Outside the Lines: A Sons of Templar Novella 2.5

by Anne Malcom

  I opened my mouth shock. “You’re shitting me?” I asked ungracefully.

  He smirked. “I’m not shitting you, babe. Other bitches at the club might’ve been easy on the eyes, but they weren’t you. Didn’t fuck you because I knew if I got a taste, I wouldn’t be able to let you go, I’d trap you in this life. When I realized you’re in it for good, that’s when I realized I needed to get my shit together… claim you. Night at the bar gave me the push I needed.”

  “Don’t put me up on a pedestal,” I pleaded. “It’ll only hurt when I hurtle down off it. When you realize I’m not some delicate flower that naïvely walked into a biker den to get her soul corrupted,” I told him. I was far from naïve when I walked in. I’d known exactly what I was getting myself into.

  His face turned hard, but I continued, “My life isn’t daisies and butterflies. My life is far from innocent or good. My parents were murdered when I was twelve. I saw them die, watched them bleed out,” I told him and his body jerked. “I was sent to live with my only living relative, one who my mother didn’t even speak to. One who was meaner than half the gang bangers on the streets she lived on,” I told him honestly. “I went from a home full of love to a house which seeped hatred. Bitterness. I lived that, breathed that, for six years…” I paused. “I wasn’t always a happy person. My parents’ death, my fork-tongued grandmother, they created an angry, troubled teenager. One that tried to find love in various boys. Some were nice, others weren’t…” I trailed off and watched Hansen’s jaw harden exponentially.

  I wasn’t going to elaborate on my years thinking sex equaled love. Nor was I going to educate him on how I found out the hard way, after one of the boys that ‘loved’ me smacked me around. A swift punch in the face and a couple of broken ribs taught me the truth. “I was always searching for something, searching for the family I’d lost,” I explained, moving my thoughts away from my troubled teen years. “Didn’t have it with my own blood, I escaped at eighteen, had nothing but the clothes on my back and a few hundred bucks to secure me a room in a dingy motel. Did crap at school, apart from with computers. I loved them, was good with them. But I couldn’t afford one, had no other discernable skills or qualifications, so I stripped.” I tried for nonchalance, not looking at Hansen, afraid of the judgment I’d find behind his eyes. I couldn’t handle that, so I traced the scar on his chest.

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” I declared. “Of the fact I stripped for a year. I met Arianne, made enough money to take care of myself, I survived. Somehow, during that time, I realized the difference between a good life and a bad life was attitude. If I held onto that anger that I had at the world for the shitty hand I was dealt, it’d turn me into an angry and bitter person. It’d turn me into my grandma.” I shivered at the thought. “So I let it go. All of it. Saved my money, got enough to get a computer, started bringing in clients and making enough money to quit stripping.” I shrugged. “And the rest, as they say, is history.” I chewed my lip. “Then I found the club. Saw what it was. A dysfunctional, rowdy, and rough around the corners family. Somewhere I could belong.”

  I finished my little speech, finally meeting his eyes. They didn’t betray anything, but his hands tightened around my body. “That’s why I need you to see me,” I whispered. “See who I am as an imperfect person. One who isn’t some imagined version of who you think I am. Someone who deserves something better. I was a stripper, a club whore, and now I’m your Old Lady. This for me is better. The best,” I told him truthfully. “Who I am, what I’ve gone through… I’m not set for the traditional life. The one where you’re expected to fit within some sort of predestined mold. Where they make you color neatly between the lines. I’ve never been able to stick inside the lines. I want to be free to go outside them, color my own life.”

  I pursed my lips. Though I talked a lot, all the time actually, that was the most I’d actually said to anyone, ever.

