He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Anywhere just as long as he got there on his bike.
“Shit to do,” he muttered and moved around the bar, eyes to his feet, mind centered on keeping his jaw relaxed, his hands unclenched.
He walked out the door, swung on his bike, and rolled out.
He didn’t hit Chaos again for three weeks.
*
Six months later…
Shy was moving across the forecourt toward the Compound in order to grab a shower and head out. His hands were filthy from grease. The car he’d been working on for the last three months was finally done.
Time to celebrate.
He moved into the Compound and felt the heaviness in the air immediately. Boys were moving out, faces alert, even alarmed, the vibe bad.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked Roscoe, who was shifting, like all the brothers, toward the door.
“Car accident,” Roscoe answered, stopping and catching his eye. “Tab’s fiancé.”
The force of that information knocked Shy so hard it was a wonder he didn’t fall to a knee.
The wedding was three weeks away.
Jesus. Tabby.
“What?” he whispered.
Roscoe shook his head. “Just got the news. She’s at Denver Health. He’s, brother, this shit is fuckin’ crazy, but the guy was DOA. Didn’t even make it to the hospital. Gone. Tack says Tab’s lost it. We’re movin’ out, takin her back, Tack’s back, seein’ if we can do anything.” His head tipped to the side. “Comin’?”
DOA.
Didn’t even make it to the hospital.
Gone.
Tab’s lost it.
Lost it.
“Anyone watchin’ the kids?” he forced out.
“Sheila’s headin’ up there.”
“I’ll go help her out,” Shy offered, turning, digging his greasy hand into his jeans for his keys.
“Help out Sheila with the kids?” Roscoe asked his back.
Shy didn’t answer. It was jacked, fucking lame, but it was doing something. Something away from Tabby.
She wouldn’t want to see him now.
She never wanted to see him.
But he had to do something.
He wasn’t her family.
But she was his.
*
Three days later…
Shy sat in his dark living room in his apartment, the first time he’d been there for months.
He was thinking and he was remembering.
Remembering for the first time in a long time that day when the news came.
Remembering that day when his life, at age fucking twelve, shifted and went from good, no great, to absolute shit.
Remembering the day years later when he found Chaos and he thought, finally, fucking finally, his life would no longer be shit and he was right.
And thinking that, six hours ago, probably wearing black, probably looking lifeless, just like she’d looked yesterday when he saw her walking out of the office with Cherry, Cherry’s arm around her holding her close, her head bobbing like she was agreeing to what Cherry was saying when he knew just by looking at her she didn’t hear a thing, Tabby stood in a cemetery and laid her man into the ground.
Her man was twenty-seven years old.
Shy’s age.
Shy lifted the bottle of vodka to his lips and took a deep pull.
He didn’t drop it before he took another one.
Own the Wind is available in eBook, paperback and audio.
About the Author
Kristen Ashley grew up in Brownsburg, Indiana but has lived in Denver, Colorado and the West Country of England. Thus she has been blessed to have friends and family around the globe. Her posse is loopy (to say the least) but loopy is good when you want to write.
Kristen was raised in a house with a large and multi-generational family. They lived on a very small farm in a small town in the heartland and existed amongst the strains of Glenn Miller, The Everly Brothers, REO Speedwagon and Whitesnake (and the wardrobes that matched).
Needless to say, growing up in a house full of music, clothes and love was a good way to grow up.
And as she keeps growing up, it keeps getting better.