Kristen Ashley - Own the Wind

“Okay, this is the plan,” she declared. “I take your car and the cookies to the roast. I tell everyone you aren’t feeling great and ask one of the guys to bring your car back tomorrow. You take tonight to relax and reflect.” She grinned. “Or not reflect and just relax. Whatever you need. Then, in your time, when you’re ready, you find your way to connect with Shy and share gratitude. He’ll know by the cookies you didn’t forget.”

That sounded like a plan and, as usual, Tyra sorted me out.

“Thanks, Ty-Ty,” I said softly.

“Anytime, honey,” she replied softly then shifted to move off the bed, ordering, “Right. Cookies.”

I rolled off my side, got her my keys and the cookies, got her long hug at the door and locked it after she was gone.

I moved back to my room, changed into a nightie and my robe, washed the makeup off my face and went to the kitchen. I grabbed the leftover chocolate from Christmas that I had a lot of. Tyra went nuts with stockings at Christmas, and not just with Rider and Cut, who expected Santa to go bonkers, but also with me and my older brother, Rush, who were too old for Santa. It was three months old but I was going to eat it.

I took it to the couch, sorted out my Hitchcock marathon, and scared myself silly through Rebecca and Rear Window before falling asleep among a mountain of green, red, gold, and silver foil during The Birds.

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.”