  Hansen searched my face for a long while, then he flipped me on my back, framing my face with his hands. “First, you don’t call yourself a club whore again. Ever. That’s not what you were. Not how I think of you. You were someone wading through a shitty life, trying to find their way,” he said firmly. “Every word you’ve just said, makes me believe you’re even more perfect than I’d imagined. You’re perfect because of your imperfections, ‘cause of the life you’ve survived. You’ve fought your way through and still found a way to be this…” he stroked my jaw, “…this beautiful, funny, goofy woman who carries the world on her shoulders, but fuckin’ skips through life like nothing weighs her down. The one who has the sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted, the kindest heart I’ve ever witnessed. You make me determined to give you everything you want. Everything you deserve,” he declared.

  A lone tear seeped out of the corner of my eye at his words.

  His mouth hovered over mine. He wiped the tear off my face with his thumb gently. “And baby, you do fit in a mold. One I didn’t even know I’d created. One that was made for the woman who I would want to be on the back of my bike, warm my bed, own my soul,” he growled, claiming my mouth before I could do anything stupid, like propose.

  He kissed me with a ferocity that healed all the wounds I’d exposed to him. That filled me up so completely after the beauty of his words. He ran his hands down my hips, cocking my leg so it wrapped around me.

  “You ever take anyone raw, babe?” he asked tightly, poised at my entrance.

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “Neither have I, never. Told myself the only one I’d take with nothing in between us, would be the woman who I intended to keep in my bed forever,” he whispered, roughly, plunging into me on his last word.

  I cried out, his words, his beautiful, heart-warming words, along with the intensity of his intrusion overwhelmed me.

  He took me, hard but slow, every stroke a promise, a vow. His mouth lightly brushed mine while his eyes seemed to capture my soul and brand it with his claim.

  “I love you,” I whispered, unable to hold it in. I needed to say it, in this beautiful moment, had to complete it.

  His body froze, he hovered over my mouth. “Think I loved you the first moment I saw you, babe. Realized it the moment you called me honey at four am outside the clubhouse,” he told me thrusting into me once more.

  His mouth captured mine, muffling the sounds of my climax. I felt him empty himself inside me, as I milked his release out of me. He stayed on top of me, inside me, watching me. Saying everything and nothing at the same time. I winced slightly at the emptiness as he gently pulled out of me. He kissed my nose.

  “Be right back,” he promised.

  I watched his muscled back walk through to his ensuite, taking a moment to appreciate the firm and tight ass that I could totally stare at for days. That man, with the great ass and great everything else. That man loved me. Me. The real me and his love was a promise of the life I’d always hoped for.

  He returned and gently cleaned me with a washcloth, the intimacy and tenderness of the moment jarring me. With that taken care of, he gathered me in his arms. We lay quietly, for once I was content with silence. I’d said enough tonight.

  “Your grandmother,” Hansen said finally, his voice hard. “She’s the one you visit every Saturday?”

  I nodded. He knew I visited a relative every Saturday, as I had for the past two weeks we’d been together, but since I hadn’t told him the whole gory story until before, I didn’t really elaborate. Jagger and Arianne were the only ones who knew about her.

  “Why?” he asked. “I imagine that bitch doesn’t appreciate nor deserve those visits, nor do I miss the fact your smile’s slightly dimmer after them. So why?”

  Nothing got past him. He had silently watched me the past two Saturdays. It took me a while to shake off the insults, the barbs that accumulate in one hour’s visit. So I wasn’t surprised he noticed.

  I shrugged. “She’s got no one else. She’s my only family at the end of the day, and she’s the last connect
ion I’ve got with my mom. I just feel that I should, you know? That I’d be a bad person if I didn’t,” I added.

  Hansen paused. “You’ve got a family, babe,” he said finally. “One you’ve chosen, one who’s got your back no matter what. Blood doesn’t mean shit when that connection turns rancid. Blood is what ties you together when there’s nothing else, nothing good left. The club, that’s stronger than that, because that’s the family you choose, the one where you belong,” he told me. “You’re not a bad person, shit babe, enduring the shit she put you through and still going to visit the old bat? They should consider you for sainthood.” His voice was slightly teasing but there was something more serious was underneath. “I don’t want you going ‘cause anything that dims that beautiful smile is something I want to get you away from… protect you from. It’s your choice, though, babe. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

  I smiled at him and I smiled on the inside. No, beamed. Every part of me.

