand in the small of my back and gave me a gentle push.

Seeing as he pushed me, however gently, and my body’s momentum was taking me down the hall, I “got” and scurried to my bedroom wondering if I could have breakfast with Shy or even if I should.

But the fact of the matter was, he’d shown at my house after I hadn’t talked to him in six weeks, and he wasn’t pissed or in my face. He was concerned and wanted to take me out for breakfast.

So I hit the shower thinking I not only could do this, I should.

He’d faced our history straight on, guided us around it, and obviously, with the way he was being now, he intended to keep us firmly on that path.

And Tyra was right. He was Chaos, a brother, family. He’d done what any of the brothers would do that night, looking out for me.

Yeah, I definitely should do this.

Forty-five minutes later, I decided not only that I shouldn’t but I couldn’t.

This was because, even though I gave my legs a close shave last night while getting ready for the hog roast, I did it again.

I also couldn’t because I pulled out my favorite Harley tee. One that was buried in a drawer. One that I hadn’t worn in years. One that fit great and since it was tight at my breasts that made it even better.

And further because I had on faded jeans, a fabulous riveted belt, and high-heeled boots, and I’d fluffed my hair out and spritzed it with that stuff that made it look all beachy and cool. I’d also put on makeup even though I didn’t intend to. I had put on a hint of makeup, just blush and mascara, but I decided on liner. Then decided liner looked stupid without eye shadow, so I put on eye shadow. After all this, I decided makeup didn’t look good without appropriate accessories, so I layered on the silver and now I was totally made up, done up and (mostly) tricked out.

Which was stupid (again).

And wrong.

And it meant I should not, could not, go to breakfast with Shy.

The problem was, he’d been waiting for forty-five minutes, and I knew from a lifetime of experience that bikers weren’t all that patient. To fix the damage, I’d need a new outfit and a face rubdown, and I didn’t have time to select a new outfit. That could take twenty minutes alone.

For that reason, I knew I had to do this.

He was being cool and sweet.

It was just breakfast.

So I walked out of my bedroom in order to do it.

I turned the corner at the end of the hall and saw Shy leaning into his arm at the bar, head bowed, hand scratching on a piece of paper.

My first thought was he was left-handed.

My second thought was that I found that extremely interesting.

My third thought was that Shy looked perfectly at ease in my kitchen, like he’d been there dozens of times before. Like he was comfortable there. Like he belonged there.

Crap.

My apartment was in a decent complex that was well taken care of. However, it was old, though not that old. It was also worn but not that worn. And the appliances weren’t great but they weren’t that bad.

It was as good a place as any to wait it out until my new life started. I wasn’t going to be there long (or so I thought), the rent was superaffordable, so why not?

That said, I moved in and made it mine with funky stuff I liked, and I had to admit I was comfortable there. It was small, cozy, took very little time to clean, and was close to the hospital and Chaos.

Jason lived in a three-bedroom town house that he bought for us to move in together when our lives started. The town house was not worn or old, and the appliances were awesome.

Jason had grown up in a suburb of Denver, and his parents and one of his sisters still lived there. He’d never had worn or old. Anytime something got too old or broke down, his father replaced it.

Jason hated my apartment. Not frequently but often enough to make his point, when we were cuddling on the couch watching TV or he was sitting on a stool at the bar watching me ruin dinner, he’d say something like, “Can’t wait until we can get you out of this pit.”

It wasn’t a pit. It was old and worn, but it wasn’t a pit.

Jason thought it was a pit.

Looking at Shy leaning into the counter, he didn’t look like he thought my place was a pit. He didn’t look like he thought anything except whatever he was scratching on the paper.

“We’ll go to Racine’s on my bike,” he muttered, not looking up. “Tug’s bringing your ride back later. When we get back, we’ll take it and get you to the store. I did an inventory and seriously, Tab, you need to stock up.”

That was when he lifted his head and looked at me. Two beats after his eyes hit my face, they moved over my hair before they went down then they went back up. They did this slowly with a certain look in them that made my belly flip again.

On the way back up, I saw a muscle jump in his jaw.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t do this.

