Page 8 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

Zeppelin

T here’s a slight chance that this might have been a miscalculation. I’m big, but most people would say that I’m not the brightest bulb and all that nonsense fuckery.

I can haul, stack, dig, hoe, and whatever other hard and heavy duties are required when it comes to a garden, but as for the plants, theory, and growing the damn things, I don’t have a clue.

I’m thinking about it all now as I’m nearing the end of the almost three hour drive from Hart to Ginny’s family farm.

I borrowed Raiden’s old truck and the thing is a hardcore piece of shit in all the wrong ways.

I’m parched, I forgot to bring a drink, and the piece-of-shit truck has no AC other than rolling down the window.

If that’s not bad enough my head is pounding from giving my brain a constant workout since I left Ginny’s place the other day.

I know it’s the brain that’s the emotional center of the body, but that spot is fucked up too.

Since Jack died, I’ve felt emotions I didn’t even know I had. I’ve been a mess in every way.

The bond I had with Jack went beyond love.

We always had each other, since that first moment of conception.

I didn’t have to learn how to do any of the stuff we did together.

But this? Thinking about a baby coming, about being an uncle, about my brother not being around to see his child.

In the space of a few short days my life changed beyond recognition and I’m having to relearn who I am without my literal other half.

I can talk to my club brothers about stuff, but this? I didn’t even know where to begin. Instead I found myself listening to fucking podcasts about grief.

Jack would have laughed if I told him I was listening to that shit, but he probably would have clapped me on the back and told me he was proud after he finished busting a lung about it.

He might have even asked me some questions and listened, even if he didn’t believe a word.

Jack was just like that. Weirdly open minded.

I turn off the gravel road, down Ginny’s driveway.

Raiden’s truck isn’t nearly as loud as my bike, but Ginny must have been watching out for me.

Maybe they have security that gives them notifications from different points on the farmyard.

With this much machinery around- the other half of the yard is full of sprayers, combines, and other machines that I have no clue about, as well as tons of trucks—it would make sense.

Ginny’s in an old white t-shirt and a pair of brown cargo pants tucked into the same rubber boots she wore last time.

Her hair is tied up in a bun that I don’t think was made to be intentionally messy, but more than a few strands of have escaped from every angle.

Her forehead glistens with sweat, she’s flushed a pretty pink, there are streaks of dirt on her face, and her hands and arms are black.

She’s beautiful.

And instantly I hate myself for thinking that. Even though she insisted that things with Jack were casual, it just feels wrong.

“We’ve been at it since five this morning,” she explains, giving me a smile as I climb out of the truck that warms spots inside of me that went cold since I was a kid and haven’t even begun to thaw.

Shit. I know that kind of thinking is dangerous. Ginny’s beautiful in every way a person can be, but I can’t go there. Even if I have to punch my stirring cock into submission, it would be a small price to pay.

“I just came back to the house to refill our water bottles.” She holds up the two dangling from her fingers by their caps. “I’ll get another for you.”

My sticky throat rejoices. “Can I help you?”

“Nah. Just wait here.”

She disappears through the man door of the garage. I wait, entirely useless, for the few minutes she’s gone. She’s back, carrying a third bottle the same way.

As soon as she passes it to me, I twist the cap off and drain at least half. She watches me, trying not to smile, but all she mentions is the garden. “If you want to follow me back, we could definitely use the help. Dad tilled the whole thing last night, and it’s more like a crop than a garden.”

“You’re not pissed I showed up?”

“Maybe I would have been at five this morning before we started, but it’s noon and I’m already exhausted.” She notes my immediate frown. “Not like that. I’m fine. Just regular tired. Everything is okay.”

She doesn’t want around for a response. She probably doesn’t have time for a chat. I offered to help, and thinking about her outworking my ass makes me half ashamed and half aroused.

Fucking quit.

The caveman center of my brain responsible for desire isn’t going to go down quietly. It’s gone from seeing Ginny as completely off limits, to noticing far more than it should, in a very short time span.

The yard is massive. I have no idea how many acres it would be, but there’s a big barn behind the house, and a giant pasture that has cows and goats grazing in separate areas. The garden is a short walk across from there, with the farm buildings way off to the right.

Fuck me, was Ginny ever right about the garden. I can’t imagine this thing taking a day to plant. More like weeks . How do two people manage the upkeep of something like this?

As if reading my thoughts she says, “We plant and then we spread straw down around everything to retain water and keep some of the weeds down. We keep the paths between pretty large so that they can be tilled with the hand tiller or easily hoed. Weeding sucks, but if you keep up with it every day, it’s not all that bad. It’s actually kind of peaceful.”

A massive black cow ambles up to the fence closest to the garden and lets out a noise that sounds more like a sick, dying beast than any moo I’ve ever imagined.

Ginny laughs as I startle, nearly leaping out of my skin. Her mom straightens way in the back. I didn’t even see her there before, past the massive wall of straw bales at the end of the garden.

“Dad and Gabe brought those here last night for us too. We break them apart and spread them out as we plant. That’s the worst of it, aside from hoeing and breaking your back all day long with the bending.

” She waves at her mom, who waves back at us.

I raise my hand, already worried that I’m a total heel.

I give the cow a massive amount of side eye. It stares back at me with its soft brown gaze, working its lips back and forth as it chews grass.

“Is there something wrong with that cow?”

Ginny’s smile drops. She studies me quizzically. “How so?”

“It doesn’t sound right.”

“That’s how they actually sound. I guess moo was the closest thing to describing it.”

It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve seen a damn cow, but I don’t argue. It sounds wrong to me—either that or Canadian cows have a different accent…

“Here,” Ginny says as bends to grab a can of spray and hands it to me. “Douse yourself. Trust me. It’s nasty, but the bugs are thick enough to carry you away.”

“I’ll be alright.”

She grins. “Famous last words.” She shakes the can and sprays me from top to bottom, quickly pivoting around to the back as I sputter away.

“Trust me. There are times when I have to come out here in full heat with a hoodie and jeans because the bugs are so bad. I just couldn’t take it today, knowing how hard I’d be working, but for weeding, I suit up. ”

“Why on earth do people do this?”

She laughs and the sound reaches deep down into me and filling yet another hole I didn’t even know was there. That warm sensation should be pleasant, but I take it as a warning. I’ve already crossed too many lines and pushed too hard.

“Growing your own food, meat, and dairy isn’t just satisfying.

It’s a lot of work, but it’s much cheaper in the end.

Plus, you know exactly how it’s grown. What chemicals are used or not used.

How old the produce is. How it was prepared in the preserving process.

You get to make everything to your taste.

It’s how my grandparents lived for years and when my dad moved us back here, we kept up the tradition.

” She walks down a well beaten path along the side of the garden.

I trail after her like a puppy. “My grandpa had dementia,” she explains.

“We moved back here when I was pretty young. We did homeschool for years, until Gabe needed the credits to graduate and it was just easier if he went for grade ten and on. He pitched a fit and so my parents just put us all in school. He was always going to farm and he knew that, but education is important to my parents. They’re both lawyers. ”

The law makes me uncomfortable. Always has and probably always will.

I’ve never been arrested, but us having to evade social services growing up probably instilled a healthy dislike in me for any kind of authority.

I get that they’re there to do good things, but it doesn’t often work out for most people who have to go into the system.

The club does most of their business through legit avenues now, but that wasn’t always the case.

Being on the wrong side of the law, I saw guys get banged up for years.

Raiden lost a lot of years. Obviously, Tyrant has things sorted with the cops here and the club has a great lawyer, but my skin still crawls thinking about getting locked away.

Men like me don’t do well in cages.

“Here.” Ginny hands me a hoe with a worn wooden handle.

The metal part is ancient. “It’s nothing special, but it works well.

Watch the handle. It’s smooth enough, but if you dig in, it can still give wicked splinters.

” She points to the end of the garden. “Most of that is going to be potatoes, and then over there, we’re going to do mounds for corn, beans, and squash, and then start with rows. Do you know about companion planting?”

I did briefly try and research some garden stuff, but it was overwhelming. “Not much,” I admit.