  “I’m not moving in,” I declared firmly.

  Hansen’s face hardened. “Why the fuck not?”

  I held my hands out, splattering spaghetti sauce unwillingly as I did so. Some landed on the wall, luckily Hansen’s eyes were on me and not on the fact I was ruining the furniture. I decided to act natural. Natural equaled slightly pissed at this moment. “Um, because it’s way too fast. The standard rules of dating constitute at least six months go by before we even consider cohabitation,” I informed him, moving my attention back to the dinner I was cooking. Or maybe ruining. I lived on takeout and peanut butter usually. I was going for domestic goddess at this moment. I think I was hurtling toward domestic fuckup.

  It was almost a week after the exchange of the ‘I love you’s.’ I’d been floating on a cloud since then. I didn’t give a fuck how cheesy that sounded, I was. Well, until Hansen had declared, yes declared, I was moving in.

  “Clue in babe, we’re nothing close to normal,” he clipped moving to stand beside me. His hand moved to jerk my chin toward him. “You said yourself, you don’t color between the lines. Why do you give a fuck about what we’re supposed to do? Do what you want to do. I want you in my house. Want you to make it ours. Want to see your stupid elf shit on the walls, have your girly cushions on my sofa. I want you,” he said fiercely.

  “You’ve got me,” I whispered.

  He searched my eyes. “Well, move the fuck in,” he ordered.

  “Okay,” I said automatically. Shit. I didn’t even mean to agree. He hypnotized me. Used LOTR against me.

  He let go of my chin. “Good,” he muttered, before moving to answer his cell phone which had cut off my belated protests.

  “What,” he greeted. Yes, he answered his phone with the word ‘what’—men.

  He frowned and moved out of earshot, clipping answers into the phone.

  I watched while I stirred my sauce. I was yet to ask any further questions about his role in the club, about the club in general. I knew the bare minimum that they owned the garage downtown, they fixed cars and bikes. I also knew they did a lot more than that. They did things that had got them raided twice in the past year. Granted, the cops didn’t find anything, but I didn’t think they went around raiding people for shits and giggles. I was under no illusions, they were a one percenter gang. They worked on the wrong side of the law most of the time. Lived by their own rules. I didn’t exactly agree with it, but I got it. I didn’t have any high hopes about the club turning legit like I’d heard the Cali chapter was moving toward. I fell in love with Hansen, with the club warts and all, I’d continue to love them. That’s how family worked.

  I just didn’t know if I could handle being in the dark. Having to understand ‘club business’ served as an explanation, or as an excuse.

  Hansen walked back to me, his face hard. “This shit is reheatable, right?” He nodded to the sauce.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll have it later. Got to go, club business. Go do shit with Arianne, or the girls,” he said. “Don’t wait up. Want you to go to bed naked,” he ordered.

  He kissed me soundly, squeezed my ass, then left. I stood in the same spot and heard his Harley rumble away.

  The cold reality of my life as an Old Lady began to sink in. I had a feeling I would have to cook a lot of reheatable dinners in the near future. I couldn’t find it in myself to get pissed. It was part of the life. Part that I’d have to live with. A part I’d live with happily if it meant a life with Hansen.

  So I finished cooking dinner, ate some, wrapped up the rest and settled in at my computer. I toyed with the idea of calling Arianne, but I was happy to have a night of solitude to escape into my computer, and get a head start on some projects.

  My phone ringing an hour or so later jerked me out of the trance I got into whenever I lost myself in my work.

  “Macy?” a familiar voice greeted once I answered.

  A familiar voice that made my stomach drop. “Please tell me you’re calling to catch up and tell me you’ve decided to name your first born Macy,” I said weakly.

  “Sorry sweetheart,” Jim said in a hushed tone. “I wanted you to hear it from me…” he paused, I knew what was coming before he even said it. “He got parole,” he said finally.

