Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC 17)

“Same!” Steer raises his hand.

“They’re not being noble, Shelby,” Hustler yells. “They just can’t find any ass at home.”

“Fuck off,” Rooster growls.

“You guys are terrible.” And Lordy, I hope that’s not the only reason why they’re sticking around.

My phone buzzes and I pick it up, quickly glancing at the message that pops up. “Oh look!” I nudge Rooster and show him Miranda’s text.

Miranda: You’ve been nominated for best video of the year at the Small Screen Music Awards.

“What is it?” Heidi asks.

Heat stings my cheeks. I don’t know why I feel embarrassed talking about this. It’s not like everyone hasn’t watched me up on stage night after night. “I’ve been nominated for a Small Screen Music Award.”

All the guys cheer and whistle, startling the birds and squirrels gathered around our tables.

“Nice job, Shelby!” someone yells.

“I remember watching those when I was a kid,” Steer says. “That’s cool as hell, Shelby.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, glancing down at my lap.

“Congratulations.” Rooster ducks down and brushes a kiss over my lips. “Proud of you.”

“Not sure it’s anything to be proud of. She made it sound like it was a handshake kind of thing.”

“The whole world is a handshake thing,” Jigsaw says. “Be proud, Shelby. You put in the hard work.”

That helps me find my smile again. “Thanks, Jiggy.”

“Awww, Jiggy.” Someone makes kissy noises at him. “Such a philosopher.”

Jigsaw rolls his eyes and throws his middle finger in the air. Rooster shakes with laughter and high-fives Jiggy over the table.

My phone buzzes again.

Dawson: Congrats, Shelby. Just heard the news.

“More good news?” Trinity asks.

“Dawson congratulating me.”

Heidi presses her hand to her chest. “She has Dawson Roads texting her like it’s no big deal.”

“You lettin’ that guy text your woman, Rooster?” Hustler asks.

“You need us to fuck him up, bro?” Steer throws a few fake punches in the air.

My eyes widen in terror. “God no.”

“They’re just messin’ with me,” Rooster says.

“We’re civilized,” Steer assures me with a maniacal grin.

“Not really,” Dex mutters.

Everyone pitches in to clean up, leaving the grounds neater than when we found them.

“Leave no trace behind,” Pants explains when I mention how tidy everything looks.

Rooster checks his phone and quickly taps out a message. “All right! Listen up. We need to be there by three, so we’re moving at a fast clip. Greg says roads are clear. We shouldn’t have any issues.”

“Let’s roll!” someone shouts.

“You need to get your riding gear on,” Rooster says, placing his hands on my hips and steering me toward the RV.

“So do you.”

“No funny business,” Jigsaw warns. “We’re rolling out in ten.”

“Keep your pants on,” Rooster grumbles.

“No, that’s what I’m asking you to do.”

“Har. Har.” Rooster shakes his head but the rest of the guys laugh.

Inside the RV, I race around, searching for something to wear.

“I’ve got what you need here,” Rooster calls out.

“That right?” I stop and blink at the two shiny bags with Harley Davidson logos on the front he has laid out on our bed.

“Meant to give this to you sooner but since we weren’t on the bike…”

“What…what is it?”

“Just some thicker jeans meant for riding, leather jacket, gloves, stuff I should’ve bought for you sooner.”

“But I’m okay.”

“We’re traveling a longer distance and these roads are faster. I’d rather you be safe and a little sweaty, than roadkill.”

“Yikes. When you put it that way.” I shake out the jeans and study them. “How’d you know my size?”

He shrugs. “I pay attention?” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my shorts and tugs, peering into the gap. “I can read a tag?”

Laughing, I push him away and hurry out of my shorts and into the jeans. They’re a stiff, sturdy denim. A little snug in the hips and thighs, but I’m guessing that’s the lack of spandex.

Rooster sits on the bed and pulls a box out of one of the bags. “Riding boots. Your cowgirl boots are cute but not quite what you need.”

“When did you do all this?”

“A while ago.” He motions for me to move forward and rest my foot on his leg. “You were being weird about me buying stuff for you so I figured I’d wait until you needed ‘em.”

“Logan,” I whisper. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate—”

“I know.” He pats his leg. “Stay still.” He takes his time, carefully lacing the boots tight and secure.

“Thank you,” I say when he’s finished.

He dumps the rest of the stuff out. “Gloves. Jacket. You might want to tie that bandanna around your forehead under your helmet too.” Everything’s black leather except the bandanna which is flamingo pink.

“All right. Let me throw my hair in some braids first.”

I shamelessly let out a low whistle and squeeze his buns while he’s changing. He peers at me over his shoulder. “Don’t start something you don’t have time to finish.”

With all his brothers right outside our door we don’t have the time or privacy. “Thanks for giving us yoga time this morning.”