Cowboy’s Wildling (Horsemen of Wrath MC #4)

Chapter 1

I was on the second leg of my journey to Las Vegas, Nevada.

Usually, I enjoyed flying. It wasn’t as fun as riding my motorcycle, but for this length of a trip and the time constraints I had, flying was the only way to go.

From St. Augustine, Florida, where I lived, to Vegas was two thousand three hundred miles one way.

To make it manageable and not be crippled at the end, with my ass not needing to be amputated, I’d have to take at least four days to get there on my bike, and the same back.

Adding a few days in Las Vegas to take care of why I was headed to Sin City in the first place would’ve left me taking almost two weeks away from work and my club.

I had the time off accrued, but I wasn’t willing to use it, especially this close to Christmas, and with two club brothers having new babies and needing time off with their partners and kids. It was my choice not to ask my motorcycle club to be saddled with even more work and stress.

The first leg from Jacksonville to Charlotte, North Carolina, had gone off without a hitch.

And the one-hour layover was perfect for landing, changing concourses, taking a piss, grabbing a drink, and then boarding the next flight.

Five minutes into the second leg was when the trip went to hell, and it was all due to a spoiled, snot-nosed brat and his ignorant parents.

It was clear that his parents had never told the kid no or disciplined him a day in his ten years.

It started with his whining about being bored and his demand that they do something about it.

They reminded him he had a handheld game, earbuds to listen to music, a book in his backpack, or he could watch an in-flight movie.

He huffed and told them he was tired of those.

As he continued to whine and they ignored him, the boy grew louder and more demanding.

His parents put on earbuds and closed their eyes.

I had no clue what they were listening to, or if it was only to block out the nasally bleating of their spawn.

Regardless, they were at peace. Those surrounding them were not.

The flight attendants tried to quiet the boy with sodas and snacks galore.

He took them, complained they weren’t what he liked, while stuffing them into his face and guzzling them down.

He reminded me of the rude people in restaurants who complain about their meal after finishing it, then demand that it and dessert be free of charge.

The eye-rolling, glares, and more from those around the brat didn’t deter the kid.

In fact, I think they made him want to see how much worse he could be.

It took considerable restraint not to march up the five rows he was ahead of me on the opposite side of the aisle and demand he shut up or I’d spank his ass and make him. People tended to frown upon you doing that, and I wasn’t looking to spend time in jail for child abuse.

As aggravating as the little monster was, I would’ve stood it even when he demanded to see the pilots and was told he couldn’t.

The flight attendant explained that no one was allowed in the cockpit while the plane was in flight.

She told him that after the plane landed and everyone disembarked, if he wanted to meet them, she could take him then.

The boy glared at her and told her to shut up.

The murmurs from the other passengers kept growing as the miles fell behind us. I kept checking my watch, hoping the time had mysteriously jumped and we were minutes from landing—no such luck.

I was studiously reading the magazine I had brought with me.

An article about a custom bike builder had my attention.

Or it did until I heard several gasps. Glancing up to see why, I caught the boy kicking the back of the seat in front of him, which an elderly man occupied.

Seated next to the man was an elderly woman whom I assumed was his wife.

I watched as the man turned, wearing a pleasant expression, and spoke to the kid. “Excuse me, son, would you please stop kicking the back of my chair? It’s jarring me, and I have arthritis. It hurts.”

The kid didn’t say anything, so the man turned to face the front. I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. I was right. Two minutes later, the delinquent did it again. The elderly man turned a second time.

“Please stop kicking my chair. If you don’t, I’ll have to wake up your parents. I’d prefer not to do that.” The man remained pleasant. He didn’t even raise his voice.

This time, the punk mouthed off, and that was the last straw for me. “Shut up, you old bastard. I’ll kick your chair if I want. And there’s nothing you can do about it. If you wake up my parents, my dad will kick your old, wrinkly ass.”

Gasps of shock and disapproval exploded from several mouths. Expressions of outrage and anger were more pronounced. Rising to my feet, I laid my magazine on my seat and then moved up the aisle. The gentleman saw me coming. His eyes widened. I bypassed the kid and leaned down to speak to the man.

