But no Tack.
And no Logan.
This meant I had to go in search of him.
This was a daunting prospect. The rally had grown over the years. It appeared triple the size it used to be. And I knew by some of the flags flying or pinned to the sides of RVs that the clubs there were not just from around Colorado but from other states as well.
Wild Bill was likely raking it in.
But I had all weekend. Wild Bill opened it up for setup Thursday at noon with the rally officially beginning with a concert on Friday evening.
It was now Friday night, nearly ten o’clock, when all the brothers should have arrived and started kicking back and letting loose.
However, watching them around the campfire, although there were beer bottles, smoking of two kinds, whisky being passed around, this was not the Chaos letting loose I’d been used to way back when.
Chiefly, there wasn’t a single outsider approaching them to buy weed.
On this thought, I moved away knowing from the prime location of their camp that they’d either sent a recruit in the early hours Thursday morning to camp out on the road and then move in to stake claim to their space or the recruit had actually camped out by the side of the road Wednesday night to do it.
And their spot was prime. They were far enough away from the music they could hear it but it didn’t drown out conversation and you could bed down and it not bother you much, or perhaps in those RVs it was drowned out completely. Also, they were on the other side from Wild Bill’s kitchen tent (which I’d noted when driving in was now four big tents), so the smells of cooking—no matter how good they were, they were also constant—didn’t permeate the air.
However, the Chaos camp wasn’t too far you couldn’t wander to what was known as the Trench.
The Trench was the area in the middle of the activity close to the stage where you went only if you didn’t know better, were too drunk to care, you were so badass you could handle whatever was thrown at you, or you had your man with you who was so badass he could take care of whatever was thrown at you.
I’d loved being in the Trench. It was heaving. It was out of control. It was loud and crazy. And to be in it, you had to let go, give in to the flow or you’d panic and be lost because you didn’t get out until the ripples of the Trench naturally spewed you out.
You could make instant friends with a look or instant enemies with the same.
But usually, it was friends. Although fights could (and did, regularly) break out, they never got (too) out of hand.
This was because everyone loved Wild Bill, so it was rare they disrespected him by doing something problematic that could mean the cops would show up.
In fact, in all the years since he’d been hosting the rally, which by now had to be at least thirty, the cops had only shown twice (that I knew of and even not going anymore, come early October, I paid attention to the news just in case).
The Trench was just a big, crazy party and it used to be every night for three nights Logan would guide me in and stick close to my side as we had the time of our lives until the undulations spat us out. Then we’d go back to Chaos, sit around the fire, shoot the breeze, drink, neck, and end up in our tent, where we’d fuck.
It had been awesome.
And being there again after all those years, it occurred to me just how narrow my life had become.
There was a day I was up for anything and with Logan at my side, safe to do it.
So I did.
Now I didn’t.
I wandered away from the Chaos camp and edged the Trench, thinking I was glad that Logan hadn’t been with them. I didn’t want to make an approach with the guys around.
It wouldn’t be awkward, making that approach to Chaos. It would be dangerous. Not to my body, to my mental health.
I knew the guys who’d been around back then would know and feel the same way about me that Reb did. I figured the younger ones had heard the history, perhaps without names, but a whisper would tell them who I was and they wouldn’t be any more welcoming.
So it was find him elsewhere.
Which was good.
I scanned for Logan as I moved, skirting the edges of the Trench, careful not to get sucked in. As many good memories as I had in there, I couldn’t go in. Not without being three sheets, not without someone to take my back, and not in the clothes I was wearing.
I didn’t own biker chick attire anymore. I didn’t live in jeans and cutoffs and tees and tanks and halters. Dripping with silver. Wrapping kickass beaded headbands around my forehead or covering my hair in a bandana and being able to get away with it. Wearing a tee of Logan’s and belting it to make it a dress that was precariously close to showing ass cheek and not giving a damn.
I’d been all in. I’d embraced the biker life like I’d been born to it. I’d done it so thoroughly, at first my parents and Dottie were terrified, utterly, completely, so much they’d eventually broken down and shared it.
Then the weeks had passed into months and they got to know Logan.
Honestly it hadn’t taken him much time to win them around.
He loved me. Was besotted with me. Treated me like porcelain. And he showed all that.
But it was more.
He was respectful. He didn’t curse around them, smoke or drink (too much), or maul me when they were near. He called Dad “sir” and Mom “Mrs. Cross” until she sat him down and begged him not to do it because, “You’re a part of our family now, Logan. It’s time to call me ‘Mom.’ ”
In the beginning, they’d hated me with Logan.