“Seein’ as I got a text five minutes ago tellin’ my behind to do that and I’m standin’ at a stove… yeah.”

She smiled at him, bent, scooped up her kid, gave him kisses, tickles, and snuggles, then put him down again and came right to Joker.

Her eyes were shining.

“Did you see it?” she asked.

He nodded. “Tyra bought twice as many as you got over there.” He jerked his head to the counter where she’d dumped her shit.

“Did you read it?” she pushed.

“Uh… yeah,” he answered.

“It… is… amazing!” she cried. “So amazing. So cool. So you! And the brothers. I’m framing it. Every page!” she declared.

“Figure you will, bein’ a goofball,” he muttered, fighting his smile.

“Don’t make me annoyed when I’m this happy.” She jumped suddenly and yelled, “I have to change! Be back! There’s ice cream in that bag, toss it in the freezer, sweetie, will you?”

Then she didn’t wait for him to answer. She pursed her lips and blew him a kiss, which he thought was cute, and he usually loved it when she did that, but not so much right then when she just got home and he would prefer something a fuckuva lot different.

He didn’t get it.

She raced out of the kitchen.

Joker turned down the meat, bent, nabbed Travis, and planted him on his hip.

“Joejoekah, loo lah, kah kah.”

“I hear you,” Joker muttered as he walked to the bag, took the ice cream out (three tubs), and put it in the freezer.

Then he went to the magazine, grabbed the top one off the stack, set it to the side and flipped it open.

He got to the page and whispered, “There it is, boy.”

“Dah, noo, fah, lah,” Travis replied.

“That’s what I think,” Joker said.

He stared down at the picture.

It took up both pages. One of his builds, a bike, purple, fucking brilliant pinstriping, and even he had to admit the framing was inspired.

In big writing at the top it said, Custom Cool and under that, smaller, it said, Denver’s Chaos Motorcycle Club, led by design mastermind Carson “Joker” Steele, takes custom rides to the next stratosphere.

The brothers were gathered around the bike in the garage. All of them. Joker at the front wheel, arms crossed on his chest, Tack next to him, arm slung casually over Joker’s shoulders, his boots crossed at the ankles.

The back wall was behind them, their tool chests and equipment lined up at the bottom against it, a massive Chaos flag stretched across the wall above.

Boz was smiling like a lunatic, but the rest of his brothers were staring at the camera natural, looking badass.

It was a fucking great picture.

He flipped the page to a better one.