Firestorm (The Sons of Templar MC Book 2)

by Anne Malcom

  “Fuck,” a gravelly voice muttered.

  The arms around me tightened and I was pulled up Brock’s body. Before I could utter a word he pressed his mouth against mine. Groggy from sleep, and still not able to get sufficiently pissed, I relaxed into the kiss, letting it set me on fire.

  The moment his mouth released mine my temper came back. “What was that?” I snipped.

  “I wanted to kiss you before we started arguing,” Brock declared, arms still around me.

  I struggled out of his embrace and clambered off the bed. I was aware of my nakedness as I searched the messy room for my seriously under packed bag. I spotted it in the corner, picking it up.

  Thank god Brock’s room had an attached bathroom. I would have climbed out the window rather than face the prospect of communal showers. I would need a penicillin shot after using his facilities as it was.

  “No screaming or swearing this morning, Sparky?” Brock teased. “Maybe I fucked the angry out of you. I didn’t think that would be possible.”

  I glared over my shoulder at him. “I’m not speaking to you.”

  I tried my hardest to peel my eyes away quickly from the vision of him in bed but I couldn’t. I would have to be a robot, or my mother to not appreciate what my eyes were feasting on. He was lying in bed, the sheet at his waist covering his impressive manhood. Luckily his six pack was on display, complete with that delicious V. His muscled arms were clasped behind his head, his hair messy and unbound. His blue eyes were devouring me, a hungry look not matching his teasing tone. I gulped as I saw his hard on tenting the sheet at his waist.

  I snapped my eyes away before I forgot every reason why I was angry and rushed into the bathroom. I hopped in the thankfully clean shower and let the hot water melt away some tension. It didn’t work with the sexual tension. I was considering taking care of that myself when the shower curtain opened and Brock’s huge body took up the rest of the stall.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  Brock frowned at me. “We’re not arguing yet.”

  His mouth descended on mine and he proceeded to take care of the tension. Twice.

  After reluctantly getting out of the shower and doing the best I could with the limited provisions I had I was ready to face the day. No way I was hanging around here, potentially getting Stockholm Syndrome. I was tagging along with Gwen to the store.

  Brock’s eyes roamed appreciably over my outfit as I walked out of the bathroom. I was wearing a skintight khaki sleeveless turtleneck jersey dress with tan heels and my hair tumbled in messy waves.

  “As much as I love how fuckin’ sexy you look in that outfit, babe, I’m afraid I’m not gonna let you out of this room looking like that. I can’t have you hanging around the clubhouse all day teasing the men and giving them a serious case of blue balls,” he said with a smirk.

  I fastened a gold watch on. “I’m not sticking around here—I might catch an STD. I’m going into the store with Gwen,” I informed him. Maybe the bitchy comment wasn’t necessary but I was still pissed at the whole getting dragged here thing.

  Brock’s eyes narrowed and he stood.

  “You’re not going to the store. You’re not leaving this compound,” he bit out.

  I regarded him for a second, cocking my head. “I’m sorry, did you mistake me for someone that you can order around? Because last time I checked this isn’t Saudi Arabia, which means a man does not dictate what a woman can and cannot do,” I said calmly. “On that note, a man certainly does not command another man to practically drag a woman from her home to deposit her in a biker clubhouse then detain her in his room.”

  Brock raised an eyebrow, his jaw hard. “Well, that woman didn’t mind it when I was fuckin’ her,” he said.

  I didn’t know what to say to that so I picked up my phone to text Gwen.

  Brock strode forward to snatch it out of my hands. Luckily I had already sent it. Ha ha.

  “Hey!” I exclaimed, reaching for the phone. “Give that back!”

  Brock crossed his arms. “I said you’re not going anywhere. It’s not safe.”

  “And I said you’re not the boss of me. We’re not together, I’m not your old lady,” I used condescending air quotes. “We have sex. That’s it. You don’t get to play the protective male card when it suits you, then act like an asshole when it all gets a bit rough. We aren’t together so stop acting like it.”

