Firestorm (The Sons of Templar MC Book 2)

by Anne Malcom

  “About you fucking me in the bathroom while a party full of people made cocktails in the kitchen only a few feet away?” I finished for him, teasing.

  “No. But that was fuckin’ hot,” he said, squeezing my ass. “No, this was more about you prancing around the whole night in what was equivalent to your fuckin’ underwear. In front of my brothers.” His voice had lost the teasing tone.

  I stiffened. “I didn’t prance,” I argued. “And it’s called a bikini. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them—invented by a fellow named Louis Reard, been around for almost seventy years?” I asked sarcastically, trying to pull out of his arms.

  Brock tightened his hold. “Calm down, Sparky. I’m not saying don’t wear a bikini. I’m just saying for future reference put some more clothes on once the sun goes down. I’ve never wanted to pummel my brothers before. I don’t want to have to because of the way they’re looking at my old lady.”

  The pit of my stomach dropped at that statement. I didn’t entirely know what that label meant, but I knew it was one I would never wear. Like Roberto Cavalli.

  “Let’s get one thing straight here. I am not going to alter my fashion habits in order to make you happy…ever. I’m happy with how I look. I’m proud of it, in fact. I don’t count calories and deprive myself of chocolate so I can don an ankle-length one piece. One thing I’m also proud of is belonging to no one.” I pulled myself out of his arms and he let me. “I’m not going to be anyone’s ‘old lady’. Frankly I’d rather shave my eyebrows than become some biker’s possession,” I spat.

  Brock’s gaze turned deadly. “You did not fuckin’ just say that,” he said quietly.

  I stood from the bed, crossing my arms. “I did just say that. Just because you’re good in bed does not mean I want to jump into any kind of relationship, and it sure as shit doesn’t mean I want you to lay some kind of fucked up claim on me!” I shouted at him.

  He leapt out of bed, shoving his jeans on. “You have no idea how many bitches are fuckin’ gagging to be my old lady—how fuckin’ important that title is,” he yelled back at me.

  “Well, go and find one of those no doubt classy ladies to bestow your oh so important title on,” I screeched, shoving my nightgown over my head.

  He stepped towards me, eyes blazing. “You’re afraid,” he stated. “You’re fuckin’ terrified cause you know what you feel with me is actually real. It means you really have to feel something, put yourself out there. You’re being a bitch so I’ll act like a jerk, and you can feel better about yourself for me getting sick of it and bouncing,” he declared.

  The anger I felt at that statement had me wanting to scream. Also, the fact he was right on the money had me terrified.

  “Fuck you!” I yelled, opening my door. “Get out of my house this instant before I call the police and inform them some biker asshole is trying to rob me.”

  Maybe I was being a touch dramatic, but the fact his words hit close to home was a stark reminder of the last time I opened myself up. I wasn’t getting hurt again. I had the feeling this one had the potential to hurt me a whole lot more than Ian.

  “Calm the fuck down, babe,” Brock responded to my hysterics with an even voice, his eyes on me. He seemed almost amused. “You don’t threaten to call the pigs on me ever. Do that again and I’ll put you over my knee.”

  The erotic glint in his eyes had me wanting that. Bad. I shook my head. This guy was arrogant and infuriating.

  “Ugh, I can’t believe I even considered letting a Neanderthal, cocky, criminal asshole into my bed. I won’t be making that mistake again. Now get. The. Fuck. Out.”

  I was breathing heavily, expecting him to rush at me and spank me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it. But I was serious. I did need him to get out. This was an emotional overload I didn’t need.

  Brock’s face hardened at my words. “I can’t believe I bothered sticking my dick in some uppity, snooty bitch. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t be coming near you again.” His voice was as cold as his expression as he stormed out of my room.

  I started to go after him, to say what I didn’t know, but I stopped outside my door as his words sank in.

  That had escalated way quickly. I still had hot fury running through me at his macho possessive actions and his assurance that I was ”his” after having sex a couple of times. I wasn’t ready for someone to claim me, to own me. I didn’t know when I’d ever be ready for that. I might know what dress I’d wear if the time ever came, but I didn’t know much else.

