Kristen Ashley - Own the Wind

He didn’t say a word when her laughter turned to chuckles and continued his silence, his eyes on her.

When she caught him looking at her, she explained, “My cooking, hit and miss. Sometimes, it’s brilliant. Sometimes, it’s…” she grinned “… not. Baking is the same. I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. I don’t even have that”—she lifted up her fingers to do air quotation marks—“signature dish that comes out great every time. I don’t know what it is about me. Dad and Rush, even Tyra, they rock in the kitchen. Me, no.” She leaned in. “Totally no. So I was laughing because anyone who knows me would not think cookies from me would be a good deal for a bet. Truth is, they could be awesome but they could also seriously suck.”

“How ’bout I take my chances?” he suggested.

She shrugged, still grinning. “Your funeral.”

Her words made Shy tense, and the pink slid out of her cheeks, the life started seeping out of her eyes.

“Drink,” he ordered quickly.

“What?” she whispered, and he reached out and slid the tequila to her.

“Drink. Now. Suck it back, babe. Do it thinkin’ what you get if you win.”

She nodded, grabbed the bottle, took a slug, and dropped it to the bar with a crash, letting out a totally fucking cute “Ah” before she declared, “You change my oil.”

His brows shot up. “That’s it?”

“I need my oil changed and it costs, like, thirty dollars. I can buy a lot of stuff with thirty dollars. A lot of stuff I want. I don’t want oil. My car does but I don’t.”

“Tabby, sugar, your dad part-owns the most kick-ass garage this side of the Mississippi and most of the other side, and you’re paying for oil changes?”

Her eyes slid away and he knew why.

Fuck.

She was doing it to avoid him. Still.

Serious as shit, this had to stop.

So he was going to stop it.

“We play pool and we get drunk and we enjoy it, that’s our plan, so let’s get this shit out of the way,” he stated. Her eyes slid back to him and he said flat out, “I fucked up. It was huge. It was a long time ago but it marked you. You were right. I was a dick. I made assumptions, they were wrong and I acted on ’em and I shouldn’t have and that was more wrong. I wish you would have found the time to get in my face about it years ago so we could have had it out, but that’s done. When you did get in my face about it, I should have sorted my shit, found you, and apologized. I didn’t do that either. I’d like to know why you dialed my number tonight, but if you don’t wanna share that shit, that’s cool too. I’ll just say, babe, I’m glad you did. You need a safe place just to forget shit and escape, I’ll give it to you. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. That safe place is me, Tabby. But I don’t want that old shit haunting this. Ghosts haunt until you get rid of them. Let’s get rid of that fuckin’ ghost and move on so I can beat your ass at pool.”

As he spoke, he saw the tears pool in her eyes but he kept going, and when he stopped he didn’t move even though it nearly killed him. Not to touch her, even her hand. Not to give her something.

It killed.

Before he lost the fight to hold back, she whispered, “You are never gonna beat my ass at pool.”

That was when he grinned, leaned forward, and wrapped his hand around hers sitting on the bar.

“Get ready to have your ass kicked,” he said softly.

“Oil changes for a year,” she returned softly.

“You got it but cookies for a year,” he shot back.

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she replied.

He’d eat her cookies, they were brilliant or they sucked. If Tabitha Allen made it, he’d eat anything.

Shy didn’t share that.

He gave her hand a squeeze, nabbed the bottle, and took off down the bar toward the cues on the wall.

Tabby followed.

They were in the dark, in his bed, in his room in the Compound.

Shy was on his back, eyes to the ceiling.

Tabby was three feet away, on her side, her chin was tipped down.

She was obliterated.

Shy wasn’t even slightly drunk.

She’d won four games, he’d won five.

Cookies for a year.

Now, he was winning something else, because tequila didn’t make Tabitha Allen a happy drunk.

It made her a talkative one.

It also made her get past ugly history and trust him with absolutely everything that mattered right now in her world.

“DOA,” she whispered to the bed.

“I know, sugar,” he whispered to the ceiling.

“Where did you hear?” she asked.

“Walkin’ into the Compound, boys just heard and they were taking off.”

“You didn’t come to the hospital.”