  Brock’s face turned hard. “Is that what you want? Just sex? So you can have someone to fuck you every now and then while you wait for Ian to come home?” he asked bitterly.

  I was taken aback.

  Is that what he thought? I was using him as a human fuck toy to keep me occupied? If only he knew the truth. The fact was I was keeping my distance because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. Afraid of the feelings that threatened to consume me, unlike anything I felt for Ian.

  He took my silence as agreement and he shoved the phone back into my hands. “Do what you fuckin’ want. You and your crazy shit aren’t my problem,” he growled. He threw open the door, which a shocked looking Gwen was standing in front of, her hand in the air poised to knock.

  “Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

  I didn’t let the pain of the verbal blow show. “Asshole,” I retorted to his back.

  Gwen’s face was curious and I didn’t even want to try and explain what happened. All I wanted was to leave before I chased Brock and spilled my heart to him. That would be worse than anything else because then he could trample all over it.

  Hours later I wished I had listened to Brock, wished I hadn’t dismissed the danger Gwen was in. Because maybe if I had I wouldn’t have wandered into the back room of our store looking for Gwen, only to find the back door open and no best friend.

  When I realized Gwen had been kidnapped I lost my mind. I mainly swore at any biker that happened to be around the clubhouse (where I had been imprisoned) and tried not to cry. I had wanted to steal someone’s gun and break out of this hideous place and look for her myself.

  Images of her in that hospital bed after Jimmy attacked her preyed on my mind. At first she had been barely recognizable, her face black and blue, half of her head covered by a bandage. She had a tube in her mouth because she couldn’t breathe on her own. I had stood around helpless while I waited for the most important person in my life to either wake up or fade away. It had been beyond a nightmare. The fact that I faced the prospect again had me terrified, especially since I had the knowledge of what the gang who kidnapped her had done to their last victim—Laurie, Bull’s old lady. Raped her. Stabbed her repeatedly, tattooed her face. Then dropped her off in front of the clubhouse just so the man who loved her could watch her die in the hospital the next day. I tasted bile at the thought of this happening to Gwen.

  I recalled the look on Cade’s face when he had arrived at the store after I had alerted the club of the fact she was missing. It was wild, feral, and resigned. Beyond his strong façade was a glimmer of resignation at the prospect Gwen might face the same fate as Laurie.

  He had punched the prospect who was meant to be protecting her. Pummeled is a better description. I think he might have killed him had Brock and Lucky not pulled him off him.

  “Cool it, brother. Killing this piece of shit isn’t going to get us to Gwen. We’ll do that when we get her back,” Brock had told him evenly.

  Cade seemed to shake himself and nodded. He then spat at the prospect’s prone body and stormed out the door. Lucky had followed him. Brock and I had stared at each other for an inordinate amount of time.

  “Don’t let her out of your sight,” he instructed the men left watching our stare off. With that he had left.

  That was hours ago, and had it not been for Rosie and Lucy I would have gone insane with worry. Or at least murdered a prospect. They had been amazing, plying me with enough alcohol to calm me but not enough to get me drunk. I could tell by the shadows in their eyes that they were battling with demons of their own.
Laurie had been their friend.

  We all abruptly stood when we heard motorcycles approach. I ran to the door and a prospect stood in front of me, blocking the exit. “I can’t let you go out there,” he said firmly.

  I glared at him. “Either you let me out there or I make sure you are never able to have children,” I informed him coldly. He stared at me, not looking like he was going to back down.

  “For fuck’s sake, Tiny, let her fucking past. I doubt anything will happen to her on the parking lot of the clubhouse. I’d be more worried about your immediate safety,” Rosie said from behind me. Tiny gave me another look before stepping aside.

  I ran out to where Brock had gotten off his bike, a weary look on his face.

  He caught my expression when I made it to him and steadied me with hands on my shoulders.

  “We got her, Sparky—she’s fine,” he told me.

  I stared at him a moment then threw my arms around him. My entire body sagged at the relief from his statement. I heard Rosie and Lucy’s sighs from behind me.