  “Sweetheart, you okay?” a soft voice asked. I whipped my head around to see Gwen standing in her robe, looking at me with concern.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Brock’s just an asshole,” I said quickly, trying to act breezy. I’m pretty sure I fell flat.

  Gwen furrowed her brows. “You’ve been avoiding this subject around me for too long, Amy.” Her tone meant business as she directed me into our sitting room.

  Due to my delicate emotional state it only took gentle prodding for me to spill the entire Ian situation to her. Well, not the entire situation. I may have told a white lie and said his name was Tom and that he was one of Tripp’s friends, but the premise was the same. I told her I met him, had the whole “love at first sight” thing and he broke my heart after ditching me for the war. I wasn’t ready to tell Gwen about her brother and me. I just didn’t know how to tell her since it had been so long. So I was a coward and lied again. It felt even worse when she blamed herself for not being there for me during the whole ordeal. My guilt weighed even heavier as she gave me advice and was just an all-around awesome best friend.

  I did feel a little bit lighter having shared some of my secrets with Gwen, albeit not the full story. That didn’t last for long when she casually mentioned Ian’s arrival this week. Fate was cruel. Maybe it was karma for the time I drank all of my father’s thirty-seven year old whisky and replaced it with colored water. Or when I was fifteen and scratched my mom’s Mercedes and then let the valet take the heat. Whatever it was had me feeling sick all week. I couldn’t sleep knowing I had to face him. Especially now when I was so confused with what was happening with Brock.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Present Day

  “Senora?” A timid voice penetrated my thoughts.

  I blinked and sat up in my chair, bracing myself for something, anything. I had been so deep in my thoughts I hadn’t even noticed that someone had entered the room. Not the best when being held captive. Note to self. Be more aware of surroundings.

  My alarm was quelled slightly when I met the kind eyes of the Mexican woman who had served me at breakfast. She was now smiling nervously at me.

  “Lunch. You must eat, Senora.”

  She put a tray down on the table beside me, my mouth watering at the smell of the food. Without conscious effort my hand snatched the cup of coffee off the tray. Well, I guess my hunger strike wasn’t going to last. I’d probably go through withdrawals if deprived of coffee much longer.

  I glanced up at the woman, who was standing in front of me as if to make sure I was going to consume the food she had presented me. “What’s your name?” I asked her, picking up my fork.

  “Lucy,” she responded nervously, watching my hand as I speared a piece of chicken off the plate.

  “I’m Amy,” I told her, putting the food in my mouth. I felt rude, but I was starving and it was either that or start gnawing on my own arm.

  “Yes, Miss Abrams, I know.” Her face had relaxed a bit after seeing me take my first bite.

  “Did you make this?” I asked, pointing with my fork. She nodded nervously.

  “It’s delicious, thank you.” I told her genuinely. The poor woman’s shoulders sagged at this, as if her fate depended on her chicken salad.

  “Are you—” I started to ask her if she was a captive as well, but I didn’t quite know how to word it without spooking her. “Do you work here?”

  She nodded again. “Yes, Miss Abrams, I have been working here for five year
s.”

  “Call me Amy, please,” I requested.

  Five years? She didn’t seem comfortable with having a kidnapping victim in her presence. I didn’t know what to make of that. Mr. Clooney obviously wasn’t a first time offender, but Lucy was decidedly skittish.

  “And you work here by choice?” I asked Lucy carefully, taking another bite.

  She nodded vigorously. “Yes, of course. This job is very important to my family and I.”

  I chewed for a moment. “I’m not here by choice. I’d very much like to be back with my family, or at least let them know I’m okay. Do you think you could help me?”

  Lucy’s eyes widened and she shook her head frantically. “No, no. You don’t want to ask me that. You can get in trouble. I’ll forget you asked. You just do what Mr. Devon says and you will be okay.” She scurried out of the room before I had the chance to reply.