He was surprised she’d noticed.

“No. I wasn’t your favorite person. Didn’t think I could help. Went up to Tack and Cherry’s, helped Sheila with the boys,” he told her.

“I know. Ty-Ty told me,” she surprised him again by saying. “That was cool of you to do. They’re a handful. Sheila tries but the only ones who can really handle them are Dad, Tyra, Rush, Big Petey, and me.”

Shy didn’t respond.

“So, uh… thanks,” she finished.

“No problem, honey.”

She fell silent and Shy gave her that.

She broke it.

“Tyra had to cancel all the wedding plans.”

“Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” she answered. “Second time she had to do that. That Elliott guy wasn’t dead when she had to do it for Lanie, but still. Two times. Two weddings. It isn’t worth it. All that planning. All that money…” she pulled in a shaky breath “… not worth it. I’m not doing it again. I’m never getting married.”

At that, Shy rolled to his side, reached out and found her hand lying on the bed.

He curled his hand around hers, held tight and advised, “Don’t say that, baby. You’re twenty-two years old. You got your whole life ahead of you.”

“So did he.”

Fuck, he couldn’t argue that.

He pulled their hands up the bed and shifted slightly closer before he said gently, “If he was in this room right now, sugar, right now, he wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want to hear you say that shit. Dig deep, Tabby. What would he want to hear you say?”

She was silent then he heard her breath hitch before she whispered, “I’d give anything…”

She trailed off and went quiet.

“Baby,” he whispered back.

Her hand jerked and her body slid across the bed to slam into his, her face in his throat, her arm winding around him tight, her voice so raw, it hurt to hear. His own throat was ragged just listening.

“I’d give anything for him to be in this room. Anything. I’d give my hair, and I like my hair. I’d give my car, and Dad fixed that car up for me. I love that car. I’d swim an ocean. I’d walk through arrows. I’d bleed for him to be here.”

She burrowed deeper into him and Shy took a deep breath, pressing closer, giving her his warmth. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tighter as she cried quietly, one hand holding his tight.

He said nothing but listened, eyes closed, heart burning, to the sounds of her grief.

Time slid by and her tears slowly stopped flowing.

Finally, she said softly, “I dreamed a dream.”

“What, sugar?”

“I dreamed a dream,” she repeated.

He tipped his head and put his lips to the top of her hair but he had no reply. He knew it sucked when dreams died. He’d been there. There were no words to say. Nothing made it better except time.

Then she shocked the shit out of him and started singing, her clear, alto voice wrapping around a song he’d never heard before, but its words were gutting, perfect for her, what she had to be feeling, sending that fire in his heart to his throat so high, he would swear he could taste it.

“Les Mis,” she whispered when she was done.

“What?”

“The musical. Les Misérables. Jason took me to go see it. It’s very sad.”

If that was a song from the show, it fucking had to be.

She pressed closer. “I dreamed a dream, Shy.”

“You’ll dream more dreams, baby.”

“I’ll never dream,” she whispered, her voice lost, tragic.

“We’ll get you to a dream, honey,” he promised, pulling her closer.

She pressed in, and he listened as her breath evened out, felt as her body slid into sleep, all the while thinking her hair smelled phenomenal.

Shy turned into her, trapping her little body under his and muttering, “We’ll get you to a dream.”

Tabby held his hand in her sleep.

Shy held her but didn’t sleep.

The sun kissed the sky and Shy’s eyes closed.

When he opened them, she was gone.

Waking Up in His Arms

Six weeks later…

The bell to my apartment rang and, standing in front of my mirror in the bathroom, I jumped.

Dad and Tyra were there to take me to the hog roast.

It was time, according to Dad, that I got back into life. I wasn’t so sure but Dad was, and when Dad was sure about something, well… you got yourself together and hauled yourself to a hog roast.

I stared at myself in the mirror, seeing my hair out to there, more makeup than I usually wore, a sweet long-sleeved Harley tee I bought just last weekend, the first I’d bought or worn in ages, faded jeans that fit great, and a fabulous belt. I couldn’t see them in the mirror but I also had on high, spike-heeled boots that I usually wore under smart skirts.