  He pulled back slightly. “I’ll take you to her.” He handed me his helmet and I took it silently.

  When we arrived at our place Brock had barely stopped the bike before I flew off it. I had to see for myself…make sure she was okay and in one piece. Physically and mentally.

  “Jesus Christ, babe,” I heard Brock’s mutter from behind me. I ignored it and burst through the door, finding Gwen and Cade in the living room. Everything inside me relaxed when I saw her safe and breathing.

  “Gwennie! Oh my god. Oh my god,” I chanted as I rushed towards her, hugging her just to make sure she had all of her body parts accounted for.

  Once I was satisfied I pulled back to inspect her. My eyes rested on purple bruising covering half of her face.

  “Those fuckers,” I hissed as fury burned through me.

  “Amy, it’s okay,” her soft voice tried to reassure me. That only made it worse. How could my tiny, five foot nothing friend get subjected to violence yet again? Hadn’t she been through enough? Didn’t she deserve a life where she wasn’t in danger of getting kidnapped or brutalized?

  “Those fuckers!” I yelled, wishing I had the person responsible in this room so I could tear their fingernails off. “How can this be happening to you again, Gwen? You’ve been through enough! Jesus, you’ve been through hell. You almost died at the hands of crazy fucked up men. Now after finally healing some other bastards get their hands on you. Um, no. This is not acceptable.”

  My eyes darted around the room to rest on Cade. He was watching the exchange with a grim face and his arms crossed. He was looking all badass and dangerous. What was the use of a dangerous badass if he didn’t prevent kidnappings? For fuck’s sake, he was the reason she was kidnapped in the first place.

  “What have you done about this?” I shot at him. “Are you going to make sure this isn’t going to happen again? Cause if you don’t I’m calling my father and he’s going to send his jet to come and take us to an island far away where this are no men within miles.” I changed my mind. “Actually, fuck that. I’m calling him now.”

  I was deadly serious as I whipped out my phone, scrolling through my contacts.

  “Babe, cool it. It’s sorted. Put the fucking phone down and chill the fuck out,” a familiar deep voice commanded at my shoulder.

  I whirled around and directed my glare at yet another biker involved in this freaking mess. How dare he dismiss this like it was nothing now that Gwen was back? Did he not realize what she had been through trying to recover from her last attack? How horrific it was for her to be able to even walk down a fucking street after it?

  “Cool it?” I repeated quietly, my voice shaking. “Cool it?” I shouted at him. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did you see Gwen lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors on life support? No. Did you listen to a doctor say she might never wake up? No. Did you sit by her bed for almost two weeks, waiting, thinking over and over how you could’ve stopped this, seen the signs, maybe saved her from the horror she endured? No, you didn’t! I did!” I finished my rant with tears streaming down my face, all of those ugly memories surfacing.

  Brock didn’t say anything, didn’t yell back or argue. He just stepped forward and pulled me into his arms. I relaxed into them, thankful for the strength and support they represented. I barely noticed him lift me and carry me out of the room, his mouth in my hair.

  He made it to my bedroom and lay on my bed, positioning me so I was curled up tightly in his arms. I clung to him. We were silent for a long while.

  “Are they dead?” I asked quietly.

  Brock moved his head down to make eye contact with me.

  “Every last one,” he declared fiercely.

  “Good,” I murmured.

  With that his arms tightened around me and I drifted off to sleep.

  A month passed after Gwen’s kidnapping. Things were quiet; there were no car bombs, drive-bys or fashion emergencies, so things were good. Well, for Gwen and her overprotective, seriously hot, seriously into her biker things were good. Me? Not so much.

  I had woken up alone after falling asleep with Brock on the night of her kidnapping. I had barely seen him since, and when we did bump into each other things were tense. He had come to the wrong conclusions about Ian and I was at a loss as to how to set him straight. I craved his touch. I missed him like crazy but I was also happy for the time to get my head together.

