I went right to the closet, slid the door open, and struggled through the wrapping paper, luggage, boxes, then hefted out the plastic crates that were stacked in the corner.
Four of them.
I wanted the bottom one.
I got to it and pulled it into the room. I fell to my behind on the floor and flipped down the latches on the sides of the crate, lifting the top away.
In there were albums, three of which I’d happily, but painstakingly, filled with photos.
One album for each year.
The rest of the crate was filled with those envelopes pictures came in with the front holding the film.
And last, there were loose photos tossed in in a frenzy to hide painful memories.
In the beginning, I’d pulled that crate out often.
But it had been years since I’d opened that box.
I grabbed an album, put it on my lap and opened it randomly.
My throat closed against the burn consuming my insides as I stared down at a photo of me standing by Logan, who was sitting on his bike.
We were outside Ride, the auto supply store with attached custom build garage that Chaos owned.
Logan was off to do something, I didn’t remember what. I was saying good-bye to the man I loved, who I would see again within hours. He had one of his hands on the bike grip, the other on my hip. I was facing him but looking over my shoulder at Naomi, the wife of one of Logan’s Chaos brothers.
My hair was long, down to my waist and unencumbered, like Logan liked it. Unrestrained and wild. A way I hadn’t worn it in years.
Logan had on sunglasses that made him look cool and badass, jeans, a tee, and his Chaos cut.
We were close, like we were always close whenever we were together, touching, like we were always touching, and smiling.
Like we were always smiling.
The picture below that was of us stretched out on a couch in the common room of the Chaos Compound. I was mostly on top of Logan, partly tucked into the back of the couch. I had a hand on his chest and my head thrown back, the picture captured my profile and I was laughing.
Logan was on his back, head to the armrest, arm wrapped around my waist, holding me to him even though he didn’t need to since I was lying on top of him. He was looking right at the camera, also laughing.
On the opposite page there was a picture of us at Scruff’s. I had my booty up on the edge of the pool table (something I did a lot to be goofy because being goofy made Logan smile, but something that annoyed the hell out of Reb). Logan was leaning over the table with cue in hand, lined up ready to take a shot.
But his head was tilted back, his eyes were on me and mine were on him.
We weren’t smiling. I was saying something to him and I had his full attention.
Like I always had his full attention.
I pressed my hands on the pages, palms flat, like I could soak in those times, like I could be thrown back years to relive them, like I could absorb the feelings I’d had back then of being safe and loved and living the life that was just right for me.
It didn’t work.
I turned the page.
Then I turned another page.
And another.
I did it reliving memories I’d relived countless times. They were burned in my brain in a way they were always there, even when I wasn’t calling them up. They were scars that tormented me in a way that changed the course of my life.
It wasn’t simply that I was in a rut.
My life had been interrupted and I’d never restarted it.
Since Logan Judd, I had not had a boyfriend.
I had not had a lover.
Not in twenty years.
He was it for me and those pictures showed why.
I met my perfect man at age eighteen and I had him for three years.
Then I sent him away.
Could I right those wrongs?
Should I?
You obliterated him.
I had.
And I’d done the same to myself.
Every woman on this goddamned earth wants a man like that to feel like that about them and you had it and you fuckin’ tossed it away like it was garbage.
I hadn’t tossed him away.
Reb didn’t know.
She’d never know.
But I hadn’t done that.
I’d never do that.
Not to Logan.
Every breath he took, it was for you.
I turned the page and went still.
On the two pages before me were six pictures taken at what was known among the biker world as Wild Bill’s Field.
What it was was a biker rally that happened on Bill McIntosh’s farm every year.
I remembered those rallies, all three of them I went to.
The pictures on the page were from the second one.
Top left, Logan sitting on a log, me on a blanket in front of him on the ground between his legs. He was bent forward, arms around me, chin on my shoulder, the firelight was illuminating our faces as we laughed toward someone that, if memory serves, was Boz being his usual lovable idiot.
Center left picture, same, except my head was turned and tipped back and Logan’s chin was off my shoulder and he was looking down at me.
Bottom left, my hand was up and curled around Logan’s forearm and my head was still tipped back.
But Logan wasn’t looking at me.
He was kissing me.
I shut the book.
The Field.
Wild Bill’s biker rally.
Every biker from every club in the entire state of Colorado went to that rally every year. It was mayhem, bikes, tents, campers, RVs, sleeping bags, bonfires, a makeshift stage set up for local and not-so-local bands who played loud and deep into the night.
It was bring what you want or hit Wild Bill’s kitchen that he set up in a massive tent at the edge of the makeshift campgrounds. He bragged that the proceeds sent him to Miami for Christmas and supported him throughout the year, except we all knew we hit his field just after he harvested the hay or corn he always grew in it, which was the way he really made his living.