  My breath left me in a whoosh and I felt like a thousand little pinpricks pierced my body. “I don’t…” I took a breath, “…I don’t get how that happened. He got life. He took two lives. That should mean life,” I said fiercely. A hatred that I didn’t even know I was capable of bubbled up inside me.

  I heard Jim sigh into the phone. “Yeah, girl, if there was such a thing as justice, they would’ve fried him the day I arrested him,” he said with fury.

  I struggled to get my heart from beating out of my chest. “So he’s going to be free,” I said finally. “The man who shot my parents in cold blood is going to walk around breathing the same air as me after twelve years,” I said flatly.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Jim spoke softly.

  I jerked out of my cold rage. “It’s not your fault, Jim. Thanks for calling.” I mustered up some warmth for the cop who still called every year on my parents’ anniversary.

  “We’ll meet for coffee tomorrow,” he said firmly. He was a good guy. A good cop. Too bad that meant shit in this crappy world.

  “Yeah,” I said weakly.

  I hung up the phone. Feeling everything—pain, anger, hurt. Anger—that was it. No—fury. I couldn’t swallow it, couldn’t let it go. It seemed to consume me.

  I needed numbness.

  “Your phone’s ringing for the millionth time,” Arianne slurred.

  I squinted at it. Hansen’s name came up on the screen. I ignored it as I had the other five calls. I couldn’t deal with him. Couldn’t deal with myself. I needed my best friend and a bottle of vodka. I just needed numbness and Hansen made me feel. I couldn’t feel right now.

  “You should answer that,” she said, pointing at the now silent phone. “He’ll get all…” she waved her hands dramatically, “…psycho biker.”

  I inspected her reasoning. Yes, most likely Hansen would get all psycho biker, considering I’d left his house and driven straight to Arianne’s, where we’d almost demolished a bottle of vodka and I had embraced the numbness.

  My phone dinged. Another text.

  Hansen: Macy. Answer your fucking phone. Tell me where you are.

  “He could probably have him whacked you know,” Arianne informed me, making me look up from my phone. “You tell him and…” she made a finger gun with her hand and pointed it at her head, “…scumbag down.”

  I shook away the bitterness that came with that thought. “I’m not asking my boyfriend to whack someone,” I slurred.

  Arianne’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a someone. He’s not a person, the man that did this. He’s an animal. Plus, you tell Hansen, you probably wouldn’t even have to ask,” she commented.

  My phone dinged.

  Hansen: Macy. I’m getting seriously concerned. Where the
fuck are you?

  Arianne’s words resonated. Because I feared they were true. The world I’d found myself in was a world of loyalty and love. With that loyalty came the need for revenge on anyone who hurt the club. With that love came brutality.

  I typed into the phone.

  Me: Need numbness. You make me feel. I’m okay. Safe. Just need to be numb for the night.

  I read over my text with drunken eyes, deduced it made sense, then switched off my phone. Arianne watched me. She didn’t say a word, didn’t judge, just passed me the vodka bottle.

  Man, I loved her.

  I woke to loud banging which seemed to shake Arianne’s tiny apartment. I squinted and deduced it was coming from the door.

  “Open the fuckin’ door,” a voice bellowed.

  A very angry voice.

  A very angry familiar voice.

  I detached my hand from Arianne’s who was yet to wake up and half rolled, half fell off the sofa.

  “Ouch,” I muttered as my head hit the corner of the coffee table. It didn’t exactly hurt, but I thought such impact was meant to cause pain, so I uttered to appropriate word.

  Okay, still numb, which meant still drunk. I pulled myself to my feet and fought against the swaying floor to make it to the door. Definitely still drunk. That and the fact it was still dark must have meant it was still night-time.

  After battling with the chain, I was blinded by horrible, bright sunlight when I opened the door. I put my hand up to shade myself. Okay, not night. Arianne just had really great curtains.

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” I heard an angry voice mutter.

  I squinted to see Hansen taking up the doorway. His entire frame seemed to be etched in fury.

  “What time is it?” I asked, wondering how it was so bright and how I was still resonantly drunk.