  A surprise visit from Ry and Alex had done wonders to distract me from my disastrous love life. Gay best friends seemed to have superhuman emotional healing powers. And a heavy hand when making cocktails. It had taken a turn after an argument with Brock at a strip club where I had just gotten into a catfight with Cade’s ex. I had almost melted at the look he had given me after the smackdown I wasn’t aware he witnessed. I then stiffened when he thought he could order me around after ignoring me for the past month. In front of my friends no less. Not okay. So I threw sass. Asserted my independence. It felt good until he had sworn and stormed off with a waitress, his intentions clear. This had been a swift kick in the ovaries.

  No matter how much I tried to convince myself I didn’t care, I did. I felt like vomiting at the thought of him with someone else. I then loathed myself for thinking that; I had done the exact same thing with Ian, worse in fact.

  Those months sucked majorly. My friend was happier than I’d ever seen her, our business was booming, we had a beautiful home and awesome new friends. I should have been ecstatic. Instead I was miserable. I could hardly sleep, hardly eat with all the shit churning through my mind. I couldn’t keep this up. I had to do something, make a decision about all this.

  I did. I came to the conclusion that no matter how much it made sense for Ian and I to be together I couldn’t do it. I wanted Brock. I needed him.

  I wanted to make a go of being an “old lady” no matter how much I despised the label and the connotations of ownership that went with it. Gwen seemed to be wearing it as easy as she wore Prada, so I could give it a go. I only faced the prospect of swallowing my pride, or more accurately my fear, and telling Brock this. I was terrified he would reject me. Crush me, humiliate me. Memories of my desperate vulnerable childhood hampered me.

  I had attempted to seek him out at the clubhouse days ago, but when I had got there I had seen him with a blonde. Needless to say I had blanched when our eyes met, happy that I had the pretense of picking up Rosie. I was pissed at the fact he was pawing some other woman, but I couldn’t really be since I had slept with Ian. We weren’t together. I had made that abundantly clear. He was free to do as he wished. I had wished he’d be like one of those men in romance novels who waited patiently and chastely for the heroine to get over her shit. But this was real life. He was a biker. It was a miracle he had even wanted to commit. So I couldn’t bring myself to blame him, no matter how much I wanted to scratch the blonde’s eyes out.

  Luckily I got the distraction of finding out Gwen was knocked up. I was s
eriously ecstatic at the prospect of a little kid to spoil and dress up. I was less than ecstatic that I couldn’t enjoy cocktails with my best friend for nine months, but I would manage.

  The day after the announcement of Gwen’s little bundle of joy I decided to take a drive to LA to get a jump on baby shopping. I hated that I had to do gender neutral, and on the drive I had decided to buy an equal amount of boys’ and girls’ shit. I’d donate the loser gender to charity once they found out. Plus, shopping was a welcome distraction to what I was planning to do that night. Confront Brock. The prospect of it vaguely brought me out in hives but I had to do it.

  What I had to do first was call Ian and tell him he wasn’t coming home to me. That was something else that curdled my meager breakfast. I cared about him. Loved him. The idea of hurting him sucked. The fact that I was telling him this shit over the phone had me wanting to punch myself in the face just a little. It was a seriously crappy thing to do. But stringing him along was worse. I was in the process of finding a way to get in touch with him and was waiting on my info.

  I was about halfway to LA when my phone buzzed. I thought it would be my Uncle Garrett with the deets but instead it was Gwen’s mother.

  “Hey Lacey, I’m currently on my way to LA to start the shopping,” I greeted, assuming she was calling after hearing Gwen’s news. I knew she’d want to coordinate and was excited to talk to her about it. I thought of her as my mother too, and loved the woman with all my heart.

  “Amy, it’s Dave here.” Gwen’s father interrupted me, his voice sounding funny.

  “Oh hey, what’s up, Mr. A?” I greeted him fondly. Although he was a man of few words, he was the father I wish I had, instead of the cold and absent one nature had lumped me with.

  There was a pause and something about it made my stomach drop. “Sweetheart, I’m assuming you’re not with Gwen so you don’t know,” he said softly, his usually gruff voice sounding wrong somehow, broken.