  “Drat,” I muttered, throwing my fork down. I had succeeded in scaring the already terrified maid off. I only hoped she would be back to serve me again so I could work on gaining her trust.

  “Time’s up, Red,” a familiar voice called before the door was opened.

  I had just zipped up my midnight blue evening gown when I came face to face with Rafe. I resisted the shiver I felt with his gaze. It was not a good shiver. It was the kind that made me feel like I had spiders crawling up my skin.

  “Well, Rafe, if you had come a couple of minutes earlier you would have caught me naked,” I remarked sweetly. “You see, the underwear provided with this outfit just wouldn’t work. I don’t do VPL.” I gave him a suggestive eyebrow raise and twirled to make my point. The skintight sheath hugged my every curve. Although I hadn’t abandoned breaking through to the housekeeper, I was going to explore every option I had to get out of this place. Unfortunately that included seducing Hannibal Lector over here.

  “You might regret being such a cock tease once I’m allowed to play with you,” he hissed, pulling my body flush to his. I fought the bile in my throat, feeling his hard on pressing against my stomach.

  “I’ll enjoy every second,” his mouth brushed my ear, “but I can’t say the same for you. I can’t even promise you’ll be able to walk after.”

  I met his eyes, hoping he couldn’t see the fear in mine. “Maybe I like it rough,” I whispered hoarsely.

  He paused a second then blinked, stepping back from me but keeping hold of my arm. “You’re late for dinner.”

  His demeanor may have changed, but I could tell when I had got to a guy. Maybe my man whisperer skills might save my life after all.

  I was taken to the same dining room as this morning, but this time the table was set with candles and wineglasses and Clooney wasn’t hiding behind his paper. He was standing right by the chair I had sat in hours ago, eyes on me. While he was inspecting me I returned the favor. He had changed his suit and was now wearing a black Burberry with a black shirt, no tie. Up close he was handsome, even in his mid-fifties. His skin was tan and he had bright blue eyes. He was clean shaven and could definitely be a certain movie star’s brother.

  “Miss Abrams, you look stunning. I must say you get more beautiful every time I see you,” he declared.

  I stopped in front of him. “Well, this is me in captivity—you should see me in the wild, Mr. Devon,” I replied icily, enjoying his slight surprise as I addressed him by name.

  He recovered quickly. “I’m afraid since emotions were running high this morning I wasn’t able to properly introduce myself. I’m Clark Devon.” He grasped my hand and kissed it lightly. I didn’t snatch it away but glared at him.

  “I’ll remember that for the police report. It’s Clark with a C, right?” I asked sarcastically.

  Clark smiled. “I see we haven’t lost any of our fire. I’m happy you feel safe enough to be so brash, Miss Abrams. Others in your situation might refrain from such statements, fearing for their own wellbeing.” He pulled my chair out politely while he threatened me just as courteously.

  “What can I say? I’m special.” I sat down without glancing back at him.

  “Can I offer you some wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle. “It’s an excellent vintage.”

  “I’ll pass. I’d like to keep my wits about me. You know, in case you’ve slipped some roofies in there. Kidnapping may not be enough—maybe you want to violate me too,” I replied acidly.

  Clark shook his head as if he was dealing with a petulant child. “No matter how much you like to convince yourself otherwise, Miss Abrams, I mean you no harm. I’ve tried to make you comfortable as possible. I do wish you would at least eat something,” he said mildly.

  I crossed my arms. “And I’ve told you no matter what you wrap it up in, no matter how many tiny meals of fancy food you serve me this is still a kidnapping. I’ll eat when I can do it of my own free will and when you’re in prison.”

  Clark sighed. “As you wish. I do hope you will come to reconsider in time.”

  The stress on the “in time” part had me feeling decidedly uncomfortable. I didn’t like the insinuation that I’d be here for an extended period. I needed to get an escape plan in place stat. I couldn’t rely on the fact the cavalry was going to come in and save me. I had to rely on myself.