His eyes were on another downward run, caught around the area of my breasts when I forced out: “Racine’s?”

His eyes changed direction and came to mine. He pushed away from the counter, pulled the top paper off the pad and, shoving it in his back pocket, he said, “Yeah, Racine’s. Ready?”

It hit me then he said he was taking me to Racine’s on his bike.

I liked this.

First, Racine’s was awesome, especially for breakfast.

Second, he was taking me on his bike.

I had to admit, as much as it killed, that was something I had missed with Jason.

Bikes.

I loved riding on the back of a bike, always did. Loved the growl of Harley pipes. I loved even looking at them.

Jason didn’t do bikes, and as our wedding drew nearer, I’d begun to plot how I was going to talk him around to getting one.

I hadn’t held high hopes for my plotting.

This was because he’d once declared, though gently, “I know that was your life, sweetheart, how you grew up. It’s just not my thing and, no offense to your family, it also isn’t real safe.”

Well, he was in a car when he died, so apparently they weren’t real safe either.

“Tab, babe, you ready?” Shy asked, and I looked at him. He’d come closer during my minitrance, but he took one look at my face, dipped his close and asked quietly, “Hey, you okay?”

I sucked in breath, nodded, and answered, “I will be when I’m on the back of your bike.”

His eyes moved over my face, then his lips turned up, and, finally, he caught my hand and moved me to the door.

He held my hand as we moved to his bike. He climbed on. I climbed on. His Dyna Glide roared to life, and I found I was right.

I was okay now that I was on the back of his bike.

I was even better when the wind was rushing through my hair, my front tight to his back, my arms around him, feeling the same things I felt when he came and got me out of trouble six weeks before.

Free.

Right.

I didn’t let my mind go to how free and right I felt or why. I just let myself feel it, let the wind whip away my worries, let the pipes drown out anything in my head. I held on and enjoyed the ride.

We got to Racine’s all too soon. Shy parked, I swung a leg over, he swung a leg over, and he grabbed my hand. He held it as we walked to the restaurant, and he kept hold of it as we were shown to our table. He only let me go when we were seated.

We got our coffee and ordered before Shy spoke.

“So what was it?” he asked.

I put my coffee cup down on the table and asked back, “What was what?”

“You feelin’ shit,” he said. “Headache, flu, what?”

I looked him in the eye and decided on honesty.

“It was nothing. Tyra made excuses. I just didn’t feel up to a hog roast and I didn’t feel up to anyone poking and prodding about why I wasn’t up for a hog roast. So I stayed home.”

He held my eyes a beat before he said softly, “That’s cool.”

It was cool he thought that was cool.

He was just plain cool.

And sweet.

Him being so cool and sweet, I decided it was time so I went for it.

“Now that I’ve got you, I just wanted to say, belatedly, thank you for dropping everything and coming to get me that night. You… I… well, I needed that night to go a certain way, it was going the wrong way, and you were there for me. I… everyone… well, I needed to get drunk and play pool and sing songs from musicals and you made that safe for me. It was what I needed, and ever since you gave it to me, I’ve wanted to say thank you and now… well, now I can. So thank you.”

There.

Good.

I’d finally gotten the chance to say what I needed to say, and although I mostly stammered, I still said it and I was glad I did.

Shy took a sip of his coffee, put his mug down on the table, sat back, looked at me, and commenced with rocking my world.

“Pleased I could give that to you, Tabby. It’s what you need, it’s what I’m here to give you. Know that. Wish I had someone to give me somethin’ like that when my parents were murdered, so I’m glad I can give it to you.”

Luckily I wasn’t taking a sip of coffee or I would not only have spit it on him but I also would have choked on it.

“Pardon?” I whispered and his head jerked slightly but his eyes grew sharp on me.

“You didn’t know?” he asked.

Heck no, I didn’t know.

“No, I didn’t know,” I answered out loud.

He looked to the side and muttered, “The brothers didn’t share.”

The brothers certainly did not share.

I didn’t express this, I stayed silent.

Shy didn’t.

He told me his heart-wrenching story.