“Hello, sir, let me speak to him. See if I can make him behave,” I offered with a smile.

“Th-thank you. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone,” he murmured.

“You aren’t. I have a feeling this youngun’s parents aren’t any better, so maybe I can persuade them to make their child behave. I think I might be able to find a common connection with his folks.”

“If you’re sure it’s not an inconvenience, then yes, thank you. I don’t know how to talk to young people these days. They’re not like I was as a kid.”

His wife nodded and whispered that it was true.

“Sir, ma’am, don’t believe all younger people are like him.

I can assure you, if I were to do this today, at the age of thirty-one, my dad and mom would whoop the hide off me.

If I did even a tenth of what that boy has said and done, they’d still be beating my a—butt up and down the aisle with a belt, and my pants would be around my ankles as they did it. ”

The mental image my words painted had them both chuckling, grinning, and nodding their heads in agreement.

I continued, “If I am ever blessed to have children one day, they’ll be taught manners.

I don’t believe in abusing children, but a deserved spanking never hurt anyone.

Spare the rod and spoil the child was gospel in my home.

There’s a difference between discipline and abuse.

The gentle parenting approach doesn’t work, that I’ve seen.

Having consequences should be learned when one is young, or it’s too late when you’re an adult. ”

“Oh my, that is so true. What is your name?” his wife asked.

“You can call me Cowboy. It’s what my club calls me.”

“Cowboy, well, I can see why they call you that. I’m Doris, and this is my husband, Herbert. Thank you,” his sweet wife stated.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Doris and Mr. Herbert. Hang tight,” I advised them before turning to stare down at the boy.

He sat there with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing a mutinous glare. Oh yeah, this was about to get interesting. I’d start courteously, but I knew it wouldn’t work, and I’d have to move on to my biker side.

“Young man, this nice gentleman has asked you twice not to kick his chair. It’s jarring him, and that’s not only uncomfortable but annoying.

The flight attendants have tried to help you relieve your boredom.

You have games and a phone. I know those have endless things to occupy yourself with.

We’re all trying to get to Las Vegas as quickly and stress-free as possible.

To do that, we need to be kind to each other.

So why don’t you sit back and play or take a nap? ”

His mouth opened, and based on his scowl, I already knew nothing good was about to come out.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, asshole? No one cares what you think or want. And I’ll kick that old geezer’s chair if I want. You don’t scare me. I’m a kid. If you touch me, you’ll go to jail for child abuse,” he smarted off. His scowl changed to a smirk.

Perhaps this kind of talk had deterred others in the past. Too bad for him, he hadn’t met me. I couldn’t touch the kid, but his daddy was fair game.

I didn’t bother saying anything else to the little punk.

Instead, I turned to the opposite side of the aisle where his parents were seated.

They had him sitting across from them. I tapped the father on the shoulder.

His eyelids slowly lifted. His hazy eyes were due to more than sleep.

They were bloodshot and screamed that he was under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

That might be the only way to stand being near his son.

“Take the earbuds out,” I said, gesturing to my ears.

“What? I can’t hear you?” he mumbled.

“TAKE. OUT. THE. BUDS!” I said louder.

When he shook his head and gave me a “I can’t hear you” look, I reached over and pulled one earbud out.

“I said, take out the earbuds so we can talk,” I told him in a lower tone.

His startled gaze went from me to his wife, who was suddenly staring at me. When he didn’t do it, I added on to my previous statement.

“It’s in your best interest to do as I ask. We need to talk about your kid.”

The second bud came out, and the father sat up straighter. “What about my son?”

“While you’ve been here blocking him out, he’s been demanding and rude to the flight attendants, and has been kicking the back of the chair in front of him.

The gentleman has asked him to stop, but your son refuses.

Being cooped up in this airplane is bad enough.

We all just want to get to our destinations as stress-free as we can. ”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I need you to parent your kid and make him behave.”

“Why don’t you sit down and mind your own business? I don’t take parenting advice from people like you.” He ran his gaze up and down my body, then sneered.