  The days passed agonizingly slowly, with the routine the same. Rafe came to get me every morning to drag me to breakfast. I refused any food, like I always did when Clark offered it. It may have been stupid to basically starve myself, but it was the only thing in this entire situation I had control over. Plus I didn’t want to play into this whole civilized kidnapping fantasy that seemed to be Clark’s goal; I wanted to piss the guy off. Unfortunately my refusal to eat didn’t seem to bother him, and he still made me endure mealtimes with him.

  Luckily Lucy knew I wouldn’t eat in front of Clark so she seemed to try and give me as much food as possible throughout the day while he was gone. I knew he was gone because the window of my library faced the circular driveway and I watched him leave every morning for the past six days at precisely eight-thirty a.m.

  I wasn’t into starvation so I tried to eat most of what she gave me. But one main meal and a couple of snacks throughout the day wasn’t enough; I was losing weight. Fast. Not a diet I would recommend to anyone.

  I tried my best to get through to Lucy, to convince her to let me get some kind of message out to the world; a smoke signal, Morse code, anything, but she scampered whenever I raised the subject. I deduced that putting the kind woman in danger for my own sake was extraordinarily selfish. I knew even if I did manage to escape with Lucy’s help Clark would most likely punish her and her family. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.

  Since I was left to my own devices during the day and exercise was out of the question I spent most of the time in the library. I didn’t read much; more like plotted the ways I could murder Rafe and escape this place.

  I watched the guards outside as much as I could trying to memorize the schedule. I did this at night also, since I didn’t sleep much. I made subtle advances as well to Rafe, as much as my skin crawled doing it. He was a vital part of my plan. I knew trying to seduce him outright would be obvious, so I opted for small displays. Like purposely not being ready when he came to get me, or brushing up against him as he directed me to my meals. It was working.

  As I sat watching Clark one night eat his dinner and drink his wine I hoped it was for the last time.

  “I have some unfortunate news for you, Miss Abrams,” Clark said, wiping his face with a napkin.

  “You didn’t win the best kidnapping of the year award?” I asked seriously. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be nominated next year.”

  He ignored this like he did most of my remarks of this nature. “Your father, although he is cooperating, is thinking of turning to the authorities.” He sipped his wine. “Now I explicitly advised against this action, informing him that the consequences of this would be unpleasant for you. It seems he needs reminding.” He nodded to someone behind me. Rafe came in
to view with a look that made me taste bile. His grin was different than what I had ever seen before. It was triumphant, expectant…evil. I swallowed. “Now I cannot say I agree with Rafe’s tastes, nor do I approve of them, but I can’t fault their results.”

  I listened to Clark but kept my eyes of Rafe, who pulled my chair out roughly. I failed to hide my flinch.

  “Open your legs, Miss Abrams,” Clark instructed me mildly.

  My stomach dropped. “No way in hell,” I snapped.

  “I must urge you to reconsider,” he requested, nodding at Rafe again.

  I felt cold metal at my temple.

  “I think my value as a hostage goes down significantly if I have a bullet hole in my head,” I declared with a bravery I was faking.

  “You have courage, I’ll give you that. But no self-preservation. Bring her in.”

  Dread bloomed in my stomach as Lucy was pushed into the room, a man holding a gun to her head. “Now as you have pointed out, your life is very important in this situation. But there are many others in this house who are disposable.” Clark gestured to Lucy who was crying, her face a mask of terror. “I would persuade you to change your answer to my request,” he stated mildly.

  I glared at the evil man sitting calmly in front of me, vowing silently I would kill him if I ever got the chance. I opened my legs.

  Garrett Morgan sat in a conference room of a hotel, one that looked similar to the many he had sat in before. He had lost count at the amount of mind numbing meetings he had to sit through in rooms like this. Boredom was a feeling he associated with them. Fear was not. But right now he felt terror sitting at the bottom of his gut. It had nothing to do with the three men sitting in front of him. He was sure they incited their fair share, but he was not afraid of them. Fear had been his constant companion for the last week since he had watched the video of his niece being handcuffed to a bed while unconscious, then witnessed her throw sass at one of the most dangerous men in America.