“New Year’s Eve, I was twelve. My brother and me were at the babysitter’s spending the night there ’cause my parents were goin’ out. Mom was home gettin’ ready. Dad was at the liquor store pickin’ up a bottle of champagne. Guy came in to rob the store, popped the clerk, popped my dad. Took the cash from the register, the clerk’s wallet, Dad’s wallet and keys, and he took off in Dad’s car. Don’t know for sure but I figure no one’s luck is that fucked up so I also figure that means some other random motherfucker didn’t do my mom. In other words, it stands to reason the same guy used Dad’s license to find our house, his key to get in. He got in, popped Mom, took everything he could shove into our car, and took off. Cops got a lock on the shit he pawned a few days later. Found our car three weeks later two states away. Never found him.”

My breathing was shallow when he was done but I forced through it, “God, Shy. God. I didn’t know. That sucks, huge, so huge it’s impossible to measure how huge that sucks, it’s that huge.”

He grinned.

Yes, I said grinned.

Through his grin, he noted, “That about covers it, sugar.”

I ignored the grin that I knew, from experience, hid his pain and blathered, “What… I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, uh… you don’t have to tell me but what happened after? To you and your brother.”

He leaned further back in his chair, shifting his hips so his legs were out to the side. He stretched them, crossed them at the ankles, casual, cool, like this could be any conversation.

“Mom and Dad, Lan, my brother, and me were tight. Dad was cool, there but not in your face, Mom was awesome. You’re right, fuckin’ sucked huge they were gone and, after, Dad’s brother took us in. He was cool, a lot like Dad. My brother and I liked him. We didn’t understand until later there were a lot of things about him not like Dad.”

This, I thought, wasn’t a good beginning.

Shy kept talking and I found I was right.

“My aunt was not cool. Dad hated her. Mom detested her. Said straight out in front of Lan and me she was a bitch. My aunt hated us bein’ there, and she didn’t have a problem lettin’ us know. Doted on her two pieces-of-shit brats, acted like Lan and I stole the last slice of bread the family’d ever have and pissed on it.” He tipped his head to me. “Your mom, seen her around, Tab, before Tack stopped takin’ her shit. She’s a total bitch. My aunt makes your mom look like mother of the year. She was relentless. She had enough venom for a thousand snakes and she was not afraid to strike.”

“That sucks too,” I noted then finished, “Also huge.”

He grinned again and that grin, as well as the first one, in the face of our subject matter made me all kinds of uneasy. “You’re right about that too, babe.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I told him, and I didn’t. I mean, I really wanted to say something, I just didn’t know what that was.

He sat up in his chair, put his legs under the table, and leaned into me, all the while his eyes locked on mine.

“Nothin’ to say, Tabby. Life was shit. Lost my family, years later, found a new family. Then life wasn’t shit anymore.”

He was talking about his life but his point was clear.

My life was shit. I lost Jason. But someday, life wouldn’t be shit anymore.

He was right, and so was Tyra.

Losing Jason at all, much less at his age and three weeks before our wedding, sucked huge. So huge it was impossible to measure.

But time would pass and, if I was lucky, life wouldn’t suck anymore.

To express the epiphany he’d led me to, I whispered, “Right.”

“Right,” he whispered back.

Our food arrived.

It was time to eat and get out of the heavy, and I knew Shy agreed, because he tucked right in, so I did too.

I was forking into my eggs when it hit me.

I should never have had second thoughts about coming out with Shy because Shy was Chaos. I was Chaos. And Chaos was family.

So being out with Shy was right, because he was family.

“Thanks for draggin’ my ass out to breakfast, Shy Cage,” I muttered to my eggs then shoved some into my mouth.

“Pleased you hauled your ass out to come with me, Tabitha Allen,” Shy muttered back. I lifted my gaze to his and I saw his unbelievable green eyes warm and smiling at me.

I chewed, swallowed, and informed him, “Just that, I hope you know, you’re getting the check.”

Shy burst out laughing.

It sounded beautiful.

Good.

Right.

And again, I was right, this was right, this